The Thinnest Air

by Minka Kent

  Leaning back in his seat, he rests his chin on his hand, observing in silence, breathing hard.

  “We don’t need money, Meredith,” he says a minute later. “I’ve got it all handled.”

  “Everybody needs money.”

  His mouth presses into a straight line. “Money only makes good people do bad things and bad people do worse things.”

  “We’re talking millions, Ronan.” The name that used to give me butterflies now makes my blood heat. “We’d be set for life.”

  Exhaling, he leans close again, lifting his hand to my cheek. “I don’t need millions, Meredith. I only need you.”

  I’m hitting brick wall after brick wall with him, treading water.

  “You’re right,” I lie. “I’ve always kind of wanted a simple life anyway. I’m going to look at this as an adventure.”

  “That’s the spirit.” He rises, grabbing a slice of pizza from the box and leaning against the kitchen counter as he takes a bite. Dabbing his mouth with a crumpled napkin a moment later, he points at me. “Attitude is everything, Meredith. Energy follows thought. If you believe everything’s going to work out, eventually it will. It’s like the first day I saw you . . . I knew I had to have you. Those thoughts consumed me, woke me up in the middle of the night. I couldn’t get you out of my head no matter how hard I tried.”

  My skin tingles, stippled with gooseflesh, but I smile through it, pretending I find it endearing.

  “When was the first time you saw me?” I ask.

  His full mouth draws into a slow curl, his gaze lifting toward the ceiling. “You were leaving a restaurant—Blanca’s on Locust, I believe it was. Your husband was at the valet stand, and you were waiting next to him in a little blue dress, a satin clutch under your arm. There was something strange and beautiful about you, and I couldn’t stop staring. I was walking by, and we locked eyes. You smiled. And I swear, Meredith, in that moment, an entire lifetime with you flashed before me.”

  I don’t recall any of this.

  Lifting my brows, I dab a falling tear with the back of my hand. I’m not touched.

  I’m disgusted.

  And he’s delusional.

  “I could see right away that you weren’t happy,” he continues. “You were just some pretty little thing on his arm. An accessory.”

  I nod, biting my lip. “You’re right, Ronan. You’re absolutely right. He never loved me. It was all for show.”

  “A woman like you deserves to be happy, Meredith. And I’m going to spend the rest of my days making sure of that.”

  “That’s really sweet, Ronan. I want to be happy. And I want to be happy with you,” I say, hoping he buys what I’m selling. “We were destined to meet, I suppose.”

  “I looked and looked and looked for you after that.” Shaking his head, he says, “Never saw you again. Not until a few months later. You were going into yoga with your friend. That’s when I ran your plates and got your name so I could leave the note on your car. It was the only way I could bring us together, face-to-face. I knew you’d come into the station and report it.”

  I force a laugh. “That’s . . . really sweet, Ronan. I can’t believe you went to all that trouble.”

  His expression darkens, his thick brows centering. “No, Meredith. It wasn’t sweet. It’s a fucked-up story.”

  Glancing away, I brace myself as he charges toward me. Moving my chair so I’m facing him again, he lowers his stare to mine.

  “If you want to convince me you’re on board with all of this, you’re doing one hell of a shitty job.” There’s a slight clench in his perfect teeth when he speaks. A second later, his eyes soften, and he rises, drawing in a slow breath. “This is going to take time. I don’t expect to pluck you out of that fantasyland you were living in and have you immediately on board with this.”

  Ronan takes a seat across from me, crossing his arms, head tilted as he studies me.

  “It’s going to be a process. Maybe painful at times,” he continues. “But one of these days, you’re going to thank me.”

  Glancing into my lap so he doesn’t see the dampness filling my eyes, I say a silent prayer, willing anyone who’s listening to help me.

  “You need a hot drink,” he says. I realize I’m shivering, but I’m not cold. “I’ll add some logs to the fire before I go.”

  With his back to me, he fills a kettle with water and places it on a burner. He’s making me another London Fog. The soft shake of a pill bottle follows the shrill whistle of the teapot a few minutes later.

