Page 8

Cara

Pressing one foot down on top of the bed, I wince as it lets out a loud squeak.

I glance towards the door, checking that I have not attracted his attention, but, for now, at least, my captor—Max, he’d told me his name was—seems to be keeping his distance.

I’m actually glad about that.

For the last couple of days I’ve been stuck here all by myself—no company, nobody to talk to, nothing to do.

He comes in with food, lets me go to the bathroom a couple of times a day while he stands watch outside the door, and then locks me back up in the bedroom again.

I didn’t know when that routine was going to change, if ever. What if I have to get used to living like this...?

"Can I at least go outside? Stretch my legs?" I had pleaded with him when he’d brought my food this morning. He had placed down the plate of toast and eggs at my feet, and then straightened back up again before he replied.

"No."

"You can come with me," I offered him desperately. "Hell, if you want to cuff me to you, I’ll do it. I just need to get out of here, please, for a little while..."

His eyes darted down to my wrist, as though he was picturing the cuffs on them right as I said it. I felt a flood of heat come to my cheeks at the thought of him cuffing me, and wished I could take it back.

He’d turned me down, and that had been the last time I’d seen him. I knew he would be back to bring me dinner in a few hours, but I’d resolved to use the time to my advantage.

I’m not just going to stand by and let him call the shots like this. I’m going to try to make my way to freedom.

Even if I’m not sure what that looks like right now.

And so, I test out the strength of the bed, seeing if it can hold my weight.

It’s not exactly sturdy, but it seems to be able to keep me balanced upright.

I’m not going to have to be up there for long—just as long as it takes for me to get a grip on the window latch, which is at the top of the window on the far side.

It will take a little ingenuity to open it, but I will find a way.

I just need to get up there and get a closer look at it.

I double-check the door, listening closely to make sure that he is not intending to burst in on me, and I step on the bed.

Biting my tongue between my teeth to keep my focus, I run my hand along the edge of the window.

It feels shut tight, no air coming through.

I just need to get closer to the latch. If I can just.. .

I stand on tiptoe, but that’s not enough. I need a few more inches of leverage. I grit my teeth, and lift my foot onto the inside of the sill, trying to push myself up on the wood, but...

All of a sudden, my foot skids out from underneath me, dropping to the bed with a crash. It goes straight through the cheap, old bed frame slats, twisting painfully to one side. I let out a cry filling the room with an undeniable explosion of noise.

I try to wrestle myself loose before he comes in, but the pain shooting up and down my leg refuses to budge. I groan, and resign myself to my fate as the door opens and he bursts in.

"What the hell are you doing?” he exclaims, as he rushes to my side. He goes to lift me out, but I push him away.

"Don’t pull me," I protest. "I’ve hurt my leg. I need help..."

He stares at me for a moment—looking at the bedframe, at me, clearly piecing everything together.

And, as he runs a hand through his hair, for a moment I think he is going to turn his back on me and leave me to get out of this mess himself.

I wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. I mean, I was trying to escape.

There’s no way I can pretend I was just exploring the springiness of the bed for some utterly innocent reason.

But then, to my surprise, he leans down, and he tucks one hand under my thigh. He eases it up slowly, lifting my leg till it comes loose from between the broken wood slats.

The wood has torn into my skin, not too deep, but the blood has soaked through the pants, which have been ripped. I look away from it, gulping hard. I’ve never been good with the sight of blood, let alone my own.

"Shit," he mutters, and he leaves the room. I peel the leg of the pants up, trying to get a better look at the damage. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid as to let something like this happen.

I should have been more careful. I am never going to get out if I hurt myself like this.

I need to be ready to run at any given moment, and I can tell that this is going to stop those plans for the time being.

He returns a few moments later, and sinks down onto the bed, pulling my leg into his lap and setting the first aid kit he brought with him down beside me.

I turn my head to the side so I don’t have to look at him at work, but I can’t help but let out a yelp of pain as I feel the sting of the antiseptic on my skin.

"It’s okay," he murmurs, as he briefly rubs his hand against my thigh. I didn’t expect him to be quite so...tender. He’s careful with me, maneuvering my leg this way and that so he can clean off all the blood, and then bandaging up the cuts before they can bleed any further.

He pauses for a moment when he’s done. I look over at him once more, and breathe a sigh of relief when I see that my leg has been tended to.

"Thanks," I murmur, and I go to pull my leg away, but, before I can, he tightens his grip on me slightly.

"What’s this?"

My heart drops. He’s gesturing to an old scar on the back of my calf—the very same scar I got the night that I saw that woman fleeing from our house. It’s a reminder of that night, and it has left me unable to forget everything that happened, no matter how much I might want to put it behind me.

"Nothing," I mutter. "Just an old cut. I got it in an accident when I was a kid."

He glances over at me, studying me for a moment, and I can tell that he doesn’t buy what I am saying to him right now.

And, for a moment, one crazy moment, I almost want to spill it all to him.

I want to tell him what happened that night, how it felt to see something like that go down—how strange it was for me to see my father in such stark reality.

But I shove it aside, staring him down, refusing to give him any more than that. He releases my leg, and I pull it up and tuck it under me, hiding it from him before he can ask any more questions about me.

"I’ll get you some new pants," he tells me, rising to his feet before he looks down at the bed.

He leaves the room, and I can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief as soon as he’s gone.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do when he’s around, how I’m supposed to act.

Or how I’m meant to make sense of how gentle he can be with me, but how harsh at the same time.

He’s my kidnapper, so shouldn’t he be going out of his way to terrify me, to leave me to struggle in pain when he can tell that I have tried to escape?

Why did he take care of me like that? Who is this man. ..?

I glance down at my leg once more, at the scar that drew his attention, and I reach down to brush my finger over it.

The memory of that woman flashes through my mind, the woman who had been fleeing from the house that night.

I have no idea if she got away. I have no idea where she went, if she managed to go anywhere.

And maybe I’m better off not knowing the answer to those things. Maybe it’s for my own good.

Because there are some truths I know I’m better off without knowing. I close my eyes, and let out a long breath. I find it hard to breathe around Max, hard to think.

All I can think about is the way his hands felt on my leg. And how much I craved them somewhere far more intimate.