by T. R. Ragan
Dani made a right, keeping her eyes on the road, saying nothing, hoping to give Quinn a chance to let it all out.
“My mom may have left me,” Quinn continued, “but she gave me life, and for that I am grateful.”
Quinn was her gift, Dani thought as she neared home, knowing that the two of them would be forever connected by loss and the persistent hope for the return of a loved one.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Carlin had spent most of the night thinking about whether he might have mistakenly left any evidence near the river. Confident he had done no such thing, his mind began to race anew with thoughts about Ethan Grant. Finally he had given up on sleep, gotten out of bed, and hopped in the shower. He needed to know what the kid knew, if anything.
When he had left the house, Ali was still asleep. He would return in an hour or two to make her breakfast. At the moment, though, he was parked outside the Hawkeye Mobile Home Park, wondering if he should knock on the kid’s front door or wait a little longer. The decision was made for him when, minutes later, the kid appeared on his bike, did a wheelie off the curb, and rode off.
Jesus, kid. Wait for me.
He pushed the start button and drove after him. What are you up to today, Ethan Grant?
As he followed the kid, careful to keep some distance between them, he thought of Ali and how surprised she’d been by his declaration. He wasn’t stupid. He hadn’t really expected her to be elated, but he had hoped they could have a grown-up conversation about the fact that she’d lied to him. The last thing he’d expected was for her to crumple to the ground. The sound of her head hitting the floor had been brutal. Lifting her from the ground and carrying her to the couch hadn’t been easy. A part of him, a small part, was beginning to wonder if she was worth all the trouble.
Women. They were put on this earth to serve men and to procreate. And yet here he was, in the prime of his life, practically begging another female to love him.
He’d thought his mother loved him until he realized that sex wasn’t love. Sex was sex. If he hadn’t done everything his mother had asked, he’d paid the price. Sometimes she would feel badly about punishing him for doing an inadequate job when it came to pleasing her, but more often than not, she’d bitched and moaned and called him names. It wasn’t until she had met a rich old man with blood-veined eyes, misshapen hands, and an unsteady gait that he’d caught a break. To this day it shocked Carlin that she’d gone off with the old guy. She had told Carlin she wanted to be exposed to new places, people, and cultures, to develop a wider worldview. And her number one reason for leaving . . . Drum roll, please: she’d wanted to find herself.
But the opposite had happened.
Carlin was the one who had found himself, while his mom had come back looking like something the cat had dragged in. Although, thinking back on it, there was no way a cat, let alone forty cats, could have dragged her anywhere. Not after her having eaten her way through London, Paris, Rome, Barcelona, Amsterdam, and every other city she and the old geezer had stopped at. Less than a week after Carlin had received a postcard letting him know she was heading for Dubai for who knows how long, she’d returned.
Apparently the rheumy-eyed sucker had kicked the bucket.
Mom had dropped her luggage at Carlin’s feet, stripped naked, and demanded a bath.
Being the dutiful son he’d always been, he got right to it. Filled the tub with hot water and a dash of orange blossom bath oil. She climbed in, lifting one heavy thigh and then the other. Half the water sloshed over the edge when she finally managed to squeeze herself all the way in. Then she looked up at him and patted the water just like she used to do. Without any preplanning on his part, he’d stepped into the bath, his legs straddling her ample waist, which was no easy feat, placed both hands on her head, and pushed her down under the water, watching her watch him as the bubbles rose from between her lips.
Judging by the look in her eyes and how long it took for them to open wide beneath the water, she hadn’t seemed to understand his intentions until the moment she’d begun to struggle. Her clawlike nails had dug into his hands but had done her no good.
The funny thing was, he loved his mom. For all those years she’d kept a roof over his head, which was why he’d made sure to do the same for her. When she finally stopped fighting him and the bubbles no longer floated upward, he’d climbed out of the tub, drained the water, and dried her off. It had taken him hours to do her hair and dress her in one of the plus-size muumuus he’d found inside her luggage.
The loud rumble of an engine as a car cut in front of him brought him back to the present. Carlin slammed on his brakes, tires squealing in protest. His heart spiraled out of control, making his chest feel like it had a miniature jackhammer inside of it. At least he hadn’t hit the car. The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror and gave a wave as some sort of half-assed apology.
Two blocks ahead Carlin saw the kid take a right. He needed to focus.
By the time he caught up to Ethan Grant he realized the kid was headed for Ali Cross’s house, the one she’d shared with her mom and sister before she’d moved in with him.
After the kid dropped his bike on the lawn, Carlin parked on the opposite side of the street from the house and watched Ethan make his way to the front door and ring the bell. Gracie answered the door and they both disappeared inside.
Carlin didn’t like being out of the loop. What were they discussing? He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and sucked in a breath to calm himself. There was nothing he could do.
Ethan returned a few minutes later, holding a stack of papers to his chest and waving goodbye, before Carlin’s imagination had a chance to get the best of him.
