Chapter 7 - Clover

CHAPTER 7 - CLOVER

A s soon as he's done putting a lock on the trapdoor—that's what he's doing, that has to be what he's doing—I get up, climb the stairs, and turn the light on. Now that my hands are free, I can make a real attempt at an escape. So I work the latch and push my shoulder against the door. It gives, but only about half an inch.

I'm sure whatever lock he used, it's industrial-grade.

Which means there's no hope of me busting through. I know for a fact that the trapdoor is made of solid hickory. It's like three inches thick. The windows are covered with the same wood. And they were bolted on good and tight because they've been like that for the entire six years I've been renovating because the cabin has always been a family secret. Lowyn is probably the only person outside my immediate family who knows it's here.

The workmen might come back. Perhaps one of them forgot a tool? But it's unlikely because I barely had enough to pay them for last month. All of this month's money went towards that stupid Lincoln Navigator. Which means they have moved on to more lucrative projects and any tools left behind would've been collected weeks back.

This SUV feels like one of my dumber purchases right now. If I had stayed on schedule for the reno, none of this would be happening because this man would not have dared use my house as some kind of secret home base for a clandestine job if workers were showing up on the regular.

So basically, my desire for a luxury SUV to pull a fantasy horse inside a horse trailer is gonna get me killed.

How amazing.

I go back down the stairs and stare at the water. There are twenty-four bottles. How long can I live off twenty-four bottles of water and no food?

I don't know. Two weeks?

What I do know is that however long it is, it's going to be miserable.

He's not going to kill me. He doesn't have to. He's just going to let me slowly waste away down here. It's cruel, that's what it is. It's evil. And this water is just a way to ease his mind about the whole thing. That's it, nothing more. Sure, it's ruthless. But my death won't happen by his own hand. I guess he can live with that. I guess his conscience is now clear.

I press my back against the wall and slump down, rubbing my scabbed and sore wrists as I think about this.

Because my theory might be flawed.

Maybe his conscience isn't clear? Maybe leaving me to die isn't his first choice. Maybe killing me, whatever way that happens, is weighing on his mind?

And maybe that weight is heavy.

He didn't have to bring me water, but he did. And it's quite a lot. From my perspective, this amount of water feels like torture because all it's going to do is prolong the inevitable.

But perhaps, from his point of view, it's mercy. Or maybe he's trying to give me time to escape.

He doesn't know the door and windows are made of three-inch-thick hickory. And if I were him, a man—a big, strong one, at that—I probably could kick my way through it.

Long story short, I think he's hedging.

He wants me to escape.

He just doesn't want to be responsible if I do.

It's not much—hell, it might not even be true—but it's all I've got.

An idea begins to form in my head. And a little while later, I think I've actually got myself a plan. But it will only work if he comes back.

And I'm just not sure he will.

Many, many hours pass before I finally hear footsteps above me.

I get to my feet, tired—exhausted, actually—and bleary-eyed. But also ready. This is my last chance. Whatever reason he has for coming back doesn't matter. I need for him to let me out. And I only know one way I can get him to do that.

When the trapdoor opens, I'm standing at the bottom of the stairs. I look right into his eyes, trying to not think about how kinda handsome he is—though that was my deciding ‘pro' in the mental ‘pros and cons' I was listing in my head for actually talking myself into what I'm about to do.

If he were ugly, it wouldn't be impossible, but it would be harder to endure.

"Hi," I say, giving him a smile.

"One more bathroom break? I won't be here much longer, so I figured I'd ask."

"Yes. Please." I nod my head enthusiastically and smile bigger.

"Come up, then." He takes a step back as I begin to climb. When I get to the top, he pans his hand to the hallway.

When I reach the bathroom, I go inside, leaving the door open like every other time.

But he closes it and doesn't even say anything.

I relieve myself, cursing under my breath because he's lost interest. The time to make this proposal was two days ago. It's too late now.

But I can't think that way. If I do, I'll end up back in that prison cell and that's where I will die. So when I come out of the bathroom—which is just a powder room, actually—I look him straight in the eyes. "How about that shower?"

His eyebrows knit together in confusion. "What?"

"Can… can I take a shower? Before you leave? It's been days. If you're gonna leave me here to die, at least let me have one last shower."

He shakes his head, ready to say no.

But before he can blurt out his negativity, I say, "With you , of course. A shower with you. Wasn't that what you wanted?"

He frowns. Not an angry frown, either. But a pity frown. "It's not gonna work, Clover. I don't even know you. I don't even like you. Taking a shower with you would be like taking a shower with a whore. Something owed. Something meaningless. Something to be forgotten."

I nearly recoil at this insult, but control myself just in time. Then I smile and lift up one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. "So? What do I care? I'll be dead in… two weeks? Maybe sooner? Why not go out with a bang, ya know?" I chuckle at my pun, but he doesn't.

It's not working. And the moment I realize this, I frown. Then, before I can stop it, my chin is quivering and I'm on the verge of tears.

"Fine," he says. "Take a shower. What do I care?" Then he pans his hand down the hallway.

There are two bathrooms on the first floor, but they are both power rooms. So we have to go upstairs. I'm halfway between the first and second floors when I smell the shampoo.

He's already taken a shower today.

When we reach the top of the stairs, he motions to the bathroom. "Go ahead." Then he backs up to the wall and slides down it.

"You don't want to join me?" I ask, hope in my voice.

"Nah. But don't let me stop you from enjoying it." Then he turns his head and looks down the hallway.

Why? Why, why, why didn't I enact this plan from the start? We could've been friends by now if I hadn't been so difficult. Instead, I'm left looking like a desperate fool.

I go into the bathroom and close the door.

The water is barely hot, the only towel is still damp from when he used it, and there's no shampoo, just a bar of industrial soap left over from the workmen, no doubt, that no woman in her right mind would use.

So I don't even get clean.

I simply let the water run down my body for a couple minutes, then get out, towel off, and put my filthy dress back on.

The dress I got fired in.

The dress I got kidnapped in.

The last dress I'll ever wear.

And have been wearing for three days already.

When I come out, he's not even in the hallway. I find him sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, his head in his hands, like he's tired.

When he hears me, he turns. Then stands and steps aside, indicating that I should go back down the hallway that leads to the library. That leads to my prison.

I've failed. I know this. But when he opens the trapdoor and silently motions for me to go down, I fully internalize it. "Please." I turn to him, grab him by the collar of his t-shirt, and go up on my tiptoes so I can look him straight in the eyes. " Please . Do not leave me here to rot and die. Do not leave me here to decay. You don't have to do this! I swear, I will not tell anyone about you. I'll never mention you again. I don't even know your name!"

He slowly, but deliberately, pries my hands off his shirt. "It's over, Clover. I'm sorry. I've done all I can."

I want to scream at him now. Because he hasn't. He hasn't done all he can. If he had, I wouldn't be standing here begging him not to kill me.

But there's no point. I can see his resolve in those brown eyes of his. He won't be swayed.

He's made up his mind.

So I just sigh, and turn, pulling my hands from his grip.

And then I go back down into my dungeon.

He closes the door before I'm even at the bottom of the steps.