Chapter 16

Chapter 16

T he clearing Brendan's parked the camper in is an absolute furnace. The shirt I changed into in order to clean up the wastewater pool is sticking to my back, and I'm so thirsty I feel like I've been squeezed like a lemon. After a while, Brendan disappears into the camper and returns with a bottle of water, which we take turns drinking from.

When I wipe the sweat from my forehead, the back of my hand comes away with several squished mosquitos on it. I wrinkle my nose and rub them off on my jeans, and then glance over at the ground near the drainage pipe. An armada of blowflies is roosting there, despite our best efforts to carry the contaminated dirt away with shovels and then cover everything with fresh earth. I know I shouldn't care whether the cleanup works or not, since I'm not going to be here much longer, but I still help as diligently as if the situation actually affected me. And I know why I'm so eager, too. It's not to lull Brendan into a sense of security, to make him think I'm not planning on trying to escape. It's because I feel bad about abandoning him.

After we finish shoveling another load of fresh, dry dirt into the bucket and shaking it out over the smelly spot, Brendan pulls the camper forward a little so that we're not right next to the worst of it. Then he drains the grey-water tank, and we carry the buckets to the stream together, bathed in sweat and heat and the stench that's still seeping from our pores.

Later, in the shower, I lather up beyond recognition, twice, three times, over and over. Grey is in here with me, and he gets the same treatment, but against all expectations, he doesn't seem to mind the suds and the warm water at all.

Before taking his turn in the bathroom, Brendan shackles me as usual, of course. And he takes his time in there, of course.

It's already afternoon by the time I start hanging our wet clothes, and he opens a giant can of chili con carne. The air is getting cooler already. A soft breeze rustles through the treetops, carrying the scent of spruce and resin, which is a real blessing after that stench. I keep letting my eyes drift to Brendan without meaning to. He's wearing grey cargo pants and a dark-brown T-shirt that brings out his hair and eyes. To the outside world, we would probably look like a happy couple on a survival trip. Grey frolics between us, spraying us with fine droplets whenever he shakes himself off. He's like a sheepdog puppy, bounding from Brendan to me and back again, tumbling around and between my legs so that I'm constantly stumbling over him and losing my flip-flops.

This time, I land on a sharp stone and curse loudly. Spraining my ankle right before I escape would totally be the cherry on top of everything. I probably should have left my hiking boots on, but they're soaking wet, so they're sitting in a sunny spot near the camper to dry.

I reach into the wash bucket to hang Brendan's wet cargo pants on the line, but then I stop and sneak a quick glance in his direction. He pours the can of chili into a pot and hangs the pot on the hook of the tripod thing he cobbled together yesterday. Logs and tinder are already layered neatly underneath. Cooking over an open fire is his newest mission. He thinks it'll help us save propane so we don't run low during the winter.

I slip behind the tree I've knotted one end of the clothesline around. It doesn't hide me completely, but it's enough to let me slide my hand discreetly into the top left pocket of Brendan's pants—which is where I saw him put the lighter not long ago. Maybe he forgot it in there, amid all the chaos? I feel something hard against my fingertips. Cool metal. A rectangular shape. My heart hammers in my throat as I close my fist tightly around the small object and pull it out. It's Brendan's Zippo! Does it still work? I can't try it, because he's only about fifteen feet away.

"Hey, Lou, are those my pants?" he calls at that exact moment. "Throw the lighter here, would you? I wonder if it survived the dunking..."

I freeze. My hand cramps around the metal, making the bells on the cable tie jingle. A dozen possibilities go through my mind. I could drop it and hope he doesn't see it, and then retrieve it later. I could give it to him and lose this opportunity. I could put it in my pocket.

"Lou? Earth to Lou!" The impatient note in Brendan's voice makes me act immediately: I slip the lighter into my shorts pocket. I'm light-headed with fear. If he finds it on me, he'll get suspicious. He'll want to know why I took it from him. And if I can't come up with a good excuse quickly, he'll put two and two together. He might even go search my closet and find the plastic baggies and the bandages.

I still can't make myself respond. I see he's coming toward me, watch him approach as though through a haze of fog. If he starts doubting me, he'll start using the chains again.

"I... I don't see it." I hold up the pants, mostly to have something to do with my hands. "Maybe you... lost it in the lake? Or while you were washing off?" Please, God, don't let him see how badly my hands are shaking.

