by S. M. West
As if Henry senses the shift in the air, his cries weaken to small whimpers. I don’t know if speaking the truth has sentenced my son’s death or saved his life. Jerome hasn’t confessed anything about what happened to me. Am I wrong, and maybe Jerome isn’t the man I think he is?
“Paris, just a little under three years ago…” I clear my throat, fighting the bile scratching its way up my throat.
“Go on.” Jerome’s tone is somber and serious.
He steps from the counter, bringing my son to me. Henry rests his head on my shoulder, his little body curling into my side once more. Suddenly, something loosens in my lungs, and air starts to move more freely.
“The flat Sasha and I lived in. We had a party one night during the week that followed Fashion week. You were there.”
He nods, folding his arms over his chest. His dark gaze rakes over my body from head to toe.
“You drugged me and came into my room…” Silent tears rain down my cheeks, and I don’t need to say any more when a lascivious grin slashes across his face.
There’s a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s been there since I spoke to Costa about what likely happened that night. But now it’s a monster of disgust, filth, and loathing. Hungry and merciless, it writhes and seethes within me, seeking its due.
Now, more than ever, I want to give in to the malicious drive. I never dreamed I could hate another person so much that I’d wish them dead. But now I know it’s possible and that I do.
“You remember.” His tone isn’t flat or matter-of-fact.
No, he says those two words about something I have been so desperately seeking—to remember—like he’s flirting with me. I want to gouge his eyes out.
“So Henry is mine. From that night?” He stares at the small slumbering form of my son, burrowed in between me and the cushions of the sofa.
Henry’s so exhausted that each exhale is a shuddering sigh, and more of my heart cracks at what he has endured. The horrible things done to him in just one day of his life.
I only hope he’s too young to remember this. I won’t let myself consider any other outcome than getting away from this man. Henry will have a good and long life without Jerome.
“Daisy, answer me.” His tone is razor sharp.
“Yes. That night.”
“What about Costa? The boy could be his. I thought it was his.” He talks as if he’s speaking about an object, not a human being.
“No. Costa can’t father children.” Those words are still so acrid on my tongue, and I’m quick to add, as if I need to say it even to this barbarian, “And there was no one else.”
I won’t repeat the words I said not too long ago. It pained me to tell him Henry was his son.
No. Even at that, he isn’t a father, and Henry will never be his son.
Like Gray said, DNA, biology, call it what you want, it’s only one part of who we are. And in many cases, it’s the least important factor of them all.
Jerome laughs, and it’s cold, evil, and far too delighted with this news. My fingers curl into my palms and teeth gnash together. A growl passes through that enamel barrier, and my nostrils flare.
“I had never intended on coming to LA, to this godforsaken place. I wanted to live out my days in Europe. Retire and live in Paris was always the plan.” He uses the end of the gun to scratch at his jaw and how I wish the thing would go off. Blow off his face.
“What changed?” I know the answer, but if I can keep him talking, maybe he’ll relax, slip up, and the opportunity for escape will come to me.
“Shit happened.” He sighs, shaking his head. “I won’t bore you with the details, but I had to leave, and you were the first person I thought of. You’d always been nice to me, and you were oh so sweet…in every way.” He licks his lips and waggles his eyebrows suggestively as if I’d find any of this anything but repulsive.
“What are you going to do with us?”
It’s the one question I’ve asked numerous times on the way to this cabin, and each time he froze me out with his silence, refusing to give me any indication as to what his plan was.
This time is different, and he opens his mouth, hopefully to answer the question, and then pauses. He glances over his shoulder toward the windows and front door. I study them, too, searching for any indication as to what caught his attention.
There’s nothing.
“My beautiful, I want a life with you.” He inches closer, grinning like a wolf, teeth bared. “And now, with a son, this is perfect. We’ll be a family.” His hand caresses my bound ankles, and quickly, I draw my legs up to my chest.
