Amour Toxique: Books 1-3 Boxed Set (Books 1-3 Series Boxed Set)

by Dori Lavelle

  “Gracias, my friend.” She squeezes my upper arm.

  I place a hand on hers. “No. I’m the one who’s thankful.”

  During her lunch break, Marissa leaves me inside the shop and goes to get us both something to eat, as well as a pair of second-hand jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie. On her way back to the store, she also finds out for me exactly when the train to Guadalajara departs.

  When the time comes for me to leave for the train station, she notices my knife. She takes it from me, then gives me a pen knife instead.

  “Small, for hiding.”

  I nod my gratitude and tuck the small knife into my back pocket.

  53

  I let out a breath when I make it to the front of the queue. The line in the public restroom was so long I’d considered giving up. But my bladder is threatening to burst, and the train will be here in another half an hour.

  Marissa dropped me off at the train station an hour early so I wouldn’t miss it.

  I squeeze myself into a stall, thankful I don’t have a bag with me. The cubicle is so tiny, the walls so close together, I wouldn’t know where to put my belongings.

  I tiptoe over a small puddle of urine to get to the toilet, which is also covered in urine. The paper roll is almost empty. I do what I have to do in a squatting position, wipe myself off, and get out, pushing past a blond-haired woman who attempts to get in before I’ve fully exited.

  All the sinks are occupied, except for one with a defective faucet. Water drips from it nonstop. I settle for the drip, washing my hands as best I can while ignoring the giggles of a group of teenage girls spritzing themselves with floral perfume and fixing their makeup.

  Outside the restrooms, I glance around me in search of Damien’s face in the crowd. No sign of him.

  I climb up the stairs, taking two at a time, my thighs aching from the exertion.

  I’m breathless as I reach my platform. The display states that the train to Guadalajara will arrive in twenty minutes, so I find an enclosed cubicle on the platform where I can sit and hide. Inside, the smell of smoke and urine is unbearable, but I prefer it to being out in the open. Digging inside my pocket, I search for my ticket. It’s still there.

  As the minutes tick by, I find it harder and harder to breathe. Rivers of sweat trickle down my temples as the departure time approaches. It’s as if I’m sitting on a ledge, expecting someone to push me off.

  Will something go wrong? Will Damien show up at the last second to stop me from getting on the train? One thing is clear: I’ll remain on the edge until I reach the consulate.

  A woman with two little girls, both younger than five, enters the cubicle. She brings with her a sweet and sour aroma that floats from two takeaway boxes. The delicious smell of food makes my mouth water, but I look away as they start to eat.

  I’m hungry, but at the same time, I doubt I’d be able to stomach any food. Just as well. Going on a search for food might be a risky move, and I’m determined to stay put until the train rolls in. As soon as I board I’ll lay low until I reach my destination.

  Some time later, a train crawls into the station. It isn’t mine. To distract myself from the pain of waiting, I listen to the bursts of excited voices around me, the sounds of suitcase wheels over cracks in the concrete as passengers approach it to hop on, the announcements in Spanish on the speakers. It doesn’t take long before the train moves on, with passengers waving from square windows at the people they’re leaving behind.

  I’m relieved when I see on the display that mine will arrive in three minutes. I stand up. The moment I step out of the cubicle, another train speeds through without stopping. A gust of wind blows off my hood, which I grab and pull back into place. Due to its large size, it covers half my face, the perfect disguise.

  I move closer to the yellow paint line at the edge of the platform. My eyes are focused straight ahead, my hands clutching the hem of my hood as my train pulls into the station.

  The woman with the two girls appears at my right side. The brakes of the train squeak as it slows and comes to a halt. My heart leaps when the door opens.

  A soft drizzle has started, and drops of water cling to the outside of the train.

  I’m one of the first people on, walking as fast as I can down the length of the train to find an empty carriage. Most are empty, but I choose one near the front. I close the glass door behind me, wishing I could lock it.