  Bringing the finished product toward me, he places it in my hands, wrapping my palms around the mug.

  “Drink this,” he says. “When you’re done, I’ll take you back to bed.”

  “I’m not tired.” I lift the mug to my lips, pretending to take a sip.

  “It’s safer for you this way.” Ronan’s hands hook at his hips. He won’t leave until every last drop of this cup resides in my belly. “I don’t want you . . . getting yourself hurt while I’m gone.”

  “What did you put in here?” I ask.

  “Nothing your doctor wouldn’t give you.” He reaches for the mug, bringing it back to my mouth and tilting up the bottom. “I need to get going, Meredith. I need to get back home before anyone notices I was gone.” He presses a kiss into my forehead. “It won’t always be like this. I promise. This is only temporary.”

  I finish the drink, not that I have a choice, and Ronan clips my zip ties before escorting me back to the room at the end of the hall. Within seconds, my restraints are in place, and he pulls the blankets up to my neck.

  “Warm?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “I’ll be back soon,” he says, running his palm down the outline of my left arm. “I love you, Meredith.”

  My mouth trembles. I have to say it back. “I love you, too.”

  “No.” His mouth draws down. “You don’t. Not yet. But you will.”

  CHAPTER 42

  GREER

  Day Eleven

  We drive for hours.

  Windy roads that dip between mountains.

  Signs pointing toward towns I’ve never heard of before, all of which we pass, all of which grow tiny in the distance.

  I try to remember every last detail, every passing farm, every highway diner. But after a while, it all jumbles together, and I’m back to fixating on the present moment.

  I’ve plotted my escape half a dozen times so far, each time imagining something different, each time predicting his reaction. In my mind, I’ve kicked his steering wheel, kicked his face, mouthed “help” to a passing car, and flung my body out the window while we’re barreling down the road at sixty-five miles per hour.

  But I have to remind myself this isn’t the movies. I have no idea what I’m doing, and my usual strategy of go-fucking-crazy-until-it-scares-them isn’t going to work when the perp is already as cracked as they come.

  Besides, I suspect he’s leading me to my sister because wherever he put her, it’s clean out of sight—which is exactly where he seems to be taking me.

  Ronan’s foot presses the brake, and he checks his rearview mirror, taking a sharp left without signaling. The truck bumps down a rutted, gravel road before winding down a hill and passing through a wall of pine trees several stories tall.

  Watching the clock, I note the time.

  One minute passes, then another, and another.

  Eleven minutes later, he pulls to a stop outside a weed-covered driveway I’d have missed had we passed it. A NO TRESPASSING sign hangs from a nearby tree.

  Ronan shifts into park before climbing out and sliding a key into the padlock that secures a rusted iron gate. This sort of setup won’t keep the police out, but it sure as hell would keep locals out—too bad there don’t seem to be any.

  No one’s going to know I’m here.

  I could scream until my lungs bleed, and no one would hear me.

  He slides back into the cab of the truck, gunning the engine through the opened gat
e. We bounce over each groove and channel, each hardened gravel pocket, and come to a hard stop in front of a small white house.

  My heart thrums against my chest wall at the thought that my sister might be inside. As long as she’s safe and alive, we’re getting out of here. I don’t care what we have to do to get free, and I’m not above murdering this demented son of a bitch.

  Ronan steps out, circling the truck before retrieving me. His movements are casual, oddly unrushed, and he whistles a cheerful tune as he yanks me toward the front door.

  Ronan kicks an old silver storm door open, and his right hand digs into my arm as his left works the key in the lock. A second later, we’re in, greeted with a cloud of stale, frigid air and dust.

  I glance around, checking every corner for a sign of another human, but the place looks like it hasn’t so much as experienced fresh oxygen in years.

  “She’s not here,” he says, jerking me toward a back room. “If that’s what you’re wondering.”

  My fingertips are frozen, and I lift them to my lips in an attempt to breathe warmth onto them, but he shoves me along. Stopping in front of a tapestry hanging from a wall in the center of a dim hallway, he pushes it aside to reveal a hidden door.

