Darting into my kitchen, I pull open the drawer to grab a knife, but I'm yanked backward before I can reach inside. A hand clamps over my mouth, stifling my cry of surprise. Instinct takes over and I twist my upper body, throwing an elbow backward and connecting with something hard. But, at the same precise moment, something pricks my neck, stinging me.
The person behind me grunts at the blow, releasing me. But my advantage is lost because my limbs grow numb and my legs give out from under me. Eyes wide, I sink against the counter, sliding down to the floor. I'm unable to move my head or any part of my body. The edges of my vision grow dark until everything is just a pinhole. I'm forced to stare at a single vantage point. A pair of legs, a hand with a syringe in sight.
"Couldn't have you holding your breath again, could I?"
The voice almost jars me to consciousness.
I recognize it immediately.
No.
Not him. It can't be him.
CHAPTER 41
Amelia
A HAND TAPS MY CHEEK and my eyelids flutter.
I nearly open my eyes, but hesitate when a voice hisses, "Get up."
My pulse picks up at my ear, but I keep my eyes closed, trying to grab onto a few extra seconds to gauge the situation before I reveal I'm conscious. A few extra seconds before I have to face him.
"I know I didn't get the dose wrong. Get up."
His voice is familiar and somehow completely foreign. He sounds angry but also a bit uncertain. He taps my cheek a little harder this time, obviously sensing I'm awake. I can keep my eyes shut but I can't keep my chest from rising quicker from my increased breathing rate.
Trying to think, I listen for movement but hear only the rushing of blood, pumping in my ears. My arms are tied at the wrists behind my back. My ankles are tied as well. I don't need to move to know that the binds are tight. I feel them on my bones. I'm lying on a hard surface with something right up against my back. A wall? There's a faint but familiar scent that registers slowly in the back of my mind.
My candle.
I have a candle on the bookshelf of my living room with strong notes of frankincense.
I'm still home.
As this fact sinks in, a hard slap stings the side of my face.
"Wake the fuck up."
I jerk uncontrollably and my eyes fly open. Dale's face is level with mine, staring right at me. He's the same Dale I've always seen. Eyebrows permanently turned up in an almost sorry expression. His blue eyes scan my face and soften.
"I'm sorry, did I hurt you?" he asks, bringing a hand up to scratch his nose. There's a knife in that hand, a long hunter's knife with a shiny stainless steel blade. My eyes widen at the sight of it, and I start to let out a sound only to realize there's a gag in my mouth. "Oh this?" He lifts the knife. "Don't worry about this, darling. I just needed to cut up something to tie you with."
I look down at my body. Just as I suspected, my legs are tied together at the ankles with a blue t-shirt I recognize from my closet. I struggle against the binds on my wrists.
"No use in doing that," he says. "Learned those knots from my father. You're not getting out of that unless I undo them myself."
I keep my eyes on him as he gets to his feet and I register for the first time that he's in his security guard uniform. He lifts his pant leg over his right leg and stores the knife in a sheath strapped to his calf. There are at least six other knifes there, too, flush against his very real, perfectly intact leg.
I stare in utter bewilderment.
Why should this come as a shock considering everything else about him revealed itself to be a lie? I'm not sure. But seeing a leg where I'd always expected a prosthetic really fucks with me. I continue to stare at it, shaking my head, the gag in my mouth muffling the word that keeps stumbling from my lips.
No. No. No.
What do you want from me? I try to ask him, but those words are muffled, too.
Dale walks over to the windows at the end of my living room and, with a single finger, pulls down one of the blinds. He peers outside, looking from side to side.
"Now how the fuck am I going to get you out of here without your neighbors seeing?" he asks under his breath.
He's not talking to me. I know that. But I start trying to gain his attention. All I can manage are pathetic, low mumbling noises that are barely audible through the ball of fabric strapped to my mouth.
