Chapter 12

S tanding over Cain, my hands shake, lamp in hand.

For a moment, I freeze. Looking down at him, I realize he’s still breathing.

I haven’t killed him.

Thank God.

I can’t be him. What I saw in that room shocked me. I don’t know how many of his skeletal puppets are hanging from the ceiling in there, but they’re someone’s family. People are missing them, all while they hang there like bones in an anatomy lab.

All because they crossed paths with this psycho before Christmas.

It’s a few minutes before I drop the lamp and head for the stairs. I shove past the closed door where the women are dangling like good little puppets for him .

It takes me far too long to find his truck keys, and I continue to listen and watch for him.

There had been no time to bind him up, no way to ensure I had time to do what I needed to get free. When I finally found them hidden beneath a fruit bowl in the kitchen, I made for the door, hurrying like my life depended on it.

Because it does.

Cranking up his truck, I quickly lock the doors, back up, and turn toward the road. The back tires spin out, digging into the yard as I make my hasty exit, turning back toward the way I came.

The truck is a manual, but lucky for me and unlucky for my kidnapper, my uncle taught all of us kids in the family to drive a stick. Because of his love for imported cars, he said everyone needed to know if they were ever in a pinch and required the skill.

I’ve never been so thankful for his wisdom as I am right now as I shift into third and continue toward town.

I don’t have any of my things or phone, and I need help. I have no map, GPS, or way to get to my mom’s house.

I need to find the police station.

Even though I know I have his only vehicle—or what I hope is his only vehicle—I keep my eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror.

I’d been lucky; he seemed to have some weakness for me, and because of it, he had unhooked me.

There would’ve been no escaping without it .

I can’t stop seeing the bones hanging in that room in my head. Over and over, they dangle on their strings, and I can’t make the thoughts cease.

Tears flow down my face, and there’s nothing I can do to make them stop.

When I finally find the police station, I zip into a space.

Shutting off the truck, I try to gain my composure. It’s the first time I’ve realized I’m in a bra and panties with no shoes. The hoops running my arms, back, and shoulders look like I had a run-in with someone out of a horror film.

But I guess I did.

The town looks more alive now.

People are walking the streets, and I gain more than a few looks as I get out of the truck and walk toward the police station entrance.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” a female officer from behind the desk asks me as I reach the middle of the room and collapse to my knees, relieved to be in civilization again.

I never thought I’d see the outside world again.

Not if Cain had his way.

“Help,” I beg, unable to lift back onto my feet.

“Steve, help me, would you?” the officer shouts, hefting me the best she can.

A broad man comes rushing over, keys rattling on his belt as he helps her get me into a chair next to a desk in an office down a cold, bright hallway .

“Are you alright? Steve, get her a blanket.” She rubs my arms before her hands bump over my piercings, and her eyes go wide. “What the hell.”

“You don’t have long. He’s unconscious, but he won’t stay that way. You need to hurry. There are bones,” I’m rambling, but there’s so much to say and so little time.

“Bones where? You’re not making any sense.”

A blanket wraps around me, and hot coffee is placed before me.

I grab it, warming my hands.

“Follow this road until you hit Panther Trail. There’s an abandoned house. A man has been holding me there. Cain Moldova. He’s a killer. An awful man. He’s been killing for years,” I spew out rapidly.

“Are there more like you that didn’t escape?” the woman asks me.

I shake my head. “No. It was just me. He says he only hunts once a year.”

The male officer who had been writing on a pad stops. He puts the pad and pen back in his shirt pocket. “What’s your name, sweetheart? So we can make sure we get you where you belong safely.”

“Grace. Grace Wilcott,” I answer, feeling a giddy rush thrum through me as coffee heats my body.

I’m safe.

I’m alive.

The first chance I get, I’m going home, too.

Fuck this place.

I’m dressed in an orange jumpsuit, looking one step away from handcuffs, but there’s food in my belly, and I’m warm. Two detectives are sitting across from me. One is eyeing me as if he doesn’t believe a word coming out of my mouth, and the other is dutifully taking notes.

I told them everything.

Every detail, from getting run off the road to how I escaped.

“Are you going to send officers?” I ask.

The detectives eye one another before the larger of the two sighs and sits back in his chair.

He has thin hair, thick-framed black glasses, and is skinny as a rail. His suit hangs off him like he got it from the rack and never had it tailored to fit him. It makes him look sickly. He runs his hand over his clean-shaven face as if he has a perfectly trimmed beard.

Cain and his tight-bearded face flutter through my mind, and I shudder in disgust as I close the door on the thought.

“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that, Ms. Wilcott.”

The way he says my name has my stomach tightening. It’s that feeling you get when something’s wrong, but you don’t know what it is. Instincts are rarely wrong, and I keep my hackles up as I pay close attention to mine .

