5. Elle

5

ELLE

I bolt upright in bed to find the room cast in darkness, my body drenched in sweat. I reach for the blankets and pull them up to my chin as I glance over at the window to my left. The curtains are open, but there is no orange light being cast over the bed from the streetlamps outside. There are no sirens blaring and for once, I can’t hear the neighbor’s cat screeching outside my window, begging to be let inside?—

“Oh my god,” I gasp, my hand going to my heart as it all comes flooding back to me.

The kidnapping.

The gunshots.

All of it hits me like a ton of bricks, and I fall back against the pillows as I try to catch my breath, to calm the panic that has my heart racing in my chest and the phantom gunshots ringing in my ears.

I’m safe .

I take a breath, and a rich, musky scent hits my nose. His scent.

I bury myself deeper under the blankets and let my eyes flutter closed as my body starts to calm down as I become engulfed by my captor's scent.

Though perhaps he’s not my captor. After all, he’s the reason that I made it out of that motel room alive with nothing more than a ripped blouse.

I should be grateful and yet, I can’t decide whether or not I trust him fully.

How can I when he insisted on locking me inside this room?

He said it was for my own safety, but I can’t help but wonder whether it was to keep me safe from him .

“I should be freaking out,” I whisper into the darkness. And yet…I’m not.

Maybe the trauma of last night has put me into a state of shock and at some point in the coming hours, it will hit me properly. I mean, I’m not exactly fitting the profile of someone who has been kidnapped by two different people in one night.

I’m too calm, too at ease given the strange bed and the even stranger man waiting on the other side of the door.

If Lucia was here, she would be laughing and making crude jokes about how it takes a kidnapping to get me alone in a room with a man because that’s how averse to dating I’ve become.

The thought almost makes me smile, but then the tears start to well in my eyes as I think of my cousin, and the spiral starts to pull me under.

From how dark the sky is, it’s likely I slept the whole day away which means two things. The two men in the motel will have been discovered by now, so whoever put out the hit on me will be trying to piece together a trail that could lead to wherever the hell it is I am. For all I know, my death might be imminent in the coming hours, which is not exactly a comforting thought.

The second is that I still have no idea whether Lucia is safe.

I can only hope that her name was used as a ploy to keep me quiet because the alternative has my heart threatening to crack in two.

Sinking deeper beneath the blankets, I start working through a grounding technique that a therapist taught me years ago that helps to pull me out of my catastrophizing thoughts. It doesn’t always work but, seeing as I’m locked in a room with no other options, I try it anyway.

“Okay, five things I see…” I try to distinguish something through the utter darkness around me, then I turn to look up at the ceiling. “Absolutely nothing. Great start.”

Next!

Four things I can feel.

The silk of my blouse. The soft cotton of the blanket. The smooth wood of the headboard?—

“Don’t want to think about headboards.” I absentmindedly rub at the sore skin around my wrists, trying not to think of how close I came to being assaulted. “Ugh, this isn’t working.”

I sit back up and wrap the blankets around myself.

Even after sleeping the day away, I’m still exhausted. My body hurts, and I feel like I could sleep another ten hours if my mind would let me.

But the thoughts are coming in fast and once I fall into the spiral, it takes nothing short of a miracle to pull me out.

Even in the darkness, I can just make out the outline of the door.

Is he on the other side, listening?

I should be freaked out by the thought of being in a cabin in the woods with a strange man who admitted to watching me. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know how this story ends and yet, no alarm bells ring when I think of him. If anything, I’m somewhat comforted by the knowledge that he’s just outside the door.

My therapist will have a field day with such a truth bomb.

What I can’t seem to get over is the fact he wouldn’t let me see him, which could mean any number of things.

The first that comes to mind is that I already know him, which would explain my lack of fear when it comes to him keeping me locked up in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. But his voice wasn’t one I recognized. So, it has to be because he either plans on keeping me alive for the time being and doesn’t want to risk me giving his description to the cops, or he’s ashamed of how he looks, and he doesn’t want me to reject him.

“Such a Lucia thought.” I run my fingers through my tangled hair.

No matter how bad it gets, my cousin can always find a way to turn the situation into a gag joke or lighten any mood with a single crude comment. It’s one of the reasons we work so well together. She is the light, and I am the darkness.

The sound of the key turning in the lock makes me cry out, and I panic as the door opens. I’m not wearing the blindfold like he asked, but no light floods the room so only the shadowed outline of him appears in the doorway.

He’s tall, to the point where he has to duck slightly to fit inside the room, and almost as broad as the frame. But I can make out nothing else. No facial features. Not even the color of his hair.

“Are you okay?” His rich, gravelly voice sends a shiver down my spine. “I thought I heard you cry out in your sleep.”

