The blood is consistent all the way through the kitchen and out the back door. The final nail in the coffin is the small bloody handprint on the window, the size of River’s hands. Amelia’s cries harder when she sees the handprint, both of us imagining very vividly River’s desperate attempt to get away from Billy.
Based off the streaking of the blood, a couple more cropped footprints and fingerprints, River left all evidence that she was taken forcefully.
My girl didn’t leave without a fucking fight, that’s for sure.
“What do you know about Billy?”
“N-nothing really. River was tight-lipped when it came to him. She said the less I knew about him, the safer I am.”
I growl in frustration, storming my way into Ryan’s office where his monitor is. It’s already been combed through by the police for any evidence, but all that was found was work-related information.
I sit down in the office chair and pull up the security feed. Amelia huddles behind me, peering over my shoulder as I wind the cameras back. A heavy feeling of unease settles inside my chest. I need to see this, but I already know I’m liable to punch a hole through the monitor once I see Billy lay a single finger on her. Based off the nervous energy emanating from Amelia behind me, I’m sure she’s not feeling much different than I am.
With Amelia’s direction from when she left the house, the feed is wound back to about ten o’clock last night, only a couple hours after Amelia left. River is curled in a tight ball, sleeping on the couch, her black hair splayed across the couch. In her sleep, she looks so innocent. Her face softened, almost making her look like a teenager.
And then her eyes are snapping open abruptly, as if she heard a noise. She slowly sits up, propped up on one arm as she looks around the room, the only source of light being the T.V. It takes a few minutes, but from the corner of the camera—right where the dining room entrance is—Billy steps out of the shadows.
My hands grow clammy watching River scramble up, tripping over the fleece blanket between her legs. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but River’s terror is so potent, I can feel it through the camera. Adrenaline rushes into my veins, flooding my ears as I watch Billy come closer to her. River presses her legs into the couch, her eyes rounded and wild as they exchange words. My fingers twitch with the need to reach out and touch her. Save her.
Billy raises a hand and slaps her in the face, their exchange becoming more heated. I nearly propel myself through the screen, desperate to pull Billy out of it and crush him in my fist.
There’s a moment of pause, where they both look at each other, sizing the other up. And then River bolts, darting to the left towards the front door. Billy expects the move, catching hold of her by the waist before slinging her back on the couch. River doesn’t stop to absorb the impact on the couch, immediately scrambling off towards the dining room. But Billy is right there, catching her again.
She struggles and fights while I sit on the edge of the chair in suspense. I know how it ends, but yet I’m waiting for her to escape him anyways. Amelia’s face closes in on the screen, her cheek nearly pressed against mine. She trembles just as I do, hating every second of watching her best friend being abducted but not being able to unglue her eyes from the scene.
River’s mouth opens wide, and though I can’t hear it, I feel the scream she lets loose. So loud, her body shakes from it. Billy curls a fist and punches her in the face, once, twice, three times before River’s body begins to go limp. Blood pours from her nose.
Billy drags her fighting body out of the living room, past the dining room and into the kitchen. I switch camera feeds as he drags her through the house, my heart pounding as Billy gets closer to the door leading outside. Once they go through that door, I won’t be able to see her anymore.
A tear drop lands on my hand as the last of River’s body disappears through the door. She’s gone. And I feel nothing but anger and desolation.
Amelia sniffles, another tear dripping from her face and onto my hand. I don’t move my hand away, nor do I try to comfort her. Instead, I let the tears of River’s best friend soak into me, propelling my anger. River has at least two people in her life that would die a little inside if she died. Part of mine and Amelia’s soul would be lowered into the ground right alongside River’s body.
“Do you have any idea where he could’ve taken her?” I ask lowly, my voice hoarse with emotion.
She sniffles again, wiping her nose. “I have no idea. From what I know, Billy didn’t tell River much about his drug operations, and even if he did, she wouldn’t have told me anything. If Billy would’ve found out I knew anything, he would’ve killed me.”
I nod my head, already coming to the same conclusion. I lose myself in thought, staring at the feed once more, trying to find anything to go off of. Anything.
“Do you love her?” Amelia’s soft question cuts through my concentration like a hot knife. Her question stings. Because I do love her. And I treated her badly, and now she’s gone. Fuck. I’m still pissed at her for keeping the Ghost Killer’s identity from me. But how can I blame her for being scared when I’m watching her abduction right in front of my fucking face?
“I do,” I answer.
She nods her head, as if I confirmed something she already knew. “She loves you, too. I think she fell in love with you on that dance floor.”
My head whips to her, surprised. She’s staring forlornly at the screen. “She told you it was me?”
She shakes her head slowly. “I recognized you. Even in my drunk-addled brain that night, I remember watching you two dance. I remember watching the way you looked down at her. And I recognized that look because I see it every day when my husband looks at me. I’ve seen River dance with many men up until that point, but never did I see her enjoy it the way she did with you. I watched two souls connect and even though I was incredibly sick at that point, I felt so much guilt for pulling her away. Because I know something special would’ve happened that night, and it’s my fault it didn’t. And because of that, she ran into Ryan’s arms. Sometimes I feel guilt for that, too. If I would’ve just taken care of myself, she never would’ve dated that monster.”
