Page 48 of When Sinners Fear
“Where … have you been? Are you safe?”
“I’m okay, Mom. I’m safe. I’m sorry.” I look up to the ceiling and try to stop the tears from falling, but I fail. They drop from my lashes and start to stream down my face. “I’m safe, I promise, and I’ll explain everything.”
“When are you coming home? We couldn’t reach you—” Another coughing spell interrupts the conversation, and I take a moment to draw in my own breath. Fear creeps up my spine, and my hand begins to shake as I hold the phone.
“Peyton? Where are you? Come home.” My dad’s cross voice interrupts. “You’ve had your fun. Now it’s time to come back and do your duty to your family, just as you said you would. You’ve had your mother worried out of her mind. Your brother and sister, too.”
“I’m safe, Dad, but I’ll come home when I’m ready.”
“Well, where are you? What have you been doing that’s so important?”
The mental playback of the kidnap, the torture and the rape all flash behind my eyes and turns my stomach at telling him. Maybe it would serve him right to see me like this – to see what I’ve been through and suffered. That might give him pause to scold me like a teenager again.
“Your mother said something must have happened to you, but it appears not.” He over-pronounces the tee, telegraphing his frustration. He never raises his voice, but his communication is crystal clear.
“Father, something did happen. But I don’t—” I suck in a breath. “I can’t talk about it yet. I’m safe, and I’ll come home soon. Tell Matthew and Evie I love them. And Mom, too.” I hang up before I say something I can’t take back.
The study is quiet again, except for the beating of my heart ringing in my ears. The tears are still fresh on my cheeks, and I brush them away, far too used to the swollen puffiness that surrounds them when I shed too many.
Over the last few days, it feels like they’ve always been like that. I’m starting to wonder what it might be like to go through a day without crying. A memory of me working on campus in one of the lecture rooms, fussing over an equation I couldn’t get to balance, springs to mind. A happier and carefree time. That was my world. But remembering it now, it feels small, somehow. Shielded.
With care and attention, I check that everything on Knox’s desk is left in the exact spot it was when I entered, and I leave to go upstairs. There’s a lock on the door of my bedroom, and I consider twisting it around for the first time to keep everyone out. I don't.
~
“No!” I bolt up and look around helplessly in the dark. My chest heaves, and I pat down my body to check I’m here, safe, and not back in the cage.
As my consciousness catches up with me, I look for Knox, but he’s not here – not next to me or looking over towards me. And a part of me misses him.
The face on the clock is still shrouded in darkness, but I estimate it to be still in the middle of the night. I pull the covers back and climb out of bed. The suit carrier Lexi loaned me included a light sweater and a pair of regular jeans. I pull the sweater on over the cami top and head down to the kitchen. The peace calms my rattled nerves, and I repeat a mantra over in my head – I’m safe, nothing else can happen, I’m safe.
The doors leading to the backyard aren’t locked, surprisingly, and I step out of the kitchen and into the grounds. The breeze is soft, and the soothing sound of the water running quietly through the grounds only adds to the peace I feel here. My feet brush through the neatly mown grass, and I do a lap of the garden as my head runs over the calculations of the lawn’s surface area, the stream’s potential volume, and anything and everything that filters to mind.
I stay out in the garden until sunrise and stare at the innocent beauty of the golden colours awakening over the horizon, the light emanating from over one hundred and fifty million kilometres away.
“You’ll catch a chill.” Knox’s voice brings me out of myself.
It’s a little cool, but I haven’t noticed. I hadn’t noticed the lights illuminating a few of the windows, either, and they’re now spilling out onto the garden.
Following Knox back inside, I sit at the breakfast nook and watch him drink what seems to be a glass of whiskey. Without asking, he’s set a cup of coffee in front of me.
“You should be resting,” I say softly. “Do you always drink this early?” He doesn’t answer and just continues to drink. “It won't be good for your recovery.” He’s covered his bandages up with his Tee and track pants, but he can’t hide the bruises and cuts still blemishing his face and neck. I guess we match. Only he delivered mine.
I tuck my legs up and pull the sweater over my knees as I sip the coffee. I should go and get dressed, but I don’t want to leave.
He makes the same breakfast as yesterday, and we eat in silence. I can’t help but think back to our conversations while captive. Those small lines of words kept me grounded or kept me fighting. There was nothing to hold onto in there, and for a long time, I worried that he would simply abandon me to the wrath of the men who came to torture us. He didn’t. At least, I choose to believe he did what he could. He didn’t want me to drink the poison – not unless it was my only choice. That fear, that visceral panic that fed on me might have been diluted by him, but I still feel it inside my gut, inside my chest.
“Thank you.” I stand and go upstairs, frustrated that my once logical and simple mind is now hijacked by emotions and feelings that I can’t understand or make sense of.
I waste some time by taking a long shower, avoiding the mirror again – happy that the steam has gathered, so it obscures the view. I’m not ready. On so many fronts, I’m not ready.
The clothes selection loaned to me is far more smart and fitted than I’d ever be used to wearing – far more sophisticated, but I find a pretty top and pull the jeans back on before going back downstairs. They chaff and grate at me down below, but that will heal. With time, it’ll heal. Another mantra.
Knox isn’t in the kitchen, so I check the living room. He’s not there, either, and the beat of my heart picks up as I turn to keep looking. It’s as irrational as so many things, but I suddenly have the overwhelming need to find him.
I walk swiftly down to his study and open the door. He’s sitting behind the big desk with his laptop in front of him, a pair of sleek, black-rimmed glasses on his face.
He looks up at me with a frown and pulls them off. “Yes?”