Chapter 6

Chapter 6

S till groggy, I roll over from my right side to my left.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee hits me, along with the hearty scent of eggs and bacon. Avery must be cooking. Avery's the only one who can get bacon just right, so that it's crisp but not charred. When Ethan makes scrambled eggs, they always come out half burnt. I'd like to doze a little longer, but if I don't get up, Jayden will snag the crispiest strips of bacon, and that would be a bad start to the weekend. Anyway, I'm sort of looking forward to having breakfast with everyone this morning, even if Ethan trots out another big to-do list for Saturday: fixing rotten wood slats, shopping, watering the garden, laundry, cleaning the kitchen...

I blink sleepily and straighten up.

I'm not at home. The realization is like a punch in the gut, jolting me wide awake. I hear dishes clattering near the front of the RV, but I can't see what's going on, because the folding door's only partway open.

I slide to the edge of the bed and discover that Brendan's unchained me—or at least he's removed the long iron chain. I still have the handcuffs. They're just like the ones in the movies. One cuff is on my left wrist now; the other is dangling uselessly. It's probably there so Brendan can chain me up quickly anywhere, anytime. Great.

There's a thick, white bandage around my right wrist.

When did Brendan put that on? The fact that I didn't notice is frightening. I look down at the gauze, spread my fingers a few times to shake off the numbness, and then peer past the folding door.

Brendan's in front of the stove in the hallway, shaking a pan. The smells of scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee were the only real parts of my dream.

I slide to my feet, propping myself against the bed for support as I stand up.

"Oh, you're awake!"

I flinch. He sounds so perfectly normal, like we're a young couple on our honeymoon or something.

"Breakfast will be ready in a minute."

"I have to pee."

Brendan points to the bathroom door with his spoon. "You don't have to ask permission."

I slip into the bathroom. Walking is a lot easier than yesterday, and the throbbing pain in my head is barely an echo of what it was.

I use that disgusting-smelling toilet and then wash my hands and face—without soap, since it's still sitting out of reach. The dangling handcuff clinks against the edge of the sink with every movement, plus the bandage gets wet and the wound underneath starts to burn. I don't unwrap it, though, because otherwise Brendan might insist on putting a new one on me, and I definitely do not want him touching me.

I shut off the water and then impulsively fling open the mirrored cabinet, searching for something I can use to defend myself against Brendan. The results are pretty disappointing, unless I can somehow choke him out with a gauze bandage or smother him with a washcloth. As silently as I can, I flip the toilet lid closed and climb up to check if there's anything on the top shelf... but it's as empty as it looked from underneath. No nail clippers, no files. I briefly toy with the thought of retrieving the soap, but then Brendan would know that I searched the cabinet.

Resigned, I clamber down from the toilet lid and shut the cabinet. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and barely recognize myself. I look like the kind of person you'd see on the street and then cross to the other side. My face is as pale as winter, with rings under my eyes like blue-black war paint. The paleness makes my eyes seem oversized, like a manga girl's, but without the gleam. They're like blue-green glacier ice, as if my unshed tears have diluted the color.

I stare at my own reflection for a while, until finally I realize that I'm just stalling for time, not wanting to go out to Brendan. I can't stay in here forever, though.

You can do this, I tell myself silently. With or without a weapon. You're not chained up anymore, so maybe you can even get away today. Back to Ash Springs.

Talking to myself still helps.

I open the door, but as soon as I see Brendan, my courage evaporates, and I feel like my own shadow. A pale little winter shadow, deprived of light until the darkness finally smothers it. Brendan's so big, so much stronger than me. And I'm afraid he's probably smarter than I am, too.

"Sit!" He gestures to one of the short two-person benches. It's across from the side door, but the side door is shut. Of course.

Mechanically, I slide in and take a seat on a bench. The sight of breakfast makes me ill. There's a stack of chocolate donuts beside a platter of scrambled eggs and bacon. Next to that are some lemon cookies and a jar of peanut butter.

"Coffee?" Brendan holds out a mug. I feel like slapping it out of his hand, but I don't want to make him mad, so I take it. "Black with two spoons of sugar," he adds.

Which is how I always drink it. Which he knows.