Another tear slips from her eyes. This time, I do wipe it away. “It’s not your fault, Amelia. There’s a lot of things I’d do differently that night. The first one would be getting her phone number.”
A sad smile stretches across her face. “She didn’t say much about you. I asked her once, and the look on her face said it all. She was plagued by you. She admitted she refused to look at your face. And when I asked why, she said she didn’t want your face to haunt her every night, just as your hands do. She shut down after that and I didn’t push.”
She pauses and it seems like she’s struggling with something she wants to say. “She told me what happened between you two. I get why you’re mad. I really do. But this right here, is why she didn’t tell you. I hope you can forgive her.”
“I already have,” I whisper.
Too many emotions well inside of me. I turn my face back to the screen and watch once more as the love of my life is taken away. From me. From Amelia. From her life.
“I think we need to go pay her mother a visit.”
Twenty Six
River
THE INCESSANT POUNDING IN my skull is what pulls me out of the abysmal darkness I’ve lost myself in. It was comfortable there. I felt nothing. Physically, or emotionally. And now I feel everything. Sharp pinpricks of pain explode across my head and if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve woken up this way quite a few times in my life and have solid survival instincts, I’d groan aloud in pain.
Instead, I keep my face blank despite the pain and let my surroundings filter in. It’s completely silent. No shuffle of feet or rustling of clothing. No breathing.
When I feel confident I’m alone, I peek open my eyes slowly. This time, I do let out a little groan when the pain intensifies.
I stare at the cement ceiling above me, not bother
ing to look around until my memory catches up. Everything starts coming back to me in quick, blurred images. I was home alone. Amelia had been gone for a few hours when Billy had come for me. We had fought—or at least I had—until he dragged me out of the house, to his car and threw me in the trunk. The last thing I remember is Billy’s fist coming towards my face before I blacked out.
Shit. Not good. I’ve no idea where he possibly could’ve taken me. And if I don’t know, no one else will either.
The cold realization that I’m well and truly alone settles in. I’ve always been fucking alone. No one has ever saved me before.
And no one sure as fuck isn’t going to save me now.
Mako wouldn’t know the first place to look for me. And even if Barbie did, she wouldn’t care enough about me to risk her life and tell anyone. Not when it comes to Billy.
Now I take the time to look around. I’m in a basement. Old and decrepit, with spiderwebs strung across every nook and cranny, accompanied by that old, musky smell. This basement has definitely seen a flood or ten in its years. Exposed wooden beams break up the open concept of the basement with an exposed light bulb in the center of the room, shining bright and burring dimly. And of course, there’s only one escape route—the rickety steps leading to a padlocked door.
Aside from myself and my demons, a single wooden chair and the thin cotton mattress I’m lying on, there’s nothing else down here.
Not even cameras, which surprise me. Billy’s pretty old school but not enough to not keep up with the times. He’s big on surveillance. His paranoia would never allow him not to keep an eye on all his operations at all times. Maybe there’s one of his goonies standing outside the door upstairs. If there’s any left.
Bringing me here wasn’t premediated. He chose this place last minute. Maybe he even decided to kidnap me last minute.
I settle deeper into the mattress until I’m sure I can feel the cold floor seeping into my shoulder blades and wait for Billy to show up.
TIME BECOMES DILLUTED. I’ve fallen into a restless sleep when I hear the slam of a door. My body jolts awake. Just barely do I keep myself from bolting upright. If Billy doesn’t kill me first, the onslaught of pain from doing something like that surely would.
I crack open my eyelids, only to be met with muted light. Even with the softness of the glow, it sends sharp pinpricks of pain to my head.
“You’re awake,” he says coldly. The wooden stairs groan beneath his weight. Each creak radiates throughout my skull followed by piercing pain so sharp, I’m sure my brain is falling into pieces. Fucker gave me a concussion.
“No shit,” I groan, my throat dry and burning from dehydration. The moment the words leave my mouth, I brace myself for his trigger-happy fist. Billy never liked it when I talked back.
“Watch it,” he snaps. Thankfully, he keeps his hands to himself this time. When I muster the courage to look at him, he’s standing over me, legs spread and hands in his pockets. Blank-faced and well-dressed as ever, as if he’s used to kidnapping girls in a three-piece Armani suit.
That’s right. He is.
“What are you going to do with me?” I ask with a resigned sigh. It’s not that the prospect of how Billy is going to kill me doesn’t absolutely terrify me, it’s that I’ve resigned myself to this fate long ago, and now that it’s here, it’s almost a relief. No more do I have to look over my shoulder, hoping not to see the devil standing behind me.
I’ve grown tired and weary of this life. I’m not entirely sad that it’s getting cut short.
“I haven’t decided yet,” he murmurs, almost to himself. He sighs, plops the wooden chair directly in front of me and sits, the rickety wood groaning dangerously under his weight. I hate that I flinch away when he lifts his hand to my face, swiping a stray piece of hair out of my eyes. He picks up the errant curl and tugs on it until it’s straight. His eyes pick over the strand, fascinated with my natural curls.
