Page 115 of Love is Angry

My legs are still bound to the chair, and I have yet to figure out a way to get out of these zip ties. While he was out, Jake made sure to tie my hands behind my back again. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s no fool. He knows I would’ve tried to free myself, otherwise. It’s hard to think straight, yet I must find a way.

“Could you bring my hands to the front again, please?” I can hear him padding and fumbling, but I can’t see what he’s doing from all the way over here.

“In a minute!” he shouts.

Once he’s beside me again, he produces a new zip tie and cuts off the old one. With my hands at the front again and despite the increasing pain in my wrists, I’ve got better odds at trying something—especially if I free my legs first. There are knives inthe kitchen. I could get myself and the chair over there and fish one out of the drawers. But Jake is present and watching me like a hawk. He sees me eyeing the kitchen.

“You hungry?” he asks, his eyes reduced to cold, icy slits.

“Yeah. Is there anything decent? A can of something?”

“I can whip up some spaghetti, if you want.”

“Thank you.”

It’s literally just a can that he empties into a saucepan on a low fire, but it’ll do. I need to eat and stay hydrated if I’m going to get out of here.

I watch him for a while, and I know he watches me, too, when I’m not looking. Every second I spend in this place brings me closer to an end I never planned for. I can’t help but think about my dad and Noelle and the handful of friends I’ve made. I think about Rhue and wish I could reach out to him, somehow.

“You never mentioned where you were today,” I say after a long and heavy silence.

“It really isn’t any of your business. The less you know, the better, trust me,” he replies.

“Jake, I don’t understand how you could ever work for a monster like Julian. Does he have something on you? Or, I don’t know, what is it about him that makes you want to even be around him?”

He chuckles bitterly. “You are utterly clueless, and it’s actually kind of cute.”

“Well, then, talk to me. If I’m going to die, anyway, what’s the point in hiding anything?”

The words hurt as I let them out. The prospect of my own demise is too much to bear. My eyes sting, tears threatening to roll down my cheeks. Worst possible timing.

“Madison, don’t give up just yet. You still have about eighteen hours to convince me not to kill you. If I tell youeverything I know now, however, I willdefinitelyhave to kill you,” Jake says.

“Bullshit. I already know enough, anyway. Julian did his worst on me. This is just--extra.”

Jake gives me a long, hard look. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Madison. Violating one’s body is the most heinous crime.”

“More heinous than murder?” I scoff, shaking my head.

“Well, yes. Julian raped you and then he let you live with it. If I kill you, that’s it. Game over. No more pain. No more bad memories. No more nightmares of how he besmirched your honor and humiliated you. By the way, I’m glad you and Rhue managed to patch things up. I admit, I was betting on you two getting back together from the very beginning.”

“You talk like we’re some kind of reality show.”

“When you haven’t had much of a life of your own, other lives are interesting to watch.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say, picking at whatever pieces of himself he leaves open.

“My life before Julian, it’s––it’s too ugly to talk about. Too ugly to even remember.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You sound incredibly self-aware.”

“Oh, I am self-aware. It’s the first thing Julian taught me when we met. A high functioning psychopath should make the most of what he’s given. It felt like a breath of fresh air after Father Flanagan’s pious bullshit.”

He sucks in a deep breath, realizing he may have said too much. He did say too much, because I remember Father Flanagan of the Rochester Diocese. Dad stopped taking us there shortly before Mom left. I don’t remember why, besides mentions of an abuse scandal.

Looking at Jake now, however—I think I’m able to put two and two together.

“You were raised under Father Flanagan’s care, weren’t you?” I ask, actively wracking my brain for more accurate memories about that time. I only have fuzzy snippets, though, and it’s getting harder to pluck them out of the obscurity of forgetfulness. “He—did things to you.”