  An older couple with canes enters the carriage opposite mine, and they take their seats. I avoid eye contact as I pick up a dog-eared magazine from one of the seats.

  Before I can settle in, a train attendant opens the door to my carriage and asks in basic English if I want to order a snack or drink. I order two Cokes and a cheese sandwich. He hands me my purchases, closes the door, and wheels his cart away.

  I turn to look out the window at the soft rain, trying to grasp the reality that I’m only a couple of hours from freedom. Soon my worst nightmare will be behind me.

  I yawn as the train lurches forward, then picks up speed as it departs. Forcing myself to stay awake, I crack open one of my cans of Coke and take a long, cool sip, watching the view outside blur as the train speeds toward my safety. Sleep soon takes me.

  I’m horrified when I awaken an hour later, heart thumping. But I’m okay. I’m still alone in my carriage, still safe.

  Three more hours go by. I’m halfway through my second can of Coke, and my bladder is protesting. I eventually give in and leave the carriage for the first time to find the restroom, which is no more than a few steps away. I’m back in my seat less than five minutes later, leafing through the magazine I found earlier. Given my lack of Spanish, I can only appreciate the nature photos.

  When I look up again, I notice that the man and woman in the opposite carriage have fallen asleep. The man has his head leaned back, his gray mustache bristling as he breathes in and out. The woman rests her head against the window, and her lined mouth is slightly open. Her fingers are clutching her purse in her lap.

  I fold up the magazine and press it into one of the tiny bins. I lean my own head back and do some breathing exercises to calm my nerves.

  One more hour left. Sixty short minutes.

  During our journey, the train has halted at a few stations, where a handful of people have gotten on board. Now, the rain has stopped and darkness has thickened.

  Half an hour before we reach Guadalajara, I take a final sip of my now warm drink, draining the can. Then, left with nothing but my thoughts to occupy me, my eyes grow heavy again. My body aches for sleep—the long, deep, undisturbed kind. But I can’t sleep now. I’m so close.

  Finally, the horn of the train blares, and I feel it slowing down. I turn my heavy head toward the window.

  Although I can read the word Guadalajara inside the train station we enter, the words look distorted as they swim in front of my eyes.

  I blink, but my eyelids feel like lead, too heavy to lower and lift. When I attempt to move my head, it flops forward to rest on my chest. My entire body sags.

  The train comes to a halt. I’ve reached my destination. In a few minutes, I’ll be in a taxi on my way to a motel. Tomorrow morning I’ll find an Internet café, where I’ll search for the consulate address. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be in safe hands.

  I need to get up and off this train. My fellow passengers are already disembarking.

  What’s happening? What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I move?

  Sweat is trickling down my temples and popping up on my upper lip, but my hand is too heavy to wipe it off. I try to force it to move, but it remains limply at my side.

  The door of my carriage slides open but I don’t look. I can’t turn my head at all.

  A man asks me if I’m all right, first in Spanish and then in English. I don’t respond, because I can’t make myself talk. My tongue is too thick and heavy, stuck to the top of my mouth. What the hell? How have I lost complete control of my body?

  The man starts talking again, and t
hen someone else responds. The sound of his voice freezes the blood in my veins.

  “It’s okay.” His voice is low. “I’m her husband. I’ll take care of her.”

  Damien is talking to me now. His face comes in and out of focus. I want to scream, but only whimpers come out. My mind fights for life as he touches my forehead and brings his face closer to mine.

  “You’ve reached a dead end, rosebud.”

  For some weird reason, although I’m pretty much paralyzed, I can hear every word he says to me. He must have drugged me with something. But how? Before I can work it out, he answers my question.

  His lips are hot on my earlobes. “Hasn’t anyone told you never to leave your drinks unattended?”

  Shit. I went to the restroom and left my Coke. He must have laced my drink then. Here I was, thinking I was alone, that I’d escaped. Yet he was one step ahead the whole time. Tears prick my eyes. How could I have come this far for nothing? He dabs at my tears with a napkin.

