He probably thought I was the person who put him there in the first place.
“It’s okay,” I wheeze through lungs that are still readjusting. “I’m not…He’s in the woods, but he could come back at any moment, so we have to hurry.” I scramble forward, placing a hand on his back to let him know I’m there, since he hasn’t managed to roll over and see me yet. His hands are bound tight with one of those thick plastic zip ties, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to get it off. I’m reluctant to prod it too much, since the surrounding skin is raw and bleeding, evidence of how desperately he’s been trying to free himself. Larger zip ties lock his ankles together.
The skin between my shoulder blades is starting to itch; anyone could be coming up behind me. I should be running away, apologizing that I can’t help. Mom is still out there somewhere, and she’s in at least as much danger as I am, if not more.
But I don’t run; instead I start examining the ground, searching for any reasonably sharp rocks that might work to cut him free.
The itch between my shoulders has become a jagged, clawing scrape.
“Do you have anything I can use? A pocketknife maybe?” I don’t wait for an answer—not that he could have given me one anyway, with the gag knotted around his mouth—before shoving my hands in his back pockets. I find his wallet and a folded-up photo, which falls onto the ground beside me. More nothing.
I can’t leave him here. But I also can’t stay.
My gaze is ricocheting everywhere, searching for a solution as I repocket his wallet, when it stops on the photo. I unfold it, and my whole body goes still.
It’s the picture of me and Mom that I posted to the dating site. But it’s not a printout; it’s the actual photo. The one that hung framed in the stairway at home. I know because the frame I bought was too small and I used the only pair of scissors I could find at the time—Mom’s scalloped craft scissors—to cut it to size. I run my finger along the wavy edge, and it’s like another kick to the chest.
Still on my hands and knees, I move sideways until I’m in the bound guy’s line of sight. One of his eyes is in the process of swelling shut, but the other goes wide when he sees my face. He recognizes me, which sends me scurrying backward.
He’s trying to say something, but his gag is tight. And it doesn’t matter, because all I hear in my head is He knows me.
He was in my house.
He’s trying to inch toward me but making little progress, and he’s repeating the same muffled sounds over and over.
My teeth clench of their own accord. I have never felt such an overwhelming urge to hurt someone. I never understood the “blood boiling” metaphor before, but it is perfection. I am burning inside and out, and I could claw his twitching eye out.
“Where is my mom, and why are you after us?” My lips hardly move as I spit my questions at him. “How do you know me?” My fists grow tighter and tighter at my sides. But of course, he can’t answer me, gagged like that. He can barely move with those ties cinched around his ankles and wrists.
I shoot a glance to the trees. I have no idea how much time has passed; it could have been seconds or minutes. What I do know is that this guy is the only lead I’ve found, and he can’t hurt me as long as he’s tied up.
“Come on,” I say, scrambling toward him and slipping an arm around his back. I get him sitting, then to his knees. He keeps up his muffled yells the entire time. “I’m not wasting time on your gag right now.” It’s not just tape that I can rip off; it’s tightly knotted cloth that’ll have to be cut. “Now move!” I use the same inflection Mom did to get me out of the house. It works. He rocks back on his heels and stands. He’s taller than me and heavier, but he’s coming with me, even if I have to drag him.
And there’s no time to think anything through. We need to get out of sight, hide somewhere until whoever is searching for me gives up and leaves. Then I can get my answers.
Close. I need somewhere close. I look around, my gaze landing on the wrecked motel room almost immediately, taking in the long salmon-colored bedspread that drapes nearly to the ground. I tell myself that whoever broke the door down isn’t going to search the room again after chasing me through the woods. It’s vaguely comforting, and the only thought I have time for. I hiss another command at the guy I’m supporting and close the trunk and car door before guiding his hopping and wincing body inside.
Once we’re there, I force him to his knees and topple him onto his shoulder. I’m pretty sure he’s swearing at me, but I don’t care. Soon it won’t matter.
He’s too heavy for me to lift on my own, but he finally seems to understand what I want from him, and he rolls onto his stomach before shimmying under the bed. A few days ago, I’d have been overcome with concern for his shoulders, with his hands tied behind his back like that. Now, I brace a foot on the wall behind me and shove.
He’s under the bed as much as our combined efforts can get him, so I dart around to the other side and slide next to him. Only a sliver of light reaches us with the bedspread pulled straight.
So then we wait. And I pray.
I’m sweaty from the terror-filled sprint through the woods, scratched from the many branches I didn’t dodge, and bleeding, from both the trees and my window dive. My eyes feel like they’re trying to leap out of my skull, and I have no confidence that I’ll be able to calm down. Ever. My chest aches and my head is throbbing, and now I’m inches away from the person responsible for that pain—and potentially so much more.
With the small bit of light creeping under the bedspread, I can see a rough outline of his face. He’s still trying to communicate around his gag in something like a whisper.
I want him to shut up. We need to be quiet, silent. We are children hiding beneath a bed, and the monster is coming. Every sound from outside is an approach, in my mind, and the incessant murmurings next to me are going to lead my pursuer straight to us. I can’t risk even a whispered command to tell him to be quiet. But I do slide my hand across my stomach, up his shoulder, and over his mouth. Then I push down, bringing my face as close as possible in the small space afforded us. I shake my head and push harder. I can tell my eyes are wild in their sockets, and I let him see them.
When he finally falls silent, I wait another thirty seconds, to make sure he understands that he needs to stay that way, and then I return my hand to my side.
The new silence kicks at me, twitching my muscles and roiling my stomach. I have nothing, no weapon to defend myself, nothing to lash out with. I don’t even have an escape route if I need one. I’m on the far side of the bed, opposite the door. If I’m found, I have nowhere to run. I won’t have time to squeeze through the bathroom window again. I don’t even have the confidence that I’d be able to fit a second time.