All the while, I attempt to move my wrists, trying to loosen the knot holding them together. But I can barely move them a millimeter in either direction, and even that is painful.
I need to get him to remove my gag. Maybe I can talk to him, get him to untie me. But he's distracted, still looking out of my window. I groan low and loud as I can to get his attention.
"Shh," he snaps, preoccupied.
Even from where I lie on the floor, I glimpse the way his expression falls at whatever he sees outside. He pulls his finger away from the blinds, letting them snap back in place.
"Shit," he whispers under his breath.
Walking over to the front door, he double checks the lock, then turns and stalks back in my direction. Getting down on one knee, he brings his face close to mine, and presses a finger to his lips. "Shh," he says again, this time in a low whisper. "Don't make a sound or I will drive my blade straight into your throat."
My breathing grows heavier as I realize why he says this. The sound of footsteps out in the hall reaches us. My eyes go wide. I start grunting and writhing around, making as much noise as possible. But then Dale reaches under his pant leg for a knife and brings the cold steel to my throat.
"Shut up," he hisses between his teeth.
The blade rubs slightly against my skin, stinging me, and I freeze. Someone knocks on my door. It echoes throughout my apartment in the way no knock ever has. Dale and I both go eerily still, his arm suspended in mid-air, holding the knife to my throat.
"Amelia?"
Sebastian.
At the sound of his voice, my eyes get so wide they sting. I want to scream out again, against my rag. As though sensing the instinct, Dale presses the blade harder against my skin. My breathing accelerates and I'm terrified the smallest movement will sink the blade into the flesh of my neck. This man really might slash my throat.
What then?
"Amelia, please open the door. I know you're in there. Your car's out front." His voice is only slightly distorted by the door. I can hear the worry in his tone. The hurt. "I saw the photograph. I know what it looks like, but I have no idea where it came from. Please open the door, let me explain."
He knocks on the door again. I nearly flinch at the sound, but manage to hold still. My muscles hurt from keeping my neck stiff against the blade's edge.
"Amelia...all right, don't open the door. But let me know you're there. Let me know you're listening."
He waits. And I shut my eyes and breathe my jagged, uncomfortable breaths. Wishing he could hear the pounding in my chest. Wishing he could sense the terror wrapping around me. Wishing, somehow, that he'd sense something was wrong and burst through those doors and save me.
He's so close.
Help is so close.
There's a slight thump on the door. At first I think it's Sebastian's fist, but when he says, "Please?" the word is just slightly more audible and I can picture him. He's standing out there, arms up and fists pressed against each side of the frame, head resting on the door. My heart aches. It aches because I want him to know what I now know. That it's Dale. It's been Dale all along. Right in front of my nose, making me crazy, making me suspect everyone else but him.
"Just listen," he pleads. "Someone's been sending me photos of you. It started Friday night. They show up tucked in the doorframe of the gym. I've been poring over surveillance. I've been going over suspects. This guy is a ghost, but I've been putting all my resources into finding out who he is. I should've told you. I know. I just...I didn't want to scare you. You've been living this nightmare. And there's no end in sight. I didn't
want to add to that. Please, just open the door and I will tell you everything. All I want is to keep you safe."
Dale releases a huff of air, like a silent half-laugh.
Sebastian grows quiet.
Did he hear it?
Can he somehow sense that someone is listening? How could he not sense the danger I'm in at this very moment? How could he not know, implicitly, that I'm in need of protection right now? How can he not hear my shaky breaths?
"I'm not leaving until I see you," Sebastian goes on. "I'll wait in my car for as long as I have to."
My heart sinks. His tone answers my question. It's defeated and tired, not alarmed or suspicious. He didn't hear it. He doesn't know.
Silence.
His retreating footsteps bring me to shut my eyes again.
As they grow farther and farther away, some part of me shrinks smaller and smaller. Dread lines my veins and a hot tear rolls down my face. Help is just outside of that door, heading in the opposite direction. The truth sinks into me.