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he says as my eyes drift shut. I no longer have the strength to keep them open. He takes my limp hand in his. “The old man in the other carriage... that was me. I wore a disguise. And the woman with me was a blind stranger I offered to assist on the journey. I’ve been close to you all along, and you didn’t even know it.” He pauses for a few moments, but I know he’ll speak again. He’s enjoying this—enjoying torturing me, making me pay.

  “You must have a ton of questions.” His words are becoming harder to understand now as more fog settles on my brain.

  “Want to know how I found you? Why I didn’t reveal myself until now?” He smacks his lips, then touches my ankle. Next he digs into my side pocket, pulls something out. “Ah, yes, here it is—the bracelet that led me to you. I’m so glad you held on to it. See, it has a hidden GPS tracker. I knew where you were every moment you were gone.”

  I groan from deep within my throat.

  “I didn’t step out of the shadows before because I wanted to see how smart and capable you are. I have to admit, I underestimated you. But now it’s over. You’ve gone too far.”

  He places a finger under my chin, tips my face up. My eyes are closed, so I can’t see him, but his scorching gaze burns my face. “You betrayed me and there’s no going back. Since you’ll try again to escape and go to the cops, I have no choice but to kill you.”

  My eyes grow wide for a moment before my lids drift closed and I fall unconscious.

  54

  The last words I remember Damien saying were that he’s going to kill me. Nothing in his tone gave me the impression that he didn’t mean every word.

  And yet, I’m still alive. For how long? I try to move, but there’s not much space around me. Before I have a chance to study my surroundings, my sixth sense warns me that something’s wrong. I try to think, but my mind is still cloudy. Luckily, life seems to have returned to my body as well.

  The train. When I think of my almost-escape, tears start to leak from the corners of my eyes. I got so far, so very far, and yet I didn’t get anywhere.

  He’s going to keep his promise to murder me at some point. Maybe he’s waiting for me to wake up so I can be fully aware of the pain he plans to inflict on me. What fun would there be in killing me in my sleep?

  My arms and legs are cramped, so I try to stretch them. Something stops me—something soft and hard at the same time. My arms can go no further than a few inches from my body. As I swallow hard, the sudden realization of where I might be hits me like an unforgiving bolt of lightning. I shudder from deep within.

  “Oh my God,” I say through trembling lips. This time I hear my voice, not just inside my head. The drug he gave me earlier has definitely worn off.

  My breath is trapped inside my lungs as I open my eyes. I see only darkness. Thick, heavy, impenetrable darkness.

  No, it can’t be. He won’t do that to me. He won’t kill me in the worst way possible.

  The tips of my fingers come into contact with soft, slippery fabric. I press my hand into it. There’s something hard on the other side.

  I draw in a short, frightened breath. The air smells like the interior of a brand new car.

  During a moment of denial, I want to believe I’m in the trunk of his car. But I can’t be. There would be a bit more space; I’d be able to hear the rumble of the car as the wheels met the road. I’ve never been in the trunk of a car before, but I imagine it would feel different too. I could be imagining it, but in between the smells of fabric and wood, I think I smell something else. Something damp, like earth.

  Time to stop hiding from the truth. It’s right here with me, staring me in the face. I can breathe it, hear its whispers. It has Damien’s voice.

  You’re exactly where you think you are, rosebud. Inside a pretty coffin.

  Opening my mouth, I fill my lungs with thick, suffocating air. It exits as a scream. The piercing sound bounces off the walls of the coffin, remaining with me.

  My heart slams hard against my chest as I feel frantically around the coffin, looking for a way out. Panic is clawing at my spine. Finding nothing of use, I scream until my throat is sore and I’m out of breath. My feet slam against the cushioned coffin walls. I try not to think about how deep underground I am, how long I still have to live.

  In a flash, I remember an interview I gave as a model a few years back.

