“I’ll try,” I say, but I wonder if it’s too late. I wonder if I’m beyond redemption, beyond sanity, beyond the ability to keep the woman I love safe from all the nightmares in the world.
Chapter Seventeen
Tamara
Astrid’s kids are struggling up the ropes on the obstacle course. Joshua’s men adjusted the wooden wall so it’s at an incline rather than a sheer drop. Her eyes never leave them, and her brows pinch together.
“I don’t want to let them climb that wall,” Astrid says to me, wincing as Paul drops back. Robin reaches behind and grabs his hand and pulls him forward. Astrid runs her hands over her face. “I don’t want them to spar because they might get hurt. I want to hire a food tester to make sure their food isn’t poisoned. I don’t want to let them leave the room unless I’m with them. I used to be fine with them bicycling to their friends’ houses, and now if they’re not directly in my line of sight, I have panic attacks. How will I ever be able to let them go to college? How can I let them move into their own homes?”
I squeeze her shoulder sympathetically. “One step at time. They’re years away from college. Get comfortable with them climbing the rope ladder and being in another room. Then move on from there.”
That bastard Micah.
“You are wise beyond your years, grasshopper.” She smiles at me, then tenses again when Darlie makes it to the top of the wooden wall. “Maybe Darlie’s too young for that course. Am I being crazy? I am, aren’t I? I can’t even tell anymore.”
“Joshua made that thing pretty safe. If she falls, there are piles and piles of cushioning for her to land on. If she’s going to fall anywhere, this would be the place to do it.”
“You’re right.” She looks down at her hands and forces her fists open. Her nails have dug little half-moons into her palms. “Let’s talk about something besides my paranoia. It’s going to be Thanksgiving in a couple weeks. And then Christmas,” she says. “Joshua told me that if we’re still here, I could order anything I want for the kids.”
I feel a surge of warmth toward him. He’s been trying the past few days, ever since the incident with the nightmare. He’s made an effort to be with me—even though I can tell it really is an effort for him, like he’d rather be alone, and it hurts my feelings.
But he wants to be different. I know he does.
“Was that his idea or yours?” I ask her.
“His. He brought it up. Why?”
I choose my words carefully. “He has this image of himself as being very similar to his brother. And to their father. He thinks he isn’t capable of feeling empathy or compassion. But then he does things like offer you guys protection from his brother, and thinks about your needs, like getting things for the holiday season, and I know he’s not seeing himself the way he really is.”
She nods. “Are you familiar with the concept of the unreliable narrator?”
“In fiction, yes. It’s when someone’s telling a story from first-person point of view but they’re not telling the whole truth.”
“Exactly. That’s Joshua. But it’s not because he’s lying. When he tells his own story, he doesn’t see the whole truth of himself. He’s telling his story as best he understands it.”
“That’s a beautiful way to describe an ugly problem.”
“I’m here rattling on and on about me, but how are you these days?” She looks at me with concern. “We can all see that Joshua’s…preoccupied. I’ve been doing my best to keep the kids out of his hair. Is everything okay with you guys?”
I bite my lip. It’s so hard to talk about Joshua when I can never reveal the whole truth, but it’s also nice to have a sympathetic ear. “Not really. He just doesn’t seem to know how to be in a normal, healthy relationship.”
“It’s hard to be normal when we’re all locked away here, in the middle of nowhere, hiding out from Micah.” She purses her lips. “Just try to get him to do normal couple things. Go through the motions, and maybe he’ll get more comfortable with it as time goes on.” She glances at me. “What did you guys do together before Micah kidnapped you?”
I stammer, trying to think of a way to answer that question that won’t send Astrid screaming for cover and put Joshua in prison.
And Darlie falls off a rope bridge and plummets six feet onto a pile of foam, and Astrid’s bolting over there so fast she practically burns scorch marks into the dirt.
Saved by the bell—or rather saved by the falling child.
Darlie’s fine, of course, and when Astrid comes back, I change the subject.
The next day, we have a rare thunderstorm, so Joshua invites me to eat lunch with him in a glassed-in three-season room. I think about what Astrid said. Do normal couple things. Go through the motions until it feels natural.
What would a normal couple be doing at this point in their relationship? It seems as if we’ve agreed that we’re committed to each other. So the next step would be to talk about our plans for the future.
“Where do you see us in a year or two?” I blurt out. He sets down his glass of wine and looks at me. It’s his third glass. He never used to have more than one glass at meals.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s be optimistic and assume that your brother is in prison by then and we could do anything. What would your plans be?”
His face is drawn and the hollows under his eyes are more pronounced. “Why are we talking about this now?”
“I mean…isn’t that what couples do?”
“I suppose.” His voice is so lackluster it hurts me.
He stabs at his battered fish, then lays his fork down without taking a bite.
“Do you want children?” I press on. “Do you see us…getting married?”
“Do you want children?” He looks at me intently.
“I don’t know. I used to dream about getting married and having children. After everything I’ve been through…I don’t think I do anymore. I’d always worry about being able to keep them safe.”