“I’m fine.” My cheeks burn. Suddenly, I’m grateful for the fact that there is no light in the room. “Bad dream.”

“Do you…” He clears his throat, but he makes no move to approach me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

A smile tugs at my lips at the kind gesture, but I don’t want to bother him with my problems. That’s what I’m paying my therapist for.

“I’m fine, thanks. But I need to use the bathroom.”

“Uh, sure. I need you to put the blindfold back on.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t fight him on it. I feel around the bed for the blindfold before securing it over my eyes.

The moment I finish tying it behind my head, his heavy footsteps approach, and I hold my breath as he takes my hand and leads me off the bed.

I brush my thumb over the back of his hand.

His body tenses beside me, but he doesn’t let go, so I do it again.

The skin feels different, almost rough. But not in the way that a scab is rough. No, this is different. Scars, perhaps?

Is this why I have to wear a blindfold? Because he’s scarred?

Before I can stop myself, I gently brush the back of his hand once more as a silent gesture of comfort, hoping that he realizes that he can trust me as much as I trust him.

I’m guided inside the bathroom, and the moment the door closes, I pull off the blindfold and wince at the harsh fluorescent lights.

The space is rustic, with wooden slats on the walls and floor, and a clawfoot bathtub to the right and the toilet and sink to the left.

I can’t help but notice the lack of mirrors above the sink as well as personal toiletries except for a toothbrush, which only adds to my curiosity.

Maybe he’s not just hiding from me, but from himself as well.

I know all too well what it’s like to be so riddled with guilt and shame that it’s hard to look yourself in the mirror. For so long after my parents’ death, I hated myself for being the one to survive. Everyone said it was a miracle, from the firefighters to the paramedics who declared my parents and brother dead at the scene.

My nonna always said that I was given a second chance, and that I should see life as a gift rather than something to feel guilty over. But as an eight-year-old, I was unable to see the silver lining in it all.

How could I when those I loved most in the world were taken too soon?

Looking down at myself, I cringe at the sight of my torn blouse.

It feels weird that this stranger has seen so much of me, more than any man has seen in a while, and I don’t even know his name…

Once I’m finished relieving myself, I retie the blindfold and softly tap on the door to let him know I’m all finished.

He wastes no time taking me by the hand to lead me back to the bedroom, and I relax at his touch. He’s so warm and gentle, despite his towering size.

“I’ll bring you something to eat.” He releases my hand once we’re back in the bedroom.

“Wait.” The sudden panic at being left alone catches me off guard. “Don’t go…”

“You need to eat something.”

It might just be the fact that this stranger is showing more concern for my well-being than any man has ever done in the past, except for maybe my uncle, or it might just be the fact that I’m still in shock about what happened, but I don’t want our interaction to end.

“Can’t we eat together in the kitchen? I promise you can trust me. I…I won’t run.”

“No.”

“Please.” My voice cracks, and I silently curse myself for sounding so desperate and weak.

“No.” There’s a hard edge to his voice, and I know he’s not going to budge.

“Can I at least see your face?”

“I’m sorry. It’s for your own safety. Please, just trust me, Elle.”

I gasp. “You know my name.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised. Of course, he knows my name. The guy admitted to stalking me for god-knows how long and yet, it’s still a shock hearing him speak it out loud in that rich, gravelly voice.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“That’s okay, I think I’d rather rest a bit more.”

“Very well. Let me know when you are hungry.” He shuts the door, locking it once more.

I pull the blindfold off and blink, finding the overhead light on.

The bulb isn’t bright, but it casts the room in a soft glow.

As I glance around, the room is fairly cramped, with the bed and side table taking up most of the space. There’s a small chest of drawers, but nothing more. I notice the distinct lack of personal items except for a single framed photograph of a woman on the bedside table that looks grainy and worn, as if it was taken decades ago. Other than that, there are no pictures hanging on the walls or cologne bottles on the dresser. There are no books stacked beside the bed or even a rogue coffee mug left over from a lazy Sunday morning.

When I pull the drawers open, they’re completely empty of clothes.

“Who are you?”

His jacket lays discarded on the floor, and I pick it back up and pull it on, breathing in that familiar smell before perching on the edge of the bed. The sleeves swamp me, and I can’t help but remember what it was like to be cradled in his arms, to feel his warm body against mine.

“I’m going mad,” I mutter under my breath as I wrap the jacket around me.

But I can’t shake the feeling that his smell isn’t the only familiar thing about him. There’s something else, but I can’t seem to figure out what it is.

I quickly search the pockets for a lone subway ticket or a receipt for a restaurant. Anything that might give me an insight into who my mystery stalker is.

When I come up empty, I fall back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling, wondering if I’ve finally lost my mind because I can’t help but trust that this stranger really does want to keep me safe.