After the kid rode his bike into town and stapled one of the papers he’d picked up from Ali’s sister onto a telephone pole, Carlin waited until Ethan was out of sight before he climbed out of the car and ripped down the flyer. Ali’s picture was on it, along with details about what had happened to her: a slender white man, driving a white cargo van, was seen pushing Ali Cross into the back of his van before speeding off. There was a date, time, and place where the van had been seen.
His skin tingled.
He needed to get rid of the van.
But first he needed to figure out how he was going to rid himself of Ethan Grant.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
After tossing and turning all night, praying Carlin had lied to her and Dylan was alive, Ali feigned sleep when the door opened and light spilled across the floor.
“I was out for a while,” Carlin said, “but I came back to check on you before I left for work.”
Instead of leaving, he came forward and brushed the back of his hand over her forehead, reminding her that this nightmare might never end.
“Are you awake, Ali?”
There was no use pretending. He was stubborn, and she knew he wouldn’t leave her the hell alone until he told her whatever it was he had to say. Holding the blankets close, she pushed herself upward, her back against the headboard. “What do you want?”
“It’s ten o’clock. I was worried.”
The time of day surprised her. She’d thought it was much earlier, but she said nothing, didn’t care if he demanded she talk or gave her until the count of three. He did neither of those things.
“I let you sleep in my bed, and I slept upstairs.”
A regular Prince Charming.
He gestured toward the chair in the corner of the room where she saw a pile of neatly folded clothes. “I rustled up a few outfits I thought you might like to wear.”
She could see that her silence was getting to him. His eyes narrowed slightly and a tic set in his jaw. She was testing him, probably to her own detriment, but the hatred she felt for him was bubbling over and she was afraid if she opened her mouth she might tell him what she was thinking.
“I made you an omelet and some fresh fruit,” he went on. “Your plate is on the table.”
“Thank yo
u.” No need to push him over the brink, she decided. She just wanted him to leave.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“No hard feelings?”
“None.”
“That’s my girl. I’ll be back around two, so don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” His cruel smile and lifeless eyes made him look clownish. “In the family room you’ll find some books that I brought up from the basement. I also found a sketchbook and colored pencils.”
One “thank you” had been enough. She merely stared at him.
And then it happened.
He left the room.
She leaned her head back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Only then did she realize how stupid she’d been to push him like that. No telling what he would do to her the next time his rage got the best of him.
She didn’t dare move until she heard the familiar sounds of receding footfalls, the click of the door opening and closing, and finally the whirr of a car’s engine. She moved quickly, as quickly as she could with a bum foot. Sliding her legs over the mattress, she reached for her cane and used it to make her way to the bathroom, moving the cane forward with each step.
If she was going to go through with the plan she’d concocted the moment she’d seen the pile of mail on the kitchen counter, she needed to work fast. The freak would be back in four hours.
She stared at her reflection as she washed her hands and face. Dark shadows circled her eyes. She looked thinner and older. After drying her hands, she tugged at the dog collar around her neck and fiddled with the lock as she had done throughout the night. It was no use trying to get it off.
Just as Carlin said, breakfast was waiting for her. She sat down at the table and took a couple of bites, but she’d lost her appetite. Back on her feet, she hobbled to the front door, close enough to poke at the lock with her cane until her arm ached. Next, she focused on the chain at the bottom of the door, tried to push the end of the chain to the right. She almost had it, but then the tip of the cane fell to the ground.
Shit. The cane would never work for all those locks. Instead, she reached her hand to the doorknob and pulled it back the second she felt a vibration.
Sweat gathered on her brow. She inhaled. You can do this.
This time she stepped forward, yanked one of the latches open, and gritted her teeth as a nasty tingling sensation swam down her arm. She went for the latch on the bottom next, cried out, and finally hopped away from the door, almost losing her balance. Her right side felt numb, the pain running through her body excruciating.
It was no use.
Her posture stiff, every muscle rigid, she wanted to scream at the top of her lungs.
The clock was ticking.
She made her way to the family room and sat in front of the table where he’d left the sketchbooks and pencils. With pencil in hand, she wrote, “My name is Ali Cross. Call the police! I’m being held captive by a man named Carlin Reed in Sacramento, California.” She set down her pencil when she realized she needed an address, a street name, something.
The cane was helpful, but moving from room to room required a lot of effort. In the kitchen, she was relieved to see he hadn’t taken the utility bill with him. It still sat on the far edge of the countertop. He hadn’t written the return address on the envelope, but that didn’t matter. She needed to open the envelope so she could slip her note inside with the statement. After that it would be a waiting game, leaving her with nothing to do but hope and pray whoever opened the envelope and read her note would take it seriously enough to call the police.
She looked through the kitchen drawers, which were mostly empty. He might be crazy, but he was smart enough to know he couldn’t trust her with a sharp knife. She considered using a plastic knife, but knew if she damaged the envelope he would know.
Stick with the plan.