There is no help for me.
I'm on my own.
CHAPTER 42
Amelia
DALE WAITS BY THE WINDOW, peering carefully between the spaces of the blinds without moving them. The knife is still clutched in his hand, but with his attention away from me, I start trying to free my hands again. Pain pricks at the skin of my wrists as I twist and tug them in their binds, trying hard to keep the rest of me steady so that Dale doesn't notice. I can't be sure, but I think I'm able to move my wrists a tiny bit more than I could a minute ago. What I need is something to cut the binds.
My kitchen is too far for me to reach and my movements are impeded by my bound limbs. Not to mention, I couldn't move an inch without Dale coming over here.
From beside the window, Dale's posture relaxes and he turns to me again. "Well, that was close."
I stare at him, willing myself to see someone other than the Dale I've known all along. I want to see some monster that unzipped that man and came out in the light of day. But no, he looks the same. He sounds the same. He's Dale. And I can't wrap my mind around that.
"I need to ask you a question," he says. "So I'm going to remove your gag. But you're not going to make a sound, are you?"
I shake my head.
His grin is indulgent and builds slowly over his face. I fight a cringe as his fingers drag across my cheek before loosening the tie that holds the balled-up fabric in my mouth. I spit it out and take hard, jagged breaths in through my mouth.
Dale watches me and a warm look crosses his face. He drags a finger over my lips, slow. I nearly scream out for him to get away from me. But I shut my eyes instead.
The sounds of Sebastian's footsteps moving away felt like a winter coat ripped from me, leaving me naked in the middle of an icy tundra.
I shiver as though the bite of my fears is an actual, physical coldness.
Anger doesn't help you any more than panic does.
Learn to calm yourself, focus your energies.
The memory of Sebastian's voice brings a pang to my chest.
"What do you want?" I ask, my voice a mere rasp.
Dale squats in front of me, arms resting on his knees, the shiny blade of the knife hanging loosely from his left hand.
"I want you to tell me who lives in the apartment right under this one."
I swallow.
"Why?"
"I've been watching this place for a few months. I know the movements of everyone here. What time they go to work. What time they come back. But that apartment? I never see anyone coming in or out. The curtains are thick and always shut. I can't tell how many people live there. It's a blind spot. I don't like blind spots."
I thought I knew terror. I thought fearing for my own life was enough. But now, an awful chill climbs up the walls of my stomach.
What would Dale do if he knew that it was just a lonely old woman who lived in that apartment? Would he set out to kill her?
"Tell me," he says. His fingers tighten over the knife like he's considering threatening with it again.
"What do you want with me?"
The question leaves me in a rush of insecurity and fear. It's the question that's kept me up at night since the attack. The question that stole my sense of security in every haven I've ever had. Except the studio. That is still a haven.
He diverts his eyes and shakes his head. His lips twitch down before gathering into a flat line again. For a split second, he doesn't scare me. Because in that instant, he is the same old Dale I've always known. The one I never saw as a threat. The one I underestimated and dismissed.
Dismissed...
Instinct tells me to soften my tone. "Dale, it's me. You can tell me. Just tell me?"
"You have no idea who I am, do you? You don't see a resemblance, not even a little bit?"
I stare at him, but can't think of what he could possibly be referring to.
"That's your problem, Amelia. You don't see things. Not really. You're so busy picking everything apart you don't see anything for what it truly is." He runs a hand over his face, as if overtaken by a surge of impatience. "It didn't have to happen like this. I started out just wanting payback, but...you...you made me lose focus. And somewhere along the line, I started wanting to make you see me."
"I saw you."
"No you didn't!" he snaps, so loud and fast that spit flies from his mouth.
I startle, inching backward as a gasp escapes my lips. His chest rises on a slow intake of breath, then he shuts his eyes and rubs the space over his left eyebrow, seeming to regret his outburst. I watch as he actively reels in his anger. He pulls it inward, smoothing out his face until he is but a harmless shell of a man.