He sits down across from me. To hide my confusion, I sip my coffee, and promptly burn my tongue.

"I didn't know what you'd be hungry for, so I just made everything." He leans back slightly, radiating total self-confidence. He's got his hair back in a little ponytail, which brings out his eyes and makes him look older. God, maybe he's actually Avery's age. That would make him ten years older than me. Maybe he's a total pervert who only likes young girls, even though he could have any woman he wanted. "You want some eggs? Lemon cookies?"

I nod robotically, accepting whatever he offers. All I care about is him leaving me alone. I stare at the eggs as he piles them on my plate. They're fluffy and golden, exactly the way I like them.

"Make sure to eat slowly and chew every bite, or you won't be able to keep it down. And maybe no peanut butter yet, now that I think about it." He pushes the jar away slightly with the back of his hand. I notice his braided black leather armband with a silver coin dangling from it, the size of a hazelnut. It's got an image engraved on it—birds in flight, maybe? I didn't quite get a good look at it.

I look back at my plate. Brendan doesn't say anything. He's probably watching me. Nervously, I knead my fingers.

I think he's waiting for me to start eating, so I do, even though I feel totally sick. One bite at a time , I tell myself. Whatever you do, don't get him mad. He's a complete psychopath who chloroformed himself to see what it felt like.

The fork shakes in my hand. The first bite of scrambled egg falls off three times in a row. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Brendan is suddenly intensely interested in a chocolate donut. He's peering at the bottom of it, like maybe checking it for mold.

I pause for a moment. If I want to get away, I need to calm down. I need to watch him, wait for him to make a mistake. He can't possibly have everything under control all the time. Sooner or later, something will go wrong. And then you smash him in the balls and run away as fast as you can , I hear Jay say.

I put the fork aside without having actually eaten anything. "How do you know what I like?" It comes out sounding more confrontational than I feel.

"Don't you know?" He blinks in surprise.

"No."

"Think about it, then!" He sets the chocolate donut back down on his plate and folds his hands on the table.

"Were you spying on me? Sitting in the yard with binoculars watching us through the window?"

"Nope. But I still know." He smiles, seemingly enjoying my uncertainty. It almost sounds like he's trying to mess with me.

A memory comes back to me, a mental image of him buying fish sticks, iced coffee, and donuts at the visitors' center. All things I like, I thought at the time. But he couldn't possibly have brought them back to the camper; he must have thrown them away somewhere.

Another mental image replaces the first. It makes me even more anxious. "You followed me. When I was walking to the visitors' center, you were tailing me in the woods, parallel to the gravel road."

He gives me a penetrating look. "Possibly."

"You were the shadow," I whisper to myself. It wasn't Jay at all. Jay's "shortcut" probably wasn't even through the forest. "Which was why you knew about me and Ethan fighting about the camping lanterns. You heard. You were listening."

He looks out the window. Nods.

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, distracting myself from the fear with pain. "You heard me telling him that I wanted to run away." Suddenly it's all coming together.

"It was convenient, yeah." Brendan looks back at me. His eyes gleam as he smiles. "It could have turned out differently, though. I'd been expecting a long wait, but you were easy to catch."

Picturing him stalking me, waiting for an opportune moment, nearly makes me physically ill. I press my hand against my stomach. "How long... was I unconscious?"

"About five days. But it wasn't only chloroform. That would have been too dangerous."

Five. Days.

I feel like he just pushed me off a cliff. My brothers have been searching for me for five days ! Knowing how worried they must be makes me ten times more miserable. "What else, then?"

"Atropine, dimenhydrinate, gamma-butyrolactone, barbiturates..."

"What?"

"Belladonna, knockout drops, sleeping pills... the dimenhydrinate was for the nausea. To keep you from puking." He gazes straight into my eyes, like he can sense my rage and wants to nip it in the bud.

"You gave me knockout drops?"

"A small dose. Don't you remember?"

What a stupid question! Bewildered, I shake my head. He's crazier than I thought.

"You woke up a couple of times. I explained everything to you and gave you some water. Not much, just a few sips at a time."

"Why five days?" I can't believe it. This nightmare is getting worse and worse.