"Hm!" Brendan takes the pants and starts rummaging through the pockets, but his eyes are fixed on me. Dammit, what if he sees the outline of the lighter in my pocket? Instinctively, I tug my white ruffled blouse down an inch. "That sucks!" After thoroughly inspecting the pants, Brendan tosses them over the clothesline.

"Did you only have the one?" My voice sounds shrill and frightened to me.

"Of course not," he snaps as if it's a completely stupid question. "But that was the only gas lighter." He gives me a once-over. "Are you cold or something?"

"I don't feel so good," I reply evasively.

"Maybe you're getting sick. Your whole body's shaking, Lou." His lips are pressed together, and his eyes are narrowed to scythes. He takes a step toward me, so he's right there beside me. "I'm only going to ask this once, and I expect you to be honest. Did you take the lighter, yes or no?"

"No!" I squeak.

He presses his lips even more tightly, until they're as white as chalk. "Okay." His voice is dark with fury. I know he knows, I'm sure of it, but now there's no going back.

"Can I go in?" I ask quietly.

"I told you, quit asking permission to do every single goddamn thing! It's sickening." His expression turns masklike. "As if I'm some kind of monster that never lets you do anything!"

Hopefully he's not going to have one of his attacks now, just because he thinks I'm trying to go behind his back somehow.

I slide past him, keeping a safe distance, terrified that he'll suddenly grab me, throw me to the ground and choke me... or whatever. The tightrope I have to walk in his presence is suddenly clearer than ever. How could I have forgotten?

As I walk up the stairs, I glance back at him over my shoulder. He's standing in exactly the same place, watching me. A chill runs down my back, and I curse the lighter in my pocket. Once I'm out of sight, I wrack my brain feverishly, trying to think of a good place to hide it. He promised not to touch me anymore, but he never said anything about my closets or cabinets. But I don't want to carry it around with me, in case his idea of not-touching-anymore doesn't include the occasional pat down search. Dammit, where? I look outside again. Brendan's coming toward the RV with long strides, still scowling. Grey's following him, but further away than usual—no doubt he senses Brendan's anger. At the last minute, I throw myself onto the bed and pull the blanket all the way to my chin.

I hold my breath when Brendan comes in, and shift around so I can watch him. He barely deigns to glance in my direction as he stalks to the cupboard above the side door, unlocks it, and removes a pack of matches. After that, he plucks out a small, brown bottle and sticks it into his pocket. A heavy sensation spreads through my stomach. Were those the knockout drops?

He looks at me again, his eyes inky black and cheerless, like I've ruined everything. Then he slams the cupboard shut and stomps back out toward the fire.

He left the cupboard unlocked.

Is he actually trying to set a trap for me that obviously?

I straighten up and draw the lighter out of my pocket. If only I could just leave right now! Cautiously, I flick it. Nothing happens. I feel like hammering my head against the wall in frustration. I try again. Click. Nothing. Tears spring to my eyes. I risked his fury for nothing. Now I bet he's going to put those drops in my food tonight and I'll wake up in the box again. That's probably how he'll punish me for lying. I burrow deeper in the blanket to shield myself against the icy terror inside me. But if he wanted to put me in the box, he wouldn't need to use drugs. He could simply knock me out cold. Then again, he has an especially unhealthy relationship with the word pain—maybe he doesn't want to hurt me physically.

I don't know what to do. Finally, I walk to the window and watch as Brendan stokes the fire and stirs the contents of the pot. Grey smells the meat, and he's slinking around Brendan and the fire in progressively smaller circles. Lately he's started acting like a starving tiger around anything that smells even remotely edible.

All at once, it hits me how much of a problem Grey is. He'll be able to track my scent for miles! When I leave, I'll have to make sure Grey is asleep. But I can't exactly give him knockout drops, can I? Is that why Brendan left the cupboard open? To trick me into stealing knockout drops so that he can catch me in the act?

Does he really think that far ahead?

I peek out. Flames are flickering upward, licking at the pot. Brendan's just standing there, staring into the fire. He's going to react to the thing with the lighter somehow. I'm sure of it. He always reacts. To everything. And I know he didn't believe me—otherwise he wouldn't have gotten so mad. He won't even care whether the lighter still works or not. What would I do with it anyway? Set the camper on fire and burn all of our supplies? How would I do that without him seeing me? Even if he's somehow figured out that I want it to help me survive in the wilderness, I'd have to get past him first. No, the only thing he cares about is that I lied. I broke his trust.