He laughs again, a wicked pleasure that rattles my insides, and I shiver. Not learning from retreat nor caring, he reaches a hand toward me to touch my shoulder this time, maybe even to warm me.
I flinch, trying to move away from his grasp. “Don’t touch me.”
“My beautiful, don’t be like that.” He doesn’t push though, dropping his hand to his side. “You must be cold. I’ll get some wood for the stove.”
31
Gray
Smiles like a lunatic
I scurry to get off the patio and climb over the fence as Jerome makes his way to the door. He’s coming outside. This might be my chance to ambush and incapacitate him.
The door opens, and I dive for the bushes at one side of the house, making it just before he steps out of the cabin.
Jerome shoves the gun into the back of his pants as he passes through the gate. Despite the faint rustling of the leaves, an aftershock of my landing, he isn’t wary or even alert.
He saunters in the opposite direction to where I am hidden and I hold my breath, willing my body still until he’s out of sight, around the side of the house.
I dash in his direction, sticking close to the trees and other foliage for cover. Firewood lines a small penned in area, rows upon rows of neatly chopped wood. Jerome gathers as much as he can carry.
Now is my chance. Hands full, unarmed and unaware, the opportunity to jump him isn’t going to get much better than this.
The wood is stacked against his chest all the way up to his chin, and he meanders back the way he came, more gingerly this time since his view is somewhat obscured. When he is almost to the front of the cabin, closer to where I am, I lunge for him as if I’m sliding into home plate.
He’s knocked to the dirt, and I go with him. Firewood sails through the air in every direction, and a log hits me in the shin, another grazing a forearm.
“What the—” Jerome yells.
At first, his arms bend over his face, covering himself in protection, but the motion is only for a beat or two. He must then realize his fall wasn’t a result of his own clumsiness, but someone caused it. A threat is here, and he can’t lie around on the ground.
He rolls to one side, trying to scramble to his feet with one hand while grabbing for his gun with the other. His movements are inept and awkward, and I’m on him.
My fingers curl into the front of his shirt, and I haul him to standing. His eyes widen in shock at the sight of me, and I can’t stop the smug, sure to be arrogant, grin that crosses my face.
“You ass—”
I drive my fist into his face, killing any of his words. And over and over again, my hand pounds into his face, the repetition of my punches bringing a sweet satisfaction, all control or reason gone.
It’s the crack of bone when my fist connects with his nose, thwack, that snaps me out of my bloodlust trance. Even broken and bloodied, the man smiles like a lunatic, staggering on his feet.
“Ah, the little drummer boy finally shows up.” His body sways, and one eye swells, unable to open. “I’d hoped to never see you again, little fucker.”
He sneers, pulling his gun out from his back. Anticipating the move, my arm slams into his in the fading light, and I knock the weapon from his grip.
Jerome lunges for the gun, now several feet away from us. I do, too, as my body jabs into his side and I hit the ground. The force of
contact jostles him, and his fingertips knock the gun, sending it gliding across the now rocky terrain.
I can just make out the gun, stopping a mere foot from the edge of the cliff. Bodies entangled, we grapple.
His fingers rip at my hair, and his other hand tries to punch at my back, but he’s never quite able to get in a solid blow. The hits graze, some cause a wince or grimace, but nothing I can’t withstand.
My thumb presses into the corner of his eye socket, and the flesh sinks and gives way to the pressure. And my other hand grips part of his throat, trying to get a solid grasp, a strong enough hold to choke him, but he’s wriggling too much and my hand is slick with his blood, maybe mine, or both.
At some point, he manages to put a little distance between our bodies as we still roll on the ground. I don’t see the strike because of how we are lying on the ground and because of the now dark night. Only excruciating pain slams into me when his knee rams into my balls.
Air is knocked right out of me and I’m blind for seconds, curling in on myself. Agony consumes me, and in those moments, Jerome gets to his feet and rushes in the direction of the gun.