"The first part of the trip was dangerous. I couldn't risk anyone searching the RV and finding you. That's the only reason. And I knocked you out so you wouldn't be scared in the box. On the last day, I gave you some more chloroform so I wouldn't give you too much of the other stuff."

I need to get away from him. I think I'm losing my mind. I pull myself to my feet using the back of the bench for support, but then my knees give out and I flop back onto the upholstery.

That's why I've been so weak, that's why I can barely remember anything. Five days!

"There were never any bears on the path, were there?" My voice comes from far away, yet also thunders in my ears. "You preyed on my fears to lure me away. You... you're..." I force myself to swallow the insult, but contempt is probably written all over my face.

Brendan's expression hardens, and he sets his jaw. "Think what you want of me, I'm still keeping you with me."

"But..."

"You're staying with me. Forever. There's nothing you can do about it. Crying isn't going to help you. Crying never helps. Not with me." He averts his eyes when he says that last part.

I wipe my eyes, but the tears keep flowing and flowing and falling on the lemon cookie and the scrambled eggs.

He glances through the window again, which is at table height. "Where I grew up, might makes right, and here, that's me, not you. Sorry." He pushes himself up from the bench and looks down at me. "I know how hard this is for you."

Hard?

"I'll do everything I can to make it more bearable. When you're angry, be angry. When you're sad, be sad. I'm not going to forbid you to have feelings. I can handle them until things get better. If you think you want to spit on me or whatever, then do it, but don't overdo it. There's only one thing I absolutely forbid you from trying."

Every second I spend listening to him talk is making me more confused and agitated. "What's that?"

"Escaping." That word is my only hope, and he snaps it in such a steely voice that it's like the sound alone is enough to break every bone in my body.

"What would happen then?" I whisper.

Brendan's face stiffens, mask-like, completely lifeless. His hands ball into fists, and it terrifies me so much that I grab the butter knife next to my plate. It's short and dull, but I hold it like a dagger anyway. He doesn't seem to notice, though, or else he doesn't care. He takes a few deep breaths.

"Just don't try," is all he says.

With that, he walks out and slams the door behind him. I'm alone. Alone, unchained, and I still don't dare move.

I'm still sitting at the table, clutching the butter knife, staring at my plate. Brendan is outside, doing something with the camper. I don't know what. I hear thumping and rattling every so often, and then the whole RV rocks for a few seconds, and once or twice I hear water running through the pipes. After a while, it stops. I look through the window. He's leaning against a tree, smoking. He's standing there so perfectly still that, for one strange moment, it's like he melts into the tree. I get a ridiculous urge to set the camper on fire. He wouldn't get far without a vehicle. Then again, he'd probably kill me for it. Because you're so full of life... I know you...

I set down the knife and bury my face in my hands. I haven't eaten a thing—all I had was a sip or two of sugary coffee. My escape fantasies are torn full of holes now. Holes I see Brendan rising from and strangling me. With his hands, with a scarf, with the iron chain. I'm afraid he'd probably be a hand-strangler. Which seems like it would be the worst. Why, I don't know.

But if I have to stay with him, I may as well go ahead and kill myself. I know I can't live like this. Where is he even planning on taking me? He can't keep driving around with me forever, right?

When Brendan returns, he starts clearing the table, not looking at me. "You want to wash up?" he asks casually as he runs water in the sink.

I stare out the window.

"To distract yourself, maybe." He dribbles some dish soap into the water. "When you use the toilet, there's a box of little orange sachets in there, make sure you always throw one in afterward."

"Why?"

"Disinfectant."

Can he tell I'm imagining poisoning him with them? Then I remember the drugs he used on me. They must be around here somewhere. The RV isn't that big.

"Are you going to do the dishes or not?"

"No."

"Probably just as well with the bandage anyway." Brendan shrugs and regards me thoughtfully. Today, he's wearing deep-green cargo pants and a black Jack Wolfskin T-shirt with a pawprint on the right side of the chest. The shirt is faded, which makes Brendan's dark eyes gleam with an unnatural intensity. They creep me out. At times it's almost like he's already seen literally everything. Every facet of life, every detail. Maybe that's why he's so confident.