  He twists the knob, and my stomach drops.

  A moment later, I’m staring at a metal folding chair resting in the middle of an empty, windowless room, a single naked lightbulb hanging on a chain from the ceiling. He pushes me backward, and the chair breaks my fall.

  Crouching, he retrieves a handful of clear plastic flex-cuffs, taking his time looping them through one another and around the legs of the chair before connecting them with the one around my wrists. It’s an elaborate setup, one designed to keep me from moving, let alone leaving.

  “There.” He exhales, admiring his work with a proud glint in his dark eyes.

  Pulling against the restraints, I check to see how much wiggle room I have, refusing to believe this is the end. I’ll figure something out. The second he leaves me alone, it’s on.

  The human spirit is inherently resilient, as is the will to live.

  “I’m amazed at how calm you are, Greer,” he says. “Your sister, she cried a bit, but you . . . you’re this steely beast of a woman, from that impenetrable stare to your inability to show an ounce of emotion when you’re seconds from the end of your life.”

  He’s trying to scare me.

  He wants me to think he’s about to kill me so I’ll give up, but I refuse to let him rattle me. I won’t give him that privilege. I won’t give him what he wants.

  Reaching behind himself, he retrieves his gun from his concealed-carry holster, watching me with an amused glint as he takes his time drawing it out. With both hands clasped around the grip and one finger steady on the trigger, he smirks.

  Oh, shit.

  My breath quickens, the skin beneath my arms growing clammy and damp. The knots in my stomach twist, and my vision blurs.

  In my final moment, the only thing I think of is my sister. And how I failed her.

  “You couldn’t let it go, could you?” he asks. “All you had to do was shut the fuck up about the stalker, but you kept pushing and pushing. All those stupid questions. It never fucking ends with you.” Ronan winces. “I’m not a murderer, Greer. I’ve never hurt anyone in my life. I want you to know, this is all your doing. I have to do this because if I don’t, you’ll ruin everything, and this would all be for nothing.”

  “Ronan,” I say, knowing full well I can’t reason with crazy, but I’ll be damned if I die without trying. “You’re a handsome guy. You’re successful and nice and charming. You can have any woman you want—”

  “Well aware.” He sighs, dropping the gun to his side and releasing a steady breath. “You’re not going to talk me out of this, so I guess . . . if you have anything you’d like me to pass along to your sister . . . say it now.”

  A million memories float to the surface of my mind before scattering like leaves in the wind.

  Meredith is my best friend. My sister. My soul mate. We’ve been through hell and back. I’d do anything for her and she for me. There’s nothing I can say in this moment to do any of that justice.

  A thick tear slides down my cheek, settling between my lips. The salty taste of defeat is one I’ve never known until this moment.

  “You’ll take care of her,” I say, my stare as cold and hardened as my bitter soul. I’m not asking. “You’ll make sure she’s safe and happy.”

  Ronan scoffs. “Don’t fucking insult me, Greer. I’m not a monster.”

  “You can justify this all you want, but you couldn’t be more wrong,” I say. “You are a monster. You’re selfish. And crazy. And she’s never going to love you the way you want her to.”

  He squints at me, lifting and pointing his gun. “Enough. Stop talking.”

  Ronan racks the slide.

  My world is suspended.

  Closing my eyes tight, I savor my final breath.

  CHAPTER 43

  MEREDITH

  Five Days Ago

  Ronan strips my urine-soaked panties off me as I stand in a moldy shower. “I meant to come back sooner. Media’s been swarming my house lately, trying to get a statement.”

  “A statement?”

  He smirks, flicking the water on. It’s icy on my skin at first, morphing to a somewhat tolerable lukewarm seconds later before transitioning to a near-scalding temperature that my freezing body welcomes. This cabin gets so cold, sometimes I can see my breath. I’d linger in this boiling shower for hours if I could.

  “Ever since they caught wind of my link to you and the department putting me on leave, they all want to pin it on me.”

  “And you’re not worried?” I ask.