If not for the grunts and groans of Jerome, the flash of movement, I might be dead. But all those things remind me that this isn’t over and I’m forced to bury my misery. If Jerome kills me, Daisy and Henry are done for.
The cops still aren’t here, and I’ve given up on them. No, this is up to me. Their chance of getting out alive is on me.
I have to save them, and with that thought, I leap to my feet, and my eyes have adjusted to the pitch black. The dim glow of the lights from the cabin provides some illumination, and Jerome whirls around at the sound of my approaching.
The gun is in his outstretched hand, aiming at me. “I had her before you did, sucker.” A slimy smile inches onto his crimson mouth.
Oh, he wants to talk, does he? I’ll play this game. It’ll give me what I so badly need. Time. Time to figure out a way to get the gun from him.
“Doesn’t matter what you had. What you fucking stole from her. You raped her!”
I’m feral and fearless, and we’re close enough now that Jerome must see some of this. Even though he has the gun, he inches back a step, away from me. But he must remember the drop-off is somewhere close at his back—at least I think it is if I have my bearings straight—and he stops.
He holds his ground but doesn’t try to inch me back, closer to the cabin. “You’re a dead man. She’ll forget you in time.”
I spit blood at his feet, wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand. We’re maybe a foot or less apart. Lunging at him is tempting, but the risk is great. We could both go over or the gun could go off.
“That’s where you’re wrong, bastard. You’re a dead man, and you’ve never been on her mind or in her heart.”
He cackles, tilting his head back, then winces, now gripping at the side of his body with a hand. “She’ll never forget me. I’ll always be with her. Henry’s mine.”
Fighting with a dead man is futile. But even still, the animal inside me, that loosened beast, scratches at the surface, having never retreated too far. It snarls, and something in his words, the way he claims ownership even if he’s delusional, snaps at the little sanity I have left.
My sole purpose is to keep him from ever getting to Daisy and Henry, my family, again.
“He’ll never be yours and neither will Daisy.” I attack him without a care for the weapon in his hand, or the drop-off right behind him, or even my death.
It happens so fast, there’s no time to process anything or even stop and think. Jerome scampers backward, away from me. His cry is haunting in the pitch-black night.
A loud, sharp pop cracks the air, and the tips of my boots falter, grappling to find purchase on the earth. I glance down into a vast dark nothingness, the valley below. Before it’s too late, I thrust my body backward onto solid ground.
Jerome falls off the cliff.
Forever.
It feels like forever as I lie there on the ground, panting, heart hammering in my chest at the near-death experience.
I stare up at the starry night sky, listening to the silence and the choppy in and out of my breathing as it slowly grasps its natural rhythm.
On my feet, I step to the edge, this time far more careful to stay where I am and look into utter darkness. I can’t see if Jerome is dead or hurt or anything.
Black. Night. That’s all there is.
Daisy and Henry’s voices cut through the dark and I turn toward the cabin, shouting her name and running, not able to get to her fast enough. Her head snaps up as I rush through the door.
“Gray.” Her lips tremble, curling at the corners into a watery smile, and I gift her one of my own. “Are you all right? How did you find us?”
I’m at her side, kneeling before the couch and working at her bound legs. “I tracked you through your phone.”
She lets out an almost relieved sigh, closing her eyes for a blink. “But you’re hurt.” She lifts her hands, clasped together to my face, fingers brushing over the swell of a blooming bruise.
“I’m fine.” My hand slides up her leg, squeezing her calf now that her lower limbs are free of the rope.
“Jer…Jerome…it was him.” She looks to the door, scared. “Where is he?”
“He went over a cliff. I jumped him when he came outside, and we fought.” I straighten, wincing at the stabbing sensation in my side.
“Oh my God.” Daisy’s hand shoots out to where the side of my torso burns, but she stops short of touching me. “You’re bleeding.”
Confused, I look down, and sure enough, blood seeps through my shirt. “The gun went off. I’m shot?” It comes out as a question, but it’s clear I am.