He turns and switches on the television, which is attached to a kind of telescopic bar on the wall next to his loft bed. Then he picks up the remote and flips through the channels. The millionth reruns of How I Met Your Mother and The Big Bang Theory . Soaps, more soaps, game shows, documentaries, the usual afternoon stuff: Hero of the Week , Find me …

He clicks past that last one super-fast, probably hoping I didn't see it.

"You want to watch anything in particular?"

" Find me !" Maybe they're reporting on me? I haven't watched it much, but the episodes I saw were all old missing-persons cases with happy endings.

"Besides Find me !"

" Hero of the Week ," I hurriedly reply. It's Avery's favorite show.

Brendan gives me a look of astonishment. "You like that show?"

Don't you know that? is what I'd like to shriek at him, but I'm too scared. I'm scared to do pretty much everything in his presence. Movie kidnapping victims always seem to be defiant and mouthy and great at snappy comebacks. But this is real. I don't want Brendan to hit me or do something else to me. I never thought I would be in a situation where avoiding physical harm became a top priority for me, even to the point that I'd swallow my pride.

Brendan flips back to the show and leaves it on while he washes the dishes. He keeps glancing over at me, and then at the TV, like he's just learned a new fun fact about me and is trying to categorize it.

I try to focus my full attention on the show, to pretend I'm sitting on the couch with Avery and Liam with a bag of tortilla chips clamped between my thighs. And Jay's peeking in every so often, more so he can gather material for his stories than because he's actually interested in who ends up being Hero of the Year.

I feel Brendan's eyes on me again. I stare stubbornly at the screen, trying not to let on how uncomfortable it makes me.

Today's Hero of the Week is a 22-year-old Harvard student named Andrew Franklin. He recognized a homeless man as an old friend of his dead father's, and now he's going to pay the guy's rent for the rest of his life.

The moderator, David O'Dell, was last year's Hero of the Year. On a bone-dry day in August, he saved nine children from the top floor of a burning orphanage. He was our favorite, because he always seemed totally authentic, like being in the spotlight was more embarrassing to him than anything. Even now, as he's interviewing Andrew Franklin, he looks like he'd rather be grilling hot dogs in his modest back yard than standing in front of a camera. Next to him, the much-younger Andrew Franklin looks like a stockbroker. I know Avery and Liam would hate him, Hero of the Week or not, because of the way he's got his hair parted and way-too-gelled.

"Okay, so, tell the nation how you came across Henry Clark," the moderator says.

Andrew smiles in a preening-peacock way. "Well, David—can I call you David?" David nods, but Andrew has already gone on talking. "David, a few weeks ago I saw that picture in the paper, where some teenagers had assaulted a homeless man. Yet another photograph of a subway station and a literal whipping boy. I mean, we all know those pictures, don't we, David? It's literally always the same story. Not that I would describe myself as jaded, but it is what it is. Nobody knew the man, and something made me want to look more closely, and I mean really closely, David. God knows why. Anyway, I looked at him and I thought, wow, that old man literally looks just like a good friend of my father's. God rest his soul."

For reasons I can't quite explain, I really hope this Andrew guy doesn't end up the Hero of the Year. Everything about him seems fake, plus he talks like he's fifty. And if he says "David" one more time I'm literally going to throw up.

"So I recognize him, but it's been so long that I have no idea what his name is."

"So what did you do?"

Andrew looks straight at the camera, not deigning to glance in David's direction. "I started putting the word out on Facebook and Do You Know? And eventually I managed to find a friend of a friend of a friend—you know, the usual route—who was able to identify him."

"And now you're going to pay Henry Clark's rent for the rest of his life?"

"Absolutely, David. I mean, it's a matter of honor, isn't it? Our fathers were both Marines."

"That is truly heroic."

"Hah!" Brendan snorts behind me. "That Henry Clark guy is probably dying of lung cancer and only has two months to live. This kid's doing it for the attention."

"Do you know him as well as you know me?" I can't stop myself from asking.

"You seriously think he gives a shit about the old man?" Brendan asks, ignoring my question. He saunters from the sink to the bench. "He wants people to think he's important. He's probably a mediocre student, and he thinks this will help him land a better job."

"Maybe he just wants to help," I protest exactly as loud as I dare.