There’s a troubled look on his face. “That’s good. I can’t see me ever being a father. It wouldn’t be fair for me to father a child. The blood of monsters runs in my veins.”
I don’t completely agree with that, because I believe that if he and his brother hadn’t been raised by a sadistic tyrant, they wouldn’t have grown up to be the way they are. But it’s also not a point worth arguing, because I’m starting to worry there might not be any future for us even to speak of. I’m afraid Joshua’s just given up on us, and I don’t understand why.
I’m trying to talk about our future, yet he’s not even looking at me; he’s staring over my shoulder at something a million miles away. It wasn’t so long ago that he laid claim to me, body and soul, vowing never to let me go. Trying to make me decorate our imaginary future home. Threatening terrible punishment if I tried to escape him.
Now I don’t even know if he’d notice if I got up and walked out of the room.
The thought of Joshua leaving me sends a spear of pain through my heart.
I start babbling, nervous and frightened. If I talk about our future, it will make it real, won’t it? “So what do you imagine will happen once your brother’s caught? I’d like to go back to school.”
He scowls at me.
“Tamara, I haven’t slept in four days and I don’t want to talk any more.”
Damn it. How can he not see how bad things are between us? “What are you going to do about it?” I cry out. “You can’t keep going on like this. You said you’d talk to me, but you keep pushing me away. You need to see a therapist.”
“Excuse the fuck out of me? You don’t tell me how to live my life.” He slams his hand down on the table and shoves his chair back.
Now I’m getting pissed. “You aren’t living your life! You’re like a damn zombie. Joshua, you can barely function.”
He draws in an angry breath through his nostrils. “I can function just fine. I’ll deal with it.”
“How?” I c
hallenge him.
He stands up, turning away from me. Dismissing me. “The way I always have.”
I jump to my feet, in tears. “By killing your father over and over again?” I yell. “How’s that working out for you?”
He twists around to stare at me, and the look in his eyes is dark and alien. “What did you just say?” A chill runs over me at the sound of his voice.
“Those men you chose to kill—you showed me the pictures of your future targets. Men in their late forties and fifties. They all have dark hair and strong cheekbones. Most of them have light-colored eyes. They all look a little bit like you, which means they probably look a little bit like your father did.”
He’s growing agitated. He starts pacing, not looking at me, his expression wild and his body tense. “No. They don’t. That has nothing to fucking do with it. I told you how I select the men.”
Yes, he did. He picks men who are predators, and who he also thinks are worthy opponents. Men who are physically strong, who can fight back. But that’s only part of it.
Why is he denying the obvious? It’s not even that big a deal. He kills bad guys. They happen to look like his father. He needs to just acknowledge it and move on. I’m sick of his denial. “Joshua, out of all the abusers out there, you’ve narrowed it down to men who look like your father, and who specifically abuse women and children. Middle-aged white guys with dark hair, the same age your father probably was when you killed him. Did you never realize that before?”
Suddenly the look on his face terrifies me. He barely looks human.
“Get out.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I yell at him.
“Get out before I kill you!” The voice that’s coming out of his throat is barbed with hatred and deadly intentions.
I take one look at him, and I get up and run for my life.
* * *
Joshua
When I return to my senses, I’m standing at the very back of my property, and I’m fucking terrified, scared out of my mind like I’ve never been before. Scared down to the depths of my sick, deformed soul, choking and gasping with panic.
I’m not afraid because I’m alone in the dark and I don’t remember how I got here.
I’m afraid I might have killed Tamara.
The last thing I remember is her telling me that I was killing my father over and over again, then there was a sudden supernova of rage in my chest and I screamed at her to run.
And then everything went black and red, and I think I remember swinging my fists. I remember screams. I remember pain…
My knuckles are bleeding.
The fury she woke in me is still roaming inside me, a crazed beast that needs to rend flesh and snap bone. I suck in gulps of chilly night air and struggle to regain control.
She shouldn’t have said the things she said.
Even if they’re true.
Are they true?
I start jogging towards the house, weaving past the giant potted cactuses and the gurgling fountains, running at full speed. Oh God, what have I done to her?
Several of my men are standing by the back door, talking, but they all fall silent when I run past them. Their eyes stay fixed on me. I know I’m bloody. I must look crazed. I don’t have time to check my reflection in a damn mirror. I have to know. Did I hurt her? Did I kill her? Whose screams do I remember?
I can’t live with myself if I’ve killed her. It will be the end of me.
My heart slams against my ribcage as I tear through the house and into the TV room, where Tamara is sitting on the couch, talking to Astrid and the kids. She’s fine. Not a scratch on her that I can see.
Relief makes me dizzy, and I stagger back and lean against the wall. After a minute, I realize they’re all staring at me, wary, and Astrid’s kids are crowding closer to her on the couch. She’s got her arms around her two younger daughters, and Tamara’s moved to put her body between me and the boys.
I look down and realize that there’s blood streaming from my arms and my shirt is in tatters. I’m barefoot. How did I not notice that before?
I turn around without a word and head outside again.
