Chapter 5

Chapter 5

I know what those metal plates with the grip bars are for now. Brendan's chained me to them so that I don't do anything stupid while he's driving—that's how he phrased it, anyway. He's put one pair of handcuffs at each end of a thin iron chain. One pair's attached to the bar; the other's for me. He's only cuffed my right wrist, though, and the chain is long enough that I can lie on the bed while we drive. The blinds are still shut, and he's expressly forbidden me from opening them. Though that would be pointless, since the windows are tinted so dark that nobody would be able to see me outside anyway.

As soon as the camper started moving, I got super dizzy again, but fortunately I nodded off two or three more times. By this point, I've lost all sense of time. I can't see out the front windshield, because there's a folding door between the sleeping area and the hallway, and Brendan has it shut. What little light comes in through the blinds is twilight grey, so I'm guessing it's late afternoon.

Thinking about nighttime makes icy dread spread through me. In horror movies everything terrible happens at night. It's like the darkness somehow brings out the evil—the wild, untamed, uncontrollable, irrational side that people manage to keep under wraps during the day. That's how Jayden explained it to me once months ago, when he was researching it for whatever reason. Maybe Brendan's some kind of Jekyll-and-Hyde character.

He said he knew me, and I can't figure out where from. I bet I would understand him better if I did.

I lean back against the rear wall of the RV and thump the back of my head against it in a monotone rhythm like I'm trying to shake the memory loose, but I just can't come up with how we might be connected. I briefly wonder whether he's a friend of one of my brothers', but I doubt it—I'm pretty sure I know all their friends. Besides, I would have noticed Brendan, the way I noticed him immediately at the visitors' center.

How can he know me when I don't know him? Or was he saying that to confuse me? I don't think I was just a random victim. If I were, he'd have answered my question differently. Although he might have been lying. Maybe he lies all the time. Maybe he's preying on my fears.

That dull throbbing pain in my eye sockets flares again, and I quit hitting my head on the wall. I press the tips of my fingers against my eyelids, and then wipe my sticky fingers on my thighs. The soap lather is dry now, leaving a slimy feeling on my skin. I pat my hair. It's stiff and dry like straw at the ends, but it smells like Ash Springs and my brothers.

My hand drifts to my long necklace almost automatically, and I look down at the collection of pendants hanging from the thick silver ring at the end. Each one is special in its own way. I shouldn't do this, but I also can't stop myself. If I don't keep busy somehow, I'll lose my mind.

I lift the silver cross Ethan gave me for my sixteenth birthday. So you never lose your faith, no matter what happens, he said. A big, hard lump starts to form in my stomach. I wait for the tears to form in my eyes, but they don't. I'm too tense to cry.

My fingers tremble as I pluck the pink heart out from the bunch—another sweet-sixteen gift, this one from Avery. A heart for our family's heart , the card said. I was surprised, because I'd always thought that if anyone was the heart of the family, it was Ethan. He'd always been the one who kept us all together, especially after Dad died. Apparently, Avery doesn't see it that way.

I give the heart a tight squeeze and then turn my attention to the silver Buddha hand with the all-seeing eye. Liam's Christmas present to me. Maybe his last. The hand has a Buddhist saying engraved on it. The letters are so tiny that I can't make them out now, but I know what they say. It's the same saying he has tattooed on his back: It is better to travel well than to arrive.

Oh, Liam… I think about that dumb invisible rhino. I remember how miserable I was when he suddenly took off for India, how I cried myself to sleep at night. He was eighteen then, and I was twelve. I thought he didn't love me anymore. At least not enough to stay with me. And I remember how Ethan and Avery tried to cheer me up. Ethan tried to play the rhinoceros game with me even though I was way too old for it by then, and Avery made me gigantic portions of all my favorite foods every day, pasta with tomato sauce and fish sticks with mashed potatoes and ketchup. And they let me eat myself sick on peanut butter, lemon cookies, and chocolate donuts.