"If he really wants to help, he should let this lonely old man live with him, if he was actually his father's best friend." Brendan gives me a sharp look before snatching the remote from the counter and switching off the television, even though the show isn't over. "Go on, go to the back room, we're leaving in a minute."

I do what he says without protest, and he follows me.

"Sit on the bed... now scoot to the left." He attaches the loose handcuff to the chain again.

"Where are we headed?" I manage to ask.

"Onward and upward."

"Onward, where? You must have a destination."

"You won't like it, so why do you want to know?" he retorts gruffly.

"Where are you taking me?"

Brendan fixes the blinds so that I can look out the window.

"Away," is all he says before turning and striding out.

I don't have anything to do, apart from maybe go through the charms on my necklace again. There are others on there, like the little red lipstick from Ava, the silver high heels from Madison, the four-leaf clover from Elizabeth and the yellow sun from Emma... but looking at them will only make me more miserable.

Instead, I gaze out through the slats of the blinds at the desolate landscape. We're driving continuously in one direction, on what seems like a real-life Road to Nowhere. Brendan has the folding door shut, blocking my view toward the front, but on either side, I see patches of pine and spruce forest interspersed with endless stretches of scorched-looking grassland. Behind them are strings of grey foothills, one after another, like elephant feet. If I lean right up against the blinds and look up, I can see the radiant blue sky. I start doing some mental math, trying to work out where we might be. If Brendan drives 200 miles a day, we might already be in Canada. Or in Mexico, if he's driving south. To the east would be... Arkansas? Oklahoma? Kansas? I'm not sure. I'm guessing it's not Mexico, anyway, because the landscape doesn't fit. It is still hotter than hell, though. My blouse has practically melded with my torso and my sweat to form a second skin. I've been wearing this thing for six days now. Same with my underwear and my jean shorts. I feel utterly disgusting, but I still don't want to shower. Maybe I can wash in the sink this evening, so I won't have to take everything off at once. Or I'll shower with my clothes on, at least as well as I can. I wonder if Brendan has clothes for me? Maybe he'll just give me some of his. Or nothing at all.

I scoot closer to the window, not wanting to miss any of the few cars going by in the opposite direction. So far there have been five: three compact cars, a truck, and a black station wagon of a make I didn't recognize. They flitted past the window like spirits before I'd fully registered that they were real. Sometimes this still feels like a bad dream I can wake up from. I press my face against the glass, straining to see out, hoping someone else will drive by. I feel invisible, forgotten. Nobody sees me anymore. Except Brendan. And if he has his way, that will never change. I refuse to let that thought take root in my head, because otherwise I'll fall apart completely. One way or another, I have to get away from him.

I spend a while longer waiting for a car, staring down at the cracked, brittle asphalt. Then I scoot back onto the bed. And try not to think about anything, including Ethan, Avery, Liam, or Jayden. It doesn't work, of course. I paint their faces on an imaginary canvas. I can still picture them exactly. Ethan with his stern mouth and his serious eyes. Avery with his soft features and laugh lines. Liam with his long hair and sunburn and that inward, glowing smile of his. Jay with his mussed hair and wise, knowing expression. I'm the only one missing from the picture. I've put them all side by side. Where would I be standing? In the center, no doubt—the heart of the family. I stretch my hands out like I'm trying to touch them, feel my shoulders grow heavy with the weight of missing them. I miss them so much that my throat closes up and my heart is like a lump of lead in my chest. Like I've been scoured from head to toe with longing.

I don't become aware of my surroundings again until the bed suddenly starts shaking, jostling me from side to side. Immediately, I clamber to the window and peer through the slats. Brendan is driving on a rough forest road with dozens of potholes. A chill runs down my spine.

The dark spruce trees seem to close ranks more and more tightly as we trundle onward, interspersed only with the occasional cluster of birches or aspens. Those are sparse enough to let a tiny bit of sunlight through, but between the spruces it's as dark as night.

At one point, we pass a turn-off, and I spot a rusty, broken-down tractor-trailer just sitting there on the side of the road. Forgotten, like me. Clearly nobody comes out this way anymore. Maybe people used to do some logging in this area, but now it looks completely abandoned.