  What’s your greatest fear? the interviewer had asked. I needed a moment to respond, turning the question over in my head, searching for the right answer. I peeled back several layers of superficial fears to get to the darkest one. Death, I said to the camera.

  The interviewer dug deeper, wanting to know what it was about death that terrified me so much. I told her I was not so much terrified of the other side, but of the journey there. I was scared of the pain of dying. What would be the worst way to die? she prodded. I told her what terrified me most was the thought of being buried alive.

  And now that fear has come true, lured out of its hiding place by Damien.

  There’s no doubt in my mind he listened to the interview, and probably many others. Holding my worst fears in his hands gives him the ultimate power, the ammunition to destroy me. A quick death would be too easy. He wants me to die at the hands of my worst enemy—my most deep-seated fear.

  My fear of being buried alive started with a documentary I watched many years ago, which detailed the phenomenon. Some of the people had died, while others had managed to escape. Those who died were found to have contorted bodies, and nails torn off their fingers and toes. The expressions on their faces had been ones of utter terror, the fears they had wrestled with before death etched into every inch of their skin, frozen there forever.

  Taking deep, calming breaths, I replay what I remember of the documentary inside my head.

  Several experts shared their opinions on what a person could do should they find themselves buried alive. One thing they all seemed to agree on was that it’s best not to scream, as doing so would diminish the oxygen supply inside the coffin. Try not to panic, they’d said. Well, to hell with that.

  Another wave of panic washes over me from head to toe, leaving me trembling. Something slithers beneath me, warm and wet, giving the air a sharp tang. My urine.

  Tears block my throat and trickle down the sides of my face. My hands are bunched into fists at my sides, my eyes squeezed shut. Why didn’t he just shoot or strangle me? If he wanted the life to drain out of me slowly, he could have stabbed me and left me to bleed out. It would have hurt, but not as much as this. Not knowing how long I have left scares me more than anything.

  Where is he now? Is he standing over my grave, hands in his pockets, as he waits for me to die? Or is he back at his mansion, enjoying a meal, carrying on with his life?

  I count my breaths as I wait for a miracle to happen. But nothing happens. Not one sound comes from the other side of the coffin. There’s nothing but silence.

  I could be imagining it, but I feel as though the air su
pply inside my coffin is diminishing. Anytime now I could die from asphyxiation.

  My urine is making me itch. I shift a little to scratch my bottom. In doing so, something hard presses against my right buttock. Did he leave some kind of object inside the coffin? Then I realize what it is—the penknife Marissa gave me.

  I almost choke on my own breath as I reach under me to pull it out of my back pocket. I had planned to use it on Damien if it came to that. I never thought I might have to use it to free myself from a coffin—if that’s even a possibility.

  Knife in my fist, I stretch my arm as far from my body as it will go. I flick the knife open, praying I don’t stab myself.

  I’m holding my breath as I slash through the fabric above me. I manage to cut my way through, until the steel blade meets wood. No matter how hard I scratch and stab through it, the wood remains intact. Damien must have chosen the most robust coffin available. After several failed attempts, my hand flops to my side in defeat.

  Not ready to give up yet, I draw in a few shallow breaths, bite my lip, and try to push against the cover of the coffin. It doesn’t budge.

  I’m left with two options: lie here and wait to die as the oxygen drains out of the coffin and leaves my body to disintegrate, or do the one last thing I have power over. In fact, one of the experts from the documentary had mentioned victims could do this as a last resort.

  If no one comes for me in the next few hours, the only way to escape from this fear is to make friends with death, to see it as an escape, and not eternal doom. The knife won’t get me out of the coffin, not physically, but it could make my death come quicker, saving me the torture of a long struggle, of waiting for my own body to waste away.

  It’s a way out. But the thought of suicide is terrifying, so I decide to wait as long as possible. Maybe someone will come for me. Maybe Damien will come to his senses and dig me up again.