“How is it complicated? I was held prisoner, pierced, molested. I escaped. I saw multiple bodies hanging from the ceiling. You’re telling me you don’t have the right to go out there and check it out?”

He sits forward, his thin hands running over his pen as he toys with it back and forth in his hands.

“This is a tiny town, Ms. Wilcott. That house you’re describing is abandoned. Has been for many years.”

I scoff, crossing my arms in defense. “Yet it has electricity running to it and smoke coming from the chimney,” I counter.

“We sent two units by the house shortly after you arrived, ma’am. The house is abandoned.”

His words make my ears ring so loudly that whatever he says afterward is barely audible.

How the hell could Cain have cleared out that quickly? There’s no way.

“And my car?” I squeak.

They look at one another. “No car was found, ma’am.”

“Did you even look?” I accuse, getting louder than I mean to.

I likely look like a fucking mental case, and the more I defend myself, the worse it gets.

His cheeks heat with an angry flush. “Of course, we looked. We do our due diligence here in Dunhaven, but your claims are unfounded.”

“Yeah, sure you do,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

The way I hear it, all they do is look the other way and hide like scared little bitches for one week out of the year.

“What’s that supposed to mean, young lady?” the other officer asks. A man in his late fifties or early sixties, with greying hair and beard, and a stomach that says he likes beer a bit too much.

“Nothing,” I reply, sighing. “Look, can you just get me home? Can I call my mom?”

The thinner of the two stands, heading for the door. “You know her address, so we can arrange to get you to her house, right?”

I nod. “I do.”

The other detective slides his pad across the table toward me, dropping a pen on top. “Here. Give us her phone number and address, Ms. Wilcott.”

I jot down all my mom’s information before the two detectives leave me sitting in the room, mind reeling and stomach in knots.

They made me feel as if I was the problem. It was like I was on trial when I was the one who escaped.

The skinny detective, who finally tells me his name is Detective Anderson, comes in an hour later with dinner.

He said I’ll soon be transported home, and my mom is thrilled to have found me.

Once my belly is full, I can barely keep my eyes open. It’s as if all the adrenaline left me once I knew I was safe, and now I’m in the aftermath stage of recovery, feeling as though I’m hungover.

A fear hangover .

I lay my head on the table and drift off until Detective Anderson comes for me a while later.

I’m put into the back seat of a cop car, assured that it’s only because they have no other vehicles to take me to my mom’s house, and I lay down and close my eyes again, completely exhausted.

When I’m jolted awake only moments later, I hear the detective speaking to someone, but his voice is muffled.

“She’s a little worn out, but we can help you get her inside,” he says, and I try to sit up against the haze of exhaustion.

What the hell is the matter with you? Wake up. You’re home.

But the voice that skims across my skin leaves an ache when the backdoor opens.

“Thank you, Detective. I do appreciate your fine police work. And my truck?”

“It’ll be towed here before dark. Make sure you keep a tighter leash on your belongings, Dr. Mordova. I’d hate to do this again,” Detective Anderson says.

“What? Wait… no! You were supposed to take me home?!” I try to kick, but I’m too uncoordinated.

I feel as if I’ve been drugged.

My mind fumbles as I try to get away from Cain, who reaches in and grabs my ankles, tugging me out of the car and onto the cold ground.

“I’ll be much more careful with her from here on out, Detective. The mom?” Cain says.

The detective sighs. “We’ll handle it. ”

“See that you do. How is your daughter, by the way? Nellie, is it?” Cain asks the man, and even I see the fear dancing in the Detective’s eyes.

“She’s responding to treatment very well. Thank you for asking,” he replies.

I might be drugged, but even I know Cain doesn’t care about this man’s daughter. It was a reminder of what’s at stake if the good detective doesn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Have a good night, Dr. Mordova.”

“You too, Detective. Drive safe.”

Cain hefts me over his shoulders, and I don’t fight or give him hell.

Defeat curls through me as whatever drugs the detectives had snuck into my food cause me to float in a thick, clotted smog. I’m a prisoner once again.

One with no one around to help me.

I’m astonished that the place I thought was going to be my saving grace brought me back to my killer.

I’m resigned to the idea at this point.

Cain Mordova, M.D., is going to kill me.

Then, he will go back to his life as if nothing happened.

As if I never existed.

That’s the saddest part.

I drift under the weight of drugs and anxiety as Cain drops me onto the bed.

I’m listless as he hooks my strings back painstakingly, not forgetting the ones on my arms this time, doing his due diligence.

“I once had strings, but now I’m free. There are no strings on me,” I sing drunkenly, remembering a song from a Marvel movie I’d watched on television and thinking of how funny the connection is to my current predicament.

“No, beautiful darling. You’re not free. You never will be again.”

My eyes grow too heavy to fight, and I close them.

He says, “You are my wicked puppet, and I’m never letting you go.”

A shiver moves through my marrow as I drift into the space where I’m not a prisoner and have no strings.

Even if it’s only momentarily.