And now, for the first time since the loud, unforgettable noise of the gun, the pain hits me.
“We need to call the police. You need a doctor.” Her voice shakes and the sight of her still tied hands gives me something to focus on other than how much a gunshot wound hurts.
“They’re on their way. I’ll be fine.” I undo the knot on the rope around her wrists, and Henry lies listless at her side, sleeping. “How is he?”
“Traumatized. Exhausted.” She shudders and shakes out her hands and fingers once free.
Together, we untie Henry’s hands and feet, and she cradles him to her chest, weeping into his soft brown hair.
My arm bands around her as I drop to the couch, gritting my teeth at the impact, and then I nestle them to my uninjured side. With my other hand, I pull out my phone, readying to call Silas.
That’s when I hear the sirens, growing louder and louder. Not long after, police cruisers and SUVs, including an ambulance, come to a screeching halt outside the cabin.
Flashing lights, like strobes in a nightclub, streak across the dimly lit room, and two officers enter the house, weapons drawn.
The next several minutes, maybe even hours, are both long and arduous and over in a flash. The police talk to Daisy, take notes, and ask her countless questions as well as to reenact a few instances that took place in the cabin.
A rescue crew sets out to locate Jerome, and while Daisy’s questioned and Henry is changed and fed, a paramedic treats me in the ambulance.
I’m lucky. The bullet grazed my side, tearing the skin just below my ribs, but it’s only as deep as a flesh wound. The EMT cleans my cuts and scrapes from the fight, and I’m stitched right there, on the spot.
The hospital is out of the question even as he stresses its importance. Finally, the poor medic relents, giving strict instructions to see my doctor as soon as possible for pain killers and a prescription for a course of antibiotics.
Henry is tired and a bit cranky, but he’s calm in either his mother’s or my arms, and he’s more than thrilled to have Jellycat. He nuzzles his face into the plush fabric, wrapping its tentacles around his neck, and I’m grateful for throwing the toy into my car when I took off from Daisy’s house.
In addition to th
e food and water found in the bags in the kitchen, they also find an arsenal of guns and knives in a large duffel bag in the bedroom. The police speculate Jerome planned to hole up in the cabin with them for perhaps days, or longer if they’d remained undiscovered.
At some point, one of the officers returns from searching for Jerome. They found him dead, likely on impact, and I can’t say I’m upset. Daisy is conflicted, relieved he can no longer threaten or hurt her, but also shocked.
Eventually, well into the night or more like the start of a new day, we are released and given the nod to go home. The lead detective offers a police escort, and I gladly accept.
The traffic is most probably light at this time, but the faster we can get home and safely, the better. The police cruiser follows us home, and we don’t talk much on the drive.
I’m in the front alone, and Daisy sits in the back with Henry. While he sleeps for the entire ride, she wants to be close in case he wakes and is afraid.
Once home, she puts him to bed, and I linger in the doorway to his room, watching him drift off to sleep.
Our eyes lock as Daisy tiptoes from the room, turning the doorknob on the way out. Voice lowered, she takes my hand. “Can we just sit here for a bit?” Her gaze dips to the floor of the hallway, and her cheeks flush. “I don’t want him to cry out and not find me, and truth be told, I’m not ready to let him out of my sight.”
“Of course.”
Side by side, our backs to the wall, we slide down onto the hardwood floor in the hallway. The stitches stretch and pull, and I try to hide my wince and any discomfort.
“Gray, thank you for coming. For saving us.” She angles her body to face me and interlaces one of her hands with one of mine. “I love you so much. I know we need to talk, but—”
“Hey, that can wait.” My fingers squeeze hers. “I just want to be here with you. I’m so happy that little boy is asleep in his bed, not a hair on his head touched. And you.”
I draw her to me, and she carefully slides into my lap, mindful of my bandaged side, and loops her arms around my neck. “I love you.”