I stroke the cold metal hand before letting it slide back to the others, and then pick out the round turquoise charm with pink polka dots. This one's from Jayden . A little sister, it says on the front. On the back: is more than a forever friend, she is joy to the heart and love without end.

I let go of the round charm and press my hand to my mouth. My throat hurts, because that's where all the tears are stuck, but they just won't come out. My eyes are even burning, hot and salty, but they're dry.

If only I hadn't gone with Brendan and gotten into his camper. If only I hadn't tried to make him like me. If only I'd asked Jay to wait. If only I hadn't forgotten the camping lanterns at home. If only I'd been better in school, and hadn't dyed the potatoes blue...

You never mean to do anything , I hear Ethan saying mournfully. And you're always sorry afterward.

Maybe they think I ran away. They're probably driving back home right now to look for me. Back to Ash Springs.

I lie down on my side and draw my legs in, wrapping my arms around them. Then I press my face against my knees, so hard that it hurts. But I need the pain.

I hear Brendan's footsteps in the hall. Fortunately, he's not trying to sneak, so I have time to retreat to the head of the bed, to the rearmost part of the RV. He folds the door open like a harmonica and stops, standing there between the two walls.

"You didn't turn the light on," he says. "The chain's long enough." He nods to the light switch.

I stare past him, clenching the links of the chain tightly. If I can't stop the inevitable from happening, what good does light do me?

He waits a moment before pushing his way in to one side of the bed. I shift to the other side, but he stops at the window and pulls open the blinds. I can't not look out. It's pitch dark outside, and I can't make out any of our surroundings, but almost directly overhead in the raven-black sky is an oversized, white full moon, shining as pale as a death shroud.

"Brought you a drink." Brendan holds out a small bottle. "Just water for now, it's less likely to make you sick. That's how it was for me, anyway."

"For you?" I blurt out. I ignore the bottle, even though my throat is like sandpaper.

He smiles. His gaze has lost that penetrating edge—he seems as confident and self-controlled as he did in the visitors' center. "I tested the chloroform on myself," he says. "I mean, I was trying to knock you out, not kill you."

He is clearly totally insane.

"Water was always easier to keep down afterward."

"You did it more than once?"

"Four times." He shrugs like it's nothing, and then offers me the water bottle with an emphatic gesture. "Drink!" It's not a request.

"If I don't, are you going to force it down my throat?" I ask through clenched teeth.

He withdraws the bottle. "If it helps keep you alive."

I close my eyes. "So I'm supposed to stay alive?" I'm not actually sure if that's a good or bad thing, because I don't know what he's got planned for me.

"Of course." He sounds perfectly casual. "What, you thought I would go to all this trouble just to kill you?"

"Maybe you're going to do it later."

"Or maybe never. Now drink!" He hesitates for a moment. "Please," he adds.

I open my eyes in surprise. He looks harmless, as harmless as he did in the parking lot. There's a stale taste in my mouth, and my body is screaming for water. But who knows what he's put in it? Who knows where I'll wake up next? How I'll wake up? Whether I'll wake up?

"You first," I whisper.

That's all I have to say. He shakes the bottle, unscrews the cap, and takes a long swig. I watch him swallow, and then he hands me the water. "No more than half for now."

I suppress the disgust at the thought of drinking from the same bottle as him. The water is cool and tastes clean, not like chlorine. With every swallow, I become more acutely aware of how thirsty I am.

After I've managed a few gulps, Brendan takes the bottle out of my hand. "That's enough. You can have more later." He nods to the door on the right-hand side. "Do you want to shower?"

"No."

"It smells like a puma cage in here."

"Don't care." I definitely do not want to undress with him anywhere nearby. Besides, it's his fault that I stink.

He sighs in resignation. "You're still afraid I'm going to hurt you."

I draw in my knees and hug them again. "Why else would I be here?"