I hold my hand away from the window so he won't see me testing it again. This time, I manage to coax out a flame. It's small and weak, but hopefully the thing has enough fluid in it for a day or two.

It'll work. It has to!

Suddenly, there's nothing but chaos in my head. I have to get away before Brendan can react to me breaking his trust. He's probably out there trying to decide what he needs to do in order to control me. No doubt he'll do whatever he thinks will be most effective, regardless of how miserable it makes me.

Your tears won't help you. Tears never help. Not with me.

I haven't forgotten he said that. How could I?

As if in a trance, I go over to my closet and pull on a pair of jeans and a greenish-grey sweatshirt, and I pluck a pair of socks from the floor. Then I shove the plastic baggie with the bandages and the lighter into my underwear. I slip into the bathroom to grab the scissors and a few rolls of gauze. I stuff the gauze into the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie, and tuck the scissors into my back pocket, which is covered by the sweatshirt.

I set the tea kettle on the stove as I walk past the kitchen unit, and then go outside. Brendan's standing with his back to me, stirring the chili. The wind is whipping his hair in every direction. It might be a good idea to get a proper meal in before I take off. Then again, I don't trust Brendan any further than I can throw him, especially not now that I know he took the knockout drops out. And didn't even bother to hide it.

"I'm gonna make Grey's milk," I call to him and grab my hiking boots, which are sitting several feet from the campfire.

Brendan mutters something I don't catch.

It's probably just as well that he's so angry—it makes leaving that much easier when I can see this other side of him. Fear can be paralyzing, but it's also a good motivator.

I trudge into the camper on stiff legs and then hurriedly change into my hiking boots before rummaging through the drawers as fast as I can. Four granola bars, a package of hazelnuts, and a couple of cookies land in the kangaroo pocket, along with a couple of sandwich baggies. I don't have a knife, I don't have a rope, I don't have any protection from the rain, but I have to go before it's too late.

My heart is pounding wildly. This absolutely can't go wrong, because otherwise I won't get another chance to escape until spring, and I can't do that to Ethan. So I have to pull myself together. No mistakes. My gaze darts to the cabinet Brendan usually keeps locked. Maybe it would be easier to steal some of those sleeping pills and sneak them into Brendan's chili or something? No, no. I have no idea what's in those bottles or how to dose them. I might accidentally kill him. Anyway, he obviously left that cabinet open on purpose to tempt me. He must think I'm ridiculously naive.

He may have a phone hidden up there, though. Maybe I could call somebody. Right, I'm sure the reception around here is fantastic. And seriously, do you really think he'd have been dumb enough to leave the cabinet open if he had a phone hidden in there?

A gust of wind blows through the camper, and a loose sheet of paper spirals out of the cabinet and lands at my feet. I can't help it—I pick it up and flip it over to look at it.

I can see that it's one of Brendan's bleak drawings, but I'm not immediately sure what it's supposed to be a drawing of... I blink a few times, clearing my vision, but it doesn't help. It's the perspective, it's like nothing I've ever seen. I'm looking at something dark and solid from underneath, something that's threatening to crush me. My stomach twists at the very sight of it, and I sink down onto the bench. I think about what Jayden once said about art. A good story is like a good piece of music, he said. There's always a pattern to it, an interplay of light and shadows, woven together like a delicate web. Anybody can read a story or hear music or look at a painting and interpret it for themselves—the art itself is just the cocoon that the butterflies emerge from. Jayden called those patterns subconscious dreams, or else the deeply buried dream of life, because he thought that one sounded better.

But Brendan's drawing is different. There's no light in it, not even a hint of it. The sheer weight of the darkness is enough to crush the viewer. There's no pattern here, it's just a place of absolute torture, entirely outside the rational world. Stagnation. Death. It reminds me of the box... it could be a lid. When I look more closely, I see a fine wood grain in the structure, and the sides seem to slant downward.

My hand flies to my throat when I see it. It's a coffin lid, seen from underneath.

Shreds of memory tumble through my head, as if on the wind.