Brendan follows the road a while longer, but I couldn't guess how far we've driven. Ten miles? Twenty? It seems like a distance I'd be able to walk if I had to, if I managed to escape. Brendan turned onto this forest road from a street at some point, so that's how far I'd need to get.

Once Brendan has parked the camper in a small clearing, he comes straight back to me and unlocks the handcuff attached to the chain. As usual, he drops the key into his pants pocket.

"I'm going to go build a fire," he says. "We can grill out later if you want."

I nod, mostly so that he'll be busy and I'll have time to look around and work out an escape plan.

His eyes start to light up. He must think I'm starting to accept the situation. "If you like, you can come out and help me."

I look down at myself, shake my head. It's still hard to talk to him. His presence is like a hammer blow, crushing me effortlessly like dry bread, again and again.

"You could shower," he suggests.

I nod again.

"But be careful with your wrist."

Unconsciously, I run my hand across the bandage, which is dry now.

He maneuvers past the bed and opens the door to the narrow wardrobe. "There are clothes in here for you. You're an XS, right?"

I gape in astonishment at the giant stack of blouses, shirts, pullovers, and pants. I'm all the more stunned because it never once occurred to me to open the wardrobe. Most of the clothes are pink, coral, yellow, and white—my favorite colors. An anxious fluttering sensation starts spreading through me.

Brendan pulls a drawer open. "Socks and underwear are in here. Shoes are over there"—he points to a different cabinet—"and up there is everything else you'll need." He gestures to the overhead cabinet, and then gives me a glance that's almost sheepish. "Shampoo, shower gel... tampons and stuff."

I must be staring at him like a cyclops. Maybe talking about this is uncomfortable for him. Then again, if you're fine with drugging someone and putting them in a box for five days, what could possibly make you uncomfortable?

"Okay, I'm gonna go start that fire." He reaches the folding door, but then stops for a moment. "Towels are in the overhead cupboard."

I sit there perfectly still, like I've been turned to a pillar of salt. Seconds later, he's back outside, messing around with the camper. The firewood must be stored underneath it in some kind of storage hatch, but I only half-register the thought.

I blink, still staring at the clothes. The fluttery feeling that started in my stomach when I discovered my favorite colors intensifies. No way. My knees are like jelly as I stand up and take the topmost blouse. It's pastel yellow with lace sleeves, and there are two pull strings in front to adjust the neckline. My heart starts beating faster. Ethan bought me this blouse two years ago.

No. Way.

I toss it onto the bed and take the next shirt from the stack. White with wide sleeves, the one I bought on sale at H&M, the same one I'm wearing now. It practically falls from my fingers. As if in a trance, I lift the next one. It catches on the handcuff, and I have to jerk it free. It's the coral-colored blouse with the lace trim, the one I had on when Ethan played judge and jury on me for my sins. Under that is my pink ruffled top. I'm dizzy. I feel like I'm being smothered. One by one, I yank the tops out and throw them onto the bed. I recognize almost all of them.

How did Brendan get my clothes?

Calm down, Lou! Think!

I take several deep, long breaths, the way Liam taught me.

Is this actually my stuff?

The white blouse can't be yours—you're wearing yours. He must have bought these things new.

Yeah, that must be right. My hands shake as I pull out one pair of bottoms after the next: my hot pants with the lace waist, also H&M. My dark-blue capri jeans, my 7/8-length pants with the tight cuffs.

The blood pounds in my ears. He must be even more insane than I thought. Completely batshit. Now I realize that the soap in the bathroom wasn't a coincidence, either.

The pants slip from my hands. How does he know what clothes I wear? How long has he been watching me?

Dazed, I open the cabinet with the shoes in it and discover two pair of my pink-flowered sandals. Of course. The ones I was wearing, and the ones he bought. And there are my flip-flops with the stars on them. And my bright-yellow Chucks.

I slam it shut. I'm terrified to open the overhead cabinet. I know what I'm going to find up there: my orange-blossom shower gel and my blonde shampoo. I crawl across the bed toward the hallway. My brain is sparking, every synapse is firing, I think I may black out. All I can think about is running. Now. I can't wait any longer.