"So that I don't lose you again." When he says it, he looks as innocent as a newborn babe.

"You never had me, what makes you think you can lose me?" I do my best not to let on just how disturbing this conversation is to me.

He shrugs, and the innocent expression turns distant, unapproachable. "You're not all there yet. You're still out of it from the chloroform. And you're still way too afraid. Your head needs to be clear before we talk about this."

I close my eyes. If he was planning to do something terrible to me, he wouldn't go out of his way to explain everything to me, would he? He could have gone ahead and done it right then and there. Then again, what do I know about how crazy people think? Maybe this is his idea of foreplay.

"Tomorrow you can have some food," I hear him say. Everything's silent for a while. Then the floor creaks like he's stepping in place. He takes a deep breath. I can picture his pupils widening. "I had to do it," he says suddenly. "I didn't have a choice. There was no either-or. Never." Another creaking sound, and then footsteps. "If it's okay with you, I'm going to go take a shower."

I hear the water running. If I can get free now, I'll have a head start. As silently as I can, I slide to the edge of the bed. The metal plate he's handcuffed the other end of my chain to is screwed into the wall in front of me. My gaze shifts outside. I hadn't realized how bright the night is. We're still in the middle of the forest, at least I think we are. Millions of stars cast their silvery light down on the trees, enveloping them in pale fog. For a fraction of a second, I consider pounding on the windows with my fists, but then I realize there's probably no point. It looks like there's not another living soul out there—there's just that milky, shimmering light. It's like we're on an undiscovered moon that happens to have a patch of forest on it. If I start making noise now, Brendan will jump out of the shower, and my shot at escape will be over before it begins.

I try to force my hand through the metal ring of the handcuff, but it's so tight, it's like Brendan measured my wrists. The thought that he might have actually done that makes me nauseous. I tug at the ring, make my hand narrow, but I can't even begin to wedge it past my thumb joint. After a few minutes, my skin is lobster red, and the back of my hand is bleeding. Tears of pain and frustration spring to my eyes. I don't have much time—Brendan's not going to stay in the shower forever. In a fit of desperation, I brace my feet against the wall and pull like crazy on the grip bar on that metal plate, until my heart is hammering wildly and I'm nearly sick from overexertion. I have to get out of here. Now.

I pray, I curse, I jerk, but the metal plate doesn't give. Not an inch. It's screwed tightly into the wall with four screws, and each of the screws is apparently stronger than I am.

I start pulling again, but then I hear the water turn off. Abruptly, I release the bar, just as the door swings open and Brendan appears, wearing only a towel slung across his hips.

"The whole camper's rocking. What are you doing?"

My pulse is racing; sweat is running down my face. "Nothing," I whisper, hiding my hand behind my back.

He comes toward me, around the bed, brows knitted darkly. "Forget it. Not even I can tear the plates out."

I stay sitting there stiffly; he stands directly in front of me, so close that his legs are almost touching my knees. "Did you try that too?"

"Of course. I think you'd need a cordless screwdriver and a ton of patience to get those things down." That triumphant gleam returns to his eyes. "And the handcuffs, forget it. Double-lock. The trick with the needle or the paper clip won't work." He gestures with his chin toward my necklace. "Or with one of those things."

I bite my lip and lower my eyes. The thought had occurred to me, it's true.

"You're not going to escape me, Lou. With or without the cuffs, you're not going anywhere. Get used to it."

"Louisa, my name is Louisa ," I spit back, keeping my eyes focused on the black towel covering his hips so I won't have to look at his torso. I don't want to see how perfect he is. How can pure evil be so flawless? It makes everything even more confusing. I don't want to remember how attractive I thought he was at first, with those strikingly dark eyes of his, that infinitely penetrating gaze. The question gleaming and flickering in his eyes like a falling star: Do you want this?

Do you want me to kidnap you? Do you want me to lock you in a box? Do you want me to rape and murder you?

