Chapter 46 PAIGE

Chapter 46

PAIGE

One hour earlier

"Get out."

He unlocks the crate and I crawl out, careful not to make eye contact.

I reach for my lipstick.

"No makeup."

I grab my black dress in my pile of clothes, but he shoves a pair of shorts and a tank top at me with his foot. "No dress. No heels. Wear these. Hurry up!"

Then he strides out of the room.

I freeze.

What does that mean?

He insists on lipstick almost 24/7. And never lets me wear shorts or a tank.

An aura of excitement and eagerness had hovered around him. I haven't seen him like this since we first met. Then I understand.

He's done with me.

I shouldn't have tried to escape.

He'd been furious after he dragged me back in the front door. Stomping and screaming at me. I'd waited for the whip but it never happened. Instead he locked me in the crate—like usual.

I was stupid to hope he would put me on a plane back to Oregon. I was expendable. Like that other woman. Terror racked me. The day I'd known was coming had arrived.

Why doesn't he just kill me here?

But he'd told me to get dressed, and now I hear him rustling in the bathroom, putting things in a bag. We're going somewhere, and he doesn't care how I look, so it must be somewhere without people.

The cabin.

He's constantly obsessed about the cabin, even showing me pictures of the place surrounded by tall pines and near a river. Talked about how great life would be when away from everyone else. He would quit his job, and we'd live off the land. I nodded and made the appropriate noises.

But there was a catch; the cabin wasn't his.

It belonged to a neighbor who'd let him use it a few times. He'd said the neighbor had broken his leg, so it had sat empty most of the year. He'd mentioned several times that he wanted to drive me there and take it over, claim squatter's rights, which made no sense to me. I'd simply nodded some more, pretending to understand.

Tears stream down my face as I pull on the shorts and wonder how anyone could ever find me in the woods. At least at his house there was a slim chance I could somehow signal a neighbor. Although my almost-escape this morning caught no one's notice.

Nobody will look for me at the cabin.

They'll find my body someday. Maybe.

I think of my parents, forever looking and searching for me, never having answers.

How can I let them know I'm sorry?

"You done?" he yells from the bathroom.

"Almost, Master." I frantically scan the room for the millionth time, hoping to find something ... anything to save myself. It is futile.

My gaze falls on my lipstick. The bright red that looked so much like blood. I grab it and shove the crate aside. CABIN, I write. Then I stop. I have no idea where the cabin is.

What is the owners' last name?

He'd made fun of them.

"Hurry up!"

I move to smear the word, terrified he'll beat me when he sees it.

Clinton.

He'd joked that the neighbors were the most unpresidential people he'd ever met.

I scribble the name and yank the crate back over it. With shaking hands, I arrange my lipsticks in a line leading to the crate. I can't make an arrow. He'll notice. I quickly straighten the hair bows and headbands so the lipsticks won't appear odd to him.

"What's taking so long?"

He is right behind me. Fear races through my veins, and I lift a headband, not meeting his gaze. "Is this one acceptable?" I ask in a meek voice.

"Doesn't matter." He hauls me to my feet, and I drop the band. "Put your hands together."

I obey, and he puts on zip tie cuffs.

He's put metal cuffs on me before, but the zip ties are new.

Another clue that today is different.

Twenty minutes later, sweat coats every inch of my body as I lay cramped in the trunk of his car.

The salt runs into my eyes, making them burn.

It's so hot in here.

I need water.

The car stops, and I hear him get out and slam his door. Then there is silence. The temperature in the trunk steadily grows. I reach up, my hands still zip-tied together, and touch the lid of the trunk and yank my hand back. Even through the thin lining under the lid, it is hot. Much hotter than when we first left the house.

Is this the end? Is he leaving me here to die? Baked in this oven of a vehicle?

The trunk stinks. Like something has rotted and seeped into the mat. I've been breathing through my mouth to keep from vomiting.

How long will it take me to die?

Will I just fall asleep? Or will I suffer?

I don't think we're at the cabin. I know the distance is much farther than he has driven, so I wonder if he's getting supplies.

Do I tell him how hot I am?

He'll beat me for speaking up.

Distant yelling reaches my ears.

Is help coming?

I'm about to shout for help when I hear his voice close by. "Nobody move, or the kid dies."

I freeze. My words stick in my throat. I can't help it. When he's near, I'm trained to be silent. I hear his car door open and more talking.

Someone whimpered. A child.

I jump as a gun fires close by, and his car door slams. I'm thrown backward as his tires spin, and the car lurches forward. Shouts fade in the distance. But the whimpers in the car continue.

"Shut up or I'll shoot you," he yells.

He's kidnapped a child.

Images of what he could do to a child assault my brain. The things he's done to me. I pull tight into a ball and press my knuckles against my mouth to keep from screaming.