Billy always loved my curly hair.
“Do you know why I’ve always loved your hair?” he asks, picking up on my thoughts.
I don’t really care why. But I’d rather have Billy talking to me rather than him torturing or raping me.
“Why?” I croak, wincing from the dryness in my throat. He doesn’t make a move to fix my problem.
“Your hair has always been a symbol of your tenacity. You bounce back. It didn’t matter what I did to you. I stretched you thin, and no matter how hard I did it—you always bounced back from it. It was fascinating watching you grow up. It made me want to try harder to break you, but I never really could.”
Didn’t he, though? I almost argue that point. I suppose Billy’s version of breaking someone is pushing them to the point where they off themselves. I refused to kill myself, though I’ve always contemplated the idea like I’m deciding what I’m going to eat for dinner.
I don’t say anything. I’m sure the psychopath expects me to feel praised and offer him a thank-you, but I might be liable to spit on him instead if I open my mouth.
He sighs and drops the curl like burning coal, seemingly disappointed in my lack of response. A narcissist doesn’t like their compliments to go unappreciated. His hand travels back to my face, petting my skin softly. Shivers of revulsion travel down my spine, and I don’t bother to hide the reaction.
“I should’ve killed you when you were young,” he muses softly.
“You should’ve,” I agree.
He pauses, and when he does, it feels like the world does, too. Earth stops spinning on its axis, and for a moment, time stills. His hand whips to my hair in the next second, yanking me off the cot roughly. A startled scream releases from my throat. Fear pumps through my veins like poison as he drags me across the dirty floor and to the middle of the room. My hand curls around his wrist, desperate to pull myself up to relieve the sharp pain spreading throughout my scalp.
“Ungrateful bitch,” he spits, shoving my head away. My temple knocks onto the cement floor. Stars burst across my vision, leaving trails of black spots in their wake. My face is then pushed into the ground with one hand while he tears at my pants with the other.
“What I really should’ve done,” he starts, his breath heaving with the effort of pulling my pants down my kicking legs. “Is push your mother down the fucking stairs when I got her pregnant with you.”
“Yeah?” I shout, hysteria starting to possess my body. “I wish you fucking would’ve, too, Billy! I wish you would’ve, too. At least then I would’ve never known a vile, pathetic man like you!”
“Shut up!” he roars, stopping his goal to punch me once in the back of the head. Stars explode in my eyes, and without my permission, my body slackens. Once I do, Billy finally gets my pants down. The cool hair hits my backside, and something about that feeling makes my skin crawl. That was always when I knew it was going to get ugly while growing up. Once I felt my pants slip down my legs, my safety net was gone and what came after always hurt.
The fight in me rejuvenated, I wriggle hard, bucking to and fro but to no avail. His weight comes down on top of me, pinning me in place. I feel his hardness pressing into my bare backside, the zipper painfully rubbing against my skin.
He shoves a hand between our bodies, quickly unbuttoning and unzipping his pants in a matter of seconds. I gag when I feel flesh on flesh.
“You’re my father, and you’re going to rape me?!” I scream, outraged and disturbed by his lack of morals.
I still don’t want to believe he’s my father. But deep in my bones, I know Barbie and him aren’t lying. Little bits and pieces of memories flash through my head. Barbie spitting on me when I smiled at my worn teddy bear, telling me I smile just like Billy does. Or when I pushed another kid down for sticking his hand up my dress, cracking his head open, followed by her snide comment telling me I’m just like my father. Comments that never held enough weight at the time, but suddenly feel like a ton of bricks now.
Another punch to the back of the head is my answer. He doesn’t c
are that I’m his blood. Billy raping me was never about attraction or desire. It was always about power. About using fear to keep me in line. This time is no different.
Before, I’d stay quiet and let Billy defile my body. The harder I fought him in the past, the harder he fucked me. Even knowing that, I don’t stay quiet this time. I don’t stay still or docile.
No. Pent up rage is exploding from me, eviscerating any semblance of strength I had left inside of me. I scream when he enters me. And I continue to scream long after he finds his release. I scream and scream until my throat is raw and the cellar door is locked behind him.
Even when my voice gives out, the screaming continues to resonate through my head until all five of my senses are consumed by my pain.
DAYS PASS BEFORE BILLY visits me again. Wrapped food and a bottle of water was thrown down the steps before the door slammed behind him. Three times a day for the past three days. I refused to touch any of it. Part of me dared to, just hoping that he poisoned the food so I could let my miserable existence fade. But that’s not Billy’s style. He’d rather let me suffer and agonize, sweating over the prospect of him murdering me. All I’m doing is anticipating it.
I lay on my stomach next to the cot, face smashed against the cool cement floor. A stream of drool stems from my mouth, pooling beneath my cheek and pruning the skin. I don’t care enough to wipe it away. I don’t care enough to do anything. Right now, he’s ignoring me. Letting me rot in this dank basement and be left alone with my thoughts. Bastard knows what he’s doing too because fuck, if my thoughts aren’t spiraling down.
Shallow River Page 33