And, oh my God, he saw the goo-goo eyes I was making at him, saw the way I got tongue-tied just looking at him. He knew I would like him. Another wave of nausea washes over me at the realization.

He turns away. "You'll want to dress warm," he says. "It gets colder here than it does in Sequoia."

Here? Where is "here"? Are we all alone "here"? Isn't he afraid I'll start banging on the windows to get someone's attention? I should have tried that earlier instead of wasting time pulling on his DIY prison construction like a lunatic. Then again, if there really had been anyone within shouting distance, Brendan would probably have bound and gagged me before he showered... or put me back in the box. The thought makes me sick all over again.

I scoot back onto the bed. My limbs are heavy, as if I had the flu. I still don't know how long he's had me in here, but I'm guessing I was in the box for at least a day. Judging by how I feel now, I must have been unconscious for quite a while. When I had to get my appendix out when I was eight, I recovered from the anesthesia pretty quickly. Now, I feel like he didn't just kidnap me with the RV, he ran me over with it.

I can't sleep. Brendan is outside now, enshrouded in his hoodie. He's made a fire, and he's sitting on a rock near the flames, staring into them like he's reading the future. For a few horrible minutes, I wonder if he kidnapped me so he can sacrifice me, like maybe he's bringing me to an altar somewhere so he can slit my throat. Maybe he's one of those super crazy types with voices in his head telling him to do stuff. Or maybe he just does a ton of drugs. There are too many maybes here, not enough definites.

I wrap the blanket around my body more tightly, and then lean forward to rest my cheek against the window, to feel the coolness of the pane as though it might somehow comfort me.

Does he see me watching him? Probably not, the windows are tinted, and I still have the lights off.

He smokes a cigarette, then stands up and disappears from view. The floor rumbles underneath me—he must be doing something underneath the camper. A moment later, he reappears and sits back down on the rock. I squint my eyes. He's got something in his lap. A notepad? And it looks like he's writing. I blink a few times, but it's too dark to make out any details.

I scoot to the back of the bed and curl into a ball, staring out at the hallway. I want to know when Brendan comes back in. I wait and wait for what feels like hours. Suddenly I hear a muted thump, almost like the sound of a trunk lid slamming, and then the side door opens and Brendan comes up the stairs.

Through half-open eyes, I watch him take off the hoodie. He stands there for a moment, perfectly still. His bare back gleams unnaturally pale in the moonlight streaming in through the window. Each individual muscle is visible beneath his skin as though in sharp relief, and seems to come alive with every breath he takes. It's spooky, almost animalistic. Same with the dark tattoo winding across his right shoulder blade. From here, it looks like an evil dragon or a writhing snake. I can't help picturing some vicious monster breaking out of his back as he rapes me. Underneath the blanket, I clench my fists and pray he doesn't get into bed with me.

He starts walking in my direction. I squeeze my eyes shut. But nothing happens. I hear him turn on the water and brush his teeth. My fingernails dig into my palms. He's going on with his life like everything is perfectly normal, and it's fraying my nerves. When I hear his footsteps moving away, I exhale in relief and open my eyes a tiny bit. He removes his cargo pants and slips on a pair of sweats and a light-colored T-shirt. Then he hoists himself into the loft bed above the driver's cab and lies down.

I keep listening. Eventually, after what seems like so long, I hear him breathing evenly.

Bit by bit, I realize what that means. For tonight, I'm safe. He's not going to do anything to me tonight. I almost start crying in relief. I'm so desperate for a break, for a couple of hours of not being terrified. I can finally allow myself to sleep.

Tomorrow , I think as I give myself over to the exhaustion, to the darkness settling over me like a sheet. Tomorrow I have to try and get away, no matter how. Tomorrow I'll be stronger.

But before my eyes fall shut, I remember his voice, so dangerously and terrifyingly soft.

Unless, of course, you try and run away from me.