After opening nearly every drawer, she found a box of plastic wrap. Her hands shook as she pulled off enough to cover the utility bill. She stuck it inside the freezer, where she would leave it for at least an hour. She’d read about the hack in a magazine at the dentist’s office. Freezing a sealed envelope worked better than steam.
With that done, she made her way back to the family room and tucked the note inside the midsection of the sketchbook, where it would have to stay until it was time to open the utility bill.
She took a seat on the couch, grabbed one of the books he’d left for her, and began to read. It was no use. She couldn’t concentrate. A noise prompted her to look up and listen.
She heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet on the roof. A squirrel, no doubt.
Every muscle in her body felt quivery and twitchy. Her nerves were shot.
After reading the first page three times and having no idea what she’d read, she gave up. Using her cane to push herself upward, she made her way to the front window, mindful to stand far enough back so she wouldn’t be shocked.
She stared out past the front lawn and chain-link fence covered with poison ivy to the empty lot across the street, wishing there was a house filled with children. Maybe then they would be playing outside and somebody would notice the chain-link fence and iron bars over the windows and—
And most likely do nothing.
Her heart sank.
Most people in their neighborhoods didn’t have a clue what was going on in the house next door. The thirteen Turpin children were a pretty good example of that. Thirteen children held captive in their own picturesque suburban home, many found chained to their beds. They had been beaten, starved, tortured, and shackled. Neighbors were unaware the Turpins had that many children. Another neighbor whose yard connected to the Turpins’ backyard said the place looked unkempt but was quiet. Ali still remembered how the story had shocked her. How could so many people in the community have been unaware of what was going on?
Easy. People minded their own business. She thought of all the times she’d heard the screams of a child down the street and assumed the kid was playing and probably fell down and skinned their knee. How many times did people hear others fighting or watch an unfamiliar car drive around the neighborhood day after day? Most people didn’t take suspicious behavior seriously.
If she ever escaped, she would bring awareness to the importance of neighborhood watch programs. Not just to reduce burglaries and vandalism, but to make people see how important it was to look out for one another. They could have block parties to teach children what to do in emergency situations.
She hobbled back to the kitchen and let out a heavy breath when she saw that only twenty minutes had passed.
Back in the family room, she used the remote to turn on the television and scroll through the channels. All the news channels had been blocked, leaving only soap operas, Sesame Street reruns, and game shows. She wanted to be able to hear Carlin’s return, so she shut off the TV. He said he would be home at two, but what if he’d only said that so he could drop in for a surprise visit to check up on her?
Looking around, she told herself she wasn’t trying hard enough. There had to be a way to escape. She just hadn’t thought of it yet. Maybe he had lied about the dangers of going through the door or window with the shock collar on. Maybe it would be painful but wouldn’t cause her any real harm. The problem would be getting over the chain-link fence, if she even made it that far. She wasn’t strong enough to pull herself up and over, especially with one useless foot.
She pivoted on her good foot and made her way past the dining room table to the side door that led to the shed. From where she stood she could see, through one of the barred windows, the small building where she’d been kept. Chills washed over her at the thought of being trapped inside again. She’d been so cold and hungry, and yet it seemed like her time in the shed had happened another lifetime ago.
She stood there for a moment, thinking. If he caught her trying to escape, what would her punishment be this time? Would he toss her in the shed? Break her other foot? Kill her?
The alter
native was living with the madman for how long? What was his plan? He’d told her they would be married and hinted at taking their relationship to the next level. Was he was going to rape her? Her skin crawled at the thought.
Surely someone would find her before too long.
Who? Who would find her?
A sob erupted at the thought of Dylan. He had to be alive. She couldn’t think any other way.
The boy on the bike truly might be her only hope. He’d seen Carlin push her into the back of his van. Had he gotten the license plate number? If so, why hadn’t the police knocked on Carlin’s door?
Her shoulders sagged. Nobody was coming.
She hobbled closer to the side door leading to the backyard, inch by inch until she felt a jolt. She hopped backward. Her hand caressed her throat. It had been more of a surprise than anything else. Again, she moved closer. This time she ignored the initial shock and kept going until she was close enough to place her hand on the doorknob. Her teeth ground together as she felt her muscles buzzing and tingling as if something inside her might snap.
She fell backward, landing hard on her buttocks.
The cane clattered against the ground.
Don’t cry. You can’t give up.
She remained on the ground as she caught her breath. If it was just a matter of turning the knob and hopping outside, she might be able to do it. But he had installed an extra lock, which would require her to pick two locks instead of one. She might be dead by the time she got the door open.
Five minutes passed before she began the struggle to get to her feet again and make her way back to the kitchen. It had been forty-five minutes since she’d put the envelope in the freezer. Impatient, she returned to the kitchen and pulled it from the freezer, unwrapped it, and held her breath as she slipped a fingernail under the flap.
It opened. It worked!
Swallowing her glee, she took the envelope to the family room, sat down, and pulled her partially written note from its hiding place. Very carefully, she slid the utility bill out of the envelope and copied the address onto her note. She finished it with, Please help me! Ali Cross.