Garrett approaches me as I walk through the backyard. “Sir? You all right?” He glances at my arms. I see little pieces of glass and plaster sticking to my wounds; I must have punched walls and mirrors.
I’m numb, in a trancelike state. “I’m sleeping outside,” I say.
“But you— Yes, sir.” He doesn’t like it, but he’s not going to argue.
When I reach a mesquite tree at the back of the property, I sink down underneath it, leaning back against the trunk. I stare down at the drying blood on my arms, but I can’t summon up the strength to wash it off and bandage my wounds.
I’ve never felt like this before. I’m filled with bitter, freezing despair that’s rising in my throat and choking me. If I’ve been killing men who resemble my father, if I’ve been letting him guide me and control my choices from beyond the grave, it means I never really escaped him after all. It means he still has a hold on me, after all these years.
The thought makes me sick.
How fucking weak am I?
And how could I not have known that?
The face of every one of my kills swims in front of my eyes, and I see she’s telling the truth. I have lied to myself my entire life. I don’t know myself at all.
The dark night swallows me, and I hear howls of rage and despair and realize they are tearing from my own throat, tearing me apart.
Chapter Eighteen
Tamara
Tamara, I used to think I was brave, but what I’m doing now is pure cowardice. I know you’ll never forgive me, and I do not deserve your forgiveness. Please know that I love you, and please know that I am doing this for you. I am breaking apart. I cannot control myself any longer. I cannot keep you safe from me. I haven’t slept in days, and I cannot tell the difference between nightmares and reality. There is a real risk of me killing you even in broad daylight.
I have to send you away.
You do not need my protection anymore. Micah has been captured. He was found hiding out in a state forest in Nebraska. After he made fools of the prison system last time, they will be watching him 24/7. I also have men on the inside, and they will be watching him around the clock as well. You’re safe. You’re free—from him, from me, from the evils of our past.
I won’t send my men to watch you again. I no longer have that right. If you ever need help, I will send it, and if anyone ever tries to hurt you, tell Garrett, and my employees will take care of it.
The district attorney will want you to testify against my brother during his trial. Say whatever you want to. I accept all consequences for my actions. Stay safe, be well, and always remember I live only for you now. And living only for you means I must make the ultimate sacrifice. I must give up the only thing in the world that matters to me, to keep from breaking it beyond repair.
I stare down at the note, and it doesn’t make me cry anymore. It makes me very, very angry.
There’s a card stapled to the note with Garrett’s phone number on it.
I’m sitting in the very fancy hospital suite in New York City where I woke up five days ago. The skin on parts of my chest and my butt are achy and tight. Those are the areas where the plastic surgeons performed a full-thickness skin graft to cover the places where Micah carved and burned his name into my body. There are also two stitched-up areas on my abdomen where the doctors removed the skin for the grafts.
I very carefully tear up the note from Joshua into tiny little pieces and let them drift into the trash bin next to my bed. They fall like snow. They fall like the tears I shed when I first read it and realized that Joshua had abandoned me.
I’ve read the note so many times I have it memorized. It’s branded onto my heart. I will never forget a word of it.
He won’t let me stay with him and help him heal.
He won’t try to get better for me. I’m not worth fi
ghting for.
I cried all day the first time I read the note. I haven’t cried since.
Inside me, there’s a hollow, aching void. I don’t know what to do now. I feel no purpose.
I miss him every second of the day. I miss him when I eat and have nobody to talk to. I miss him when I sleep and Micah chases me through my dreams. I miss him when I slowly, awkwardly give myself sponge baths while sitting up in the hospital bed. The nurse offered to help me, but I waved her away. I can’t bear the thought of anyone else’s hands on me. Ever.
I saw on the news today that Micah has already announced he will plead guilty to the charges of kidnapping Astrid and her children, of murdering Dr. Barnard, whose body has not yet been found, and of kidnapping and torturing me. He is refusing to speak to a lawyer.
He doesn’t feel remorse, I know. I’m sure that he plans to try to escape again at some point.
And Joshua is selling his company. I saw that on the news too.
What will he do with the rest of his life?
Will he dedicate himself to hunting?
Will he find another woman? Or a lot of women? Throw himself back into fucking high-end escorts who don’t make any emotional demands on him?
Thinking of that hurts me so much I can’t breathe, so I force it out of my head. I stand up, and I find I’m pacing the room aimlessly.
I asked my nurse how long I have the room booked for, and she told me that I could have it for as long as I want it. Like a fancy, overpriced hotel room. Even the food here is excellent.
I look at the torn-up pieces of paper in the trash.
“I’m going to leave today,” I tell her.
When I woke up in the hospital room five days ago, I found my suitcases full of clothes—my old, battered suitcases and the thrift store clothes that I bought myself before I met Joshua. There’s also the cash I had saved up before I met him.
He knows me well enough to know that I wouldn’t accept anything at all from him—not money, not new clothes, not a fucking bus pass. I could ask him for everything he owned, and he’d give it to me. I know that with a dull, aching certainty. But he won’t give me the one thing I want.
The Trials of Tamara Page 16