  Shaking his head, he massages a bar of soap into a damp washcloth.

  “There’s no body, no evidence, no proof. Just an angry mob wanting answers.” He glances up at me, sliding the ragged, sudsy cloth between my thighs. His touch is gentle, his stare all-pervading. “Like I said before, as soon as the case goes cold, no one’s going to even remember your name. We’ll be free to move on.”

  “Did this make national news?” I ask, wondering why the thought had never occurred to me before.

  He chuffs, brows angled. “Um, yeah. A wealthy white woman goes missing from a ski town? The media’s eating this alive right now. It’s a fucking feeding frenzy. Andrew’s been giving interviews left and right. You should see him. All dressed up like he’s some kind of celebrity, designer sweaters, his hair all combed nice and neat. Don’t think for one minute he’s not trying to figure out how to profit from this. Guarantee you he’s got publishers knocking on his door offering seven-figure advances.”

  I try to take Ronan’s words with a grain of salt; for all I know, he’s trying to manipulate me.

  All this time I’ve been wrapping my hope around the fact that Andrew loves me, that he’ll do everything in his power to find me. But maybe I’m wrong? I’ve been wrong about him before, misjudged him. Assumed things I shouldn’t have assumed. But that was then. I thought we were better now.

  “So I guess you could say this whole thing is win-win for everyone.” Ronan slides the rag higher, washing, stroking. I’m surprised he hasn’t forced himself on me yet, though something tells me it won’t be long. “Andrew gets fame. You get a chance at a normal, happy life with a man truly deserving of your affections. And I get you.”

  Bracing my hand against the shower, it takes all the strength I have to keep from falling. The room begins to darken, and my lungs gasp for air. The steam must be getting to me, the hot air aggravating my dehydration.

  “I think I’m going to pass out,” I say, breathless.

  Ronan jerks the shower lever before wrapping me in a towel and scooping me up in his arms. The chilled air clings to my damp skin as he carries me back to bed. Once there, he situates me on the edge while he grabs a T-shirt from a nearby drawer.

  I wish I had the energy to run.

  I w
ish I had the strength to kick him between the legs, drive the heel of my palm into his nose and eyes, and run the hell out of here.

  But the room hasn’t stopped spinning yet, I’m still struggling to breathe, and my body is mush. I imagine his underfeeding me is somewhat deliberate, an attempt to keep me weak and reliant on him, unable to fend him off or run away should I get the chance.

  Tugging the shirt over my head and shoulders, he crawls into bed beside me, hooking his arm over my stomach.

  In this moment, I’m free of restraints. But I’m still his prisoner.

  Nuzzling his nose into the bend of my neck, he exhales. “God, I wish I could stay here with you all night.” Ronan’s hand slides down my damp T-shirt, past my caving stomach until he tugs at the hem, drawing it up. “I’ve missed this, Meredith.”

  My breath suspends.

  He stops.

  “Soon,” he says. “You need to get your strength. I won’t fuck you like this, when you’re shaking and tired. I wouldn’t enjoy that. You wouldn’t either. I’ll wait until you’re better, when you can give yourself completely to me. Just like you used to do.”

  The warm graze of his lips against my neck sends a sting of hot tears to my eyes, and for the first time, I’m grateful for the dark.

  Closing my eyes, I lie in silence, sensing his breath on me as he watches me. The bed shifts with his weight as he climbs out.

  If he thinks I’m asleep, maybe he won’t drug me tonight?

  I’m statue-still, refusing to so much as turn my head or lick my lips or make any other move that might indicate I’m not in the early stages of a sleep coma.

  Ronan’s feet shuffle across the hardwood floor, followed by the creak of the door. He returns, kneeling beside me, the mattress dipping with his weight. The quiet rustle beside me tells me he’s getting ready to restrain me for the night.

  His hand circles my wrist, lifting it above my head and securing it to an iron rail. He does the same with my left. Keeping up appearances, I don’t move. And just when I’m expecting him to move toward my ankles next, the bed gives, and the door closes.