"You looked at me, sometimes," he says, his tone returning to normal. "But you didn't see me."
The way he can bring himself back to control is more terrifying than his anger.
"Those gifts, on the desk...they were from you?"
He doesn't respond.
"Thank you," I say, trying to sound sincere instead of disgusted.
His eyebrows twitch inward, but quickly smooth out.
"Too fucking late for thanks, Amelia. I thought maybe I had been wrong about you, but you showed me who you really are. What you'd do to destroy someone's life. Well, it's your turn."
"What did I do to you?"
"You don't remember? The story you published where you dragged my mother into my father's mess. It wasn't her fault he went on that rampage. She hadn't known, she hadn't been involved."
I can't make sense of his words. His eyes, those large, glassy blue orbs are staring at me hard now and I can't look away. They are like doll eyes, strange in the way they convey intelligence to an otherwise inanimate face. My mind races and somehow, in the chaos, an image pulls into the forefront of my mind. Those same wide blue eyes.
"The Ranger who went AWOL," I whisper.
"My father. He killed seven people, then hid up in a cabin in Big Bear like a coward."
It's the story I wrote while still in college, the story I became obsessed over. I didn't win the internship at The New York Times, because I landed in the hospital and missed the deadline. But the Union Tribune published it as a feature.
"The story wasn't about your mother," I say. It wasn't even focused on his father. "It was about the survivor. It didn't even mention--"
"I read it," he snaps. "Don't tell me it wasn't about my mother. It was. Every. Single. Line."
It's not true. He's wrong. He's...
Wait.
There was a line, a single throwaway line. Not even my own words, but a quote from the woman who'd been held captive by Dale's father.
You couldn't stand beside evil like him without knowing it in your gut, with every fiber of your being.
The line, I now remember, was followed by mentions of the Ranger being a married father of two. They were just facts. I didn't...
"I didn't mean to bring your mother into it."
"The media turned their a
ttention to my mother. Did you know that? They staked out in front of my house. We couldn't go to school. We couldn't even go out to buy food. We--"
"You think my article is at fault for that?"
He talks over me like he can't hear me.
"--were prisoners in our own home. My mother read your article over and over again. I tried to take it from her, but she locked herself in her room and forbid us from coming inside. It wasn't until--"
I shut my eyes, because I remember now what happened. I read about it myself.
"--she killed herself that we were finally able to leave the house. Right into the arms of social services. Do you know what they do with kids with no parents? No families to take them in? We were thrown into the system and forgotten."
"I do know, Dale. I do. I was a foster kid, too. I was tossed aside and forgotten, too." My voice rises in a plea, even as his eyes grow colder. "I didn't mean for any of that to happen."
"Oh, you didn't?" he taunts in a sickeningly sweet drone before suddenly snapping into the darkest tone I've heard from him yet. "But you did."
Every cell in my body urges me to take control of the situation. "My wrists hurt, Dale. Please, untie me so we can speak properly."
"Untie you? So you can try to hit me again?" He raises a hand to the side of his head, rubbing it, then stretches his neck on that side. "Hit me really good."
"I'm sorry about that," I lie.
"Shut up!" He lunges with the knife in my direction, stopping just short of my face.
My breath catches in my throat and I shut my eyes tight.
"You think you can pretend to be nice to me now? You're only nice to me when you need something, Amelia." He twists his voice into a high-pitched squeal. "Oh, hi, Dale, I lost my purse. Oh, hi, Dale, have you seen so and so."
I can't figure out what to say or how to act with him. Being nice seems to trigger his anger. I thought I could soften him up enough to untie me. But he's not stupid, that much is for sure, and all I'm doing is underestimating him again. Being aggressive is out of the question. I'm at a disadvantage with my hands and feet bound. I need to keep him talking, distract him until Sebastian comes back. He's bound to come back...
What She Did Page 20