I'm nothing. Nobody can love me. I should be dead. Buried in the ground, in the darkness... I'm nothing... That's exactly why I wanted you, Lou. You're the light. You're like a sun. You were always so radiant in your pictures, like life was easy for you...

He thinks I'm his salvation. That's why I'm here. It's never been so clear to me as it is right now. I remember what he said about the glass coffin. How perfectly that described the feeling. But in reality, he's the one who's still buried. Which is why he loves the light, his light... me.

I feel even sicker. Is this picture supposed to be a symbolic expression of how he's feeling, or did he actually experience it? I think maybe it really happened to him, because I remember the look he gave me when I asked if he was going to lock me in the box again. Like he shared my fear of the belly of the monster.

With shaking fingers, I set the drawing on the table, dazed with the horror that the drawing triggers within me. The insane part of me that likes Brendan wants to run to him and throw my arms around him, to hold him and comfort him. To tell him that the light can be everywhere if he can learn to stop seeing the world through the shadows of his past.

I stand up and take a deep breath, out longer than in, to drive away the veil of darkness. I have to go. Sympathizing with Brendan won't help him. No one and nothing can help him, apart from a good psychiatrist. Wanting to heal him is pointless. I have to forget about the way his eyes twinkle so mysteriously, about how I see my own desires reflected in them. I have to forget that he's a guy and I'm a girl. I have to forget that he's the shadow and I'm the light... that we could complete one another if we wanted to.

I have to do it now, or I'll never do it at all. I have everything I need. Not wanting to appear suspicious, I call out for Grey, and he hops up the stairs right away on his clumsy, awkward legs.

I pet him softly, and then lift him to my face and press my nose against the top of his head. "I'll miss you, Grey, honey," I whisper. I still don't know how I'm going to shake him off my trail later. I'll have to improvise that part as I go along. My only hope is if he loses my scent in the lake. Brendan might take that as a sign that I'm running through the creek, so I may have to abandon my plan to run alongside it. Right now, I couldn't care less, as long as I escape in the first place.

Carefully, not wanting to draw any attention, I kneel on the floor and hold the lighter directly underneath the propane detector. I'm glad I won't have to turn on all the stove burners, because that really would be risky. One spark and the camper would go up in a supernova. I set my jaw in determination and click the lighter, and a small flame flickers to life.

It's not even three seconds before the alarm goes off—a monotone, piercing beeping noise that vibrates my eardrums painfully. I leap to my feet and crank the stove burner underneath the tea kettle as high as it will go. That way Brendan will assume it was a leak.

Grey's already bolted outside, terrified by the racket. Through the mirror above the sink, I see Brendan running toward the camper. His anger seems to have melted away; his face is as white as a sheet. "Get out, get out now!" he shouts when I appear at the side door, trying to look confused. "Is anything still on in there?" Despite his promise, he grabs my arm and wrenches me outside with such force that I stumble down the stairs.

"The s-stove," I stammer. I don't even have to fake being scared.

"Okay." Brendan nods curtly. "Go over there," he says, pointing to the spruces separating the campfire area from the lake. "All the way to the right. I want to be able to see you from here." He pushes me toward the tree line and then disappears behind the camper.

I run to the place he pointed at, frantically trying to figure out how to get away from there. My only shot will be the moment when he turns off the gas, because he'll have to concentrate on that. I picture it being like defusing a bomb, but I suppose it's a lot simpler than that.

"Where's Grey?" I call to him, but the alarm is so loud that he might not hear me. Damn, the noise is perfect—it drowns out the bells and my movements through the underbrush. "Grey?" I pretend to keep calling out for him, even though I see him right there behind a straggly bush, sniffing around at something that may have once been a mouse.

I turn to look at Brendan. He's hooking the hatch open so he can get at the gas canister more easily. He casts a fleeting glance in my direction, but I can tell he's not really focused on me. My heart is pounding. "Grey?" I shout, loud enough that surely Brendan will hear me and start tramping across the ferns and roots like a stork. My mind is racing. He won't risk coming after me until he's turned the oven off. If I know one thing, it's that he'll be sure he can still catch up to me easily.

I take another step. He already can't see me anymore.

"Grey?" I yell so loudly that the wolf jumps in alarm. Blood is rushing in my ears, racing through my body like a storm. My legs are tingling with the adrenaline flooding through my system. I can't wait any longer.