Jeffrey rolled his eyes as if I couldn’t do anything right. Closing the caravan door, he locked it, then marched to the kitchen and fridge in the middle of the tiny home. Ripping open the door, he pulled out a beer. Twisting off the cap, he drank the entire thing in one go.
I supposed shooting his nephew and kidnapping was thirsty work.
Gil.
He’s dead.
My heart skipped a beat.
You don’t know that.
He tied me up and left me to die.
Stop it.
My hands balled as I focused on Olive.
Her eyes skated away from mine, wet and full of sadness. I studied her cute button nose and petite forehead—two features that came from Tallup. I traced the thick unruly dark hair and cutting cheekbones—two inheritances that came from Gil.
She was a beautiful child.
Dainty and delicate, long-legged and sweet.
She looked as if she’d been born to these woods. As if she’d had a fawn for a father and a fairy for a mother.
Her eyes met mine again.
Grey.
Not green. Not blue. Not brown.
Grey.
Gil doesn’t have grey eyes.
Didn’t have grey eyes.
Stop that.
He’s alive.
My stomach clenched as I fought off black thoughts, recognising the identical stare of the woman who’d been our teacher.
Years existed between that time and this yet, watching Olive, I saw similarities. The quick movements as Olive swiped at her damp cheeks. The intelligent gaze as she glanced at Jeffrey.
She had a lot of Gil running in her blood, but she also had a lot of her mother.
My heart fissured with hurt.
The pang of jealousy didn’t make sense.
The rush of confusion and pain was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
The GPS tracker in my underwear pinched against my side, giving false promise that someone would find us before unspeakable things happened, but all I could do was stare at the sweetest girl born from assault on a teenage boy.
A boy who’d given up all his dreams to love and protect her.
Another tiptoe of tiredness hit me.
I didn’t want to think or worry or hurt anymore.
I wanted to sleep.
And then wake from this nightmare.
Olive sucked in a shaky breath, her tears still flowing. Looking at her uncle, she whispered brokenly, “Ca-Can we go back?”
Jeffrey tossed the empty beer bottle into the sink. “Go back where?”
“To see Daddy. He was hurt.” Her fists curled. “You hurt him.”
With a threatening swoop, Jeffrey squeezed onto the bench beside Olive and crowded her against the wall. Her shoulder bumped the lacy tieback on the cream curtains. She didn’t whimper when he gathered her into his side and wrapped a reptilian arm around her fragile shoulders. She had courage. She’d lived with this monster a while.
“I didn’t hurt him,” Jeffrey muttered. “He hurt himself by not being a good boy and following the rules.” He tapped her on the nose. “Unlike you, sweetheart. You’re very obedient, aren’t you?”
I squirmed on my side of the table, my body writhing in denial of this grotesque human being tormenting a young girl. “Don’t touch her.”
Jeffrey chuckled, cuddling Olive closer to spite me. “You, meanwhile, have a lot to learn.”
Olive’s cheek squished against his chest, her eyes closed while evermore tears fell. I didn’t know how such a young girl could be so brave and quiet.
It hurt me to see her so manhandled and alone.
Ignoring Jeffrey, I spoke to the little girl who desperately needed a friend. “Olive...I’m Olin. Our names are so similar. So...that means I like you straight away.”
Olive stiffened, her eyes flashing to mine.
Grey as a winter’s day. Endless as infinity.
Her grief over Gil’s shooting twisted into shock. “You’re...you’re Olin, too?”
It was my turn to stiffen. I didn’t like the way she looked at me. As if she knew me. As if we hadn’t just met and she knew my deepest, darkest secrets.
Jeffrey narrowed his eyes, waiting for me to reply. I hated that he shared in this conversation but at least it bought me time to figure out how to escape. “I am. Do you know another?”
Olive sniffed, wriggling in Jeffrey’s hold to rub her nose with the back of her hand. “Daddy has an owl called Olin.” Her eyes filled with more liquid. “I bought it for him with my pocket money.”
My heart slowed and raced at the same time. “A nice name for an owl.”
She cried quietly, her sorrow consuming her. “He told me he had an owl as a friend when he was younger. It was called Olin. It was my favourite story. He always seemed sad, so I bought him a stuffed one to try to make him happy.”
Something hot stabbed me in the chest. “That was very nice of you.”
My mind raced back to the second night Gil was drunk. When we kissed in his bed and he clutched a fluffy owl beneath his pillow. An owl that represented me, given to him by his daughter.
Tears welled and overflowed. I couldn’t stop them.
The secrets.
The pain.
It hurt too much, firing through my insides, leaving a vast, aching emptiness behind.
“He’s a good liar, my nephew,” Jeffrey said. “Promised there was no connection between you two. Yet I find out that you were the one telling the truth. There was an ‘us’.” He smiled cruelly. “Although...not anymore.”
I swallowed back my hate and tears. “You’re a bastard.”
He chuckled. “No swearing in front of the kid.”
“Age doesn’t stop her from knowing exactly what you are.”
Jeffrey soared upright. The caravan wobbled from his momentum, shuddering like an earthquake. His fist connected with Olive’s colouring books, scattering pencils.
Olive quickly snatched them before they rolled to the floor. Scooping them into a pile, she nursed them as if they were alive and in need of soothing.
Leaning toward me, he growled. “You’re lucky you’re worth more to me alive. Otherwise, you’d be tied to a fucking tree, dying.” Without looking at Olive, his tone switched to syrup. “Sweetheart, can you tell our guest what happens if you speak out of turn?”
Olive gulped. Grabbing a sky blue pencil, she coloured furiously, keeping her gaze on the paper. “You don’t get any food for a full day and have to sleep tied to a tree outside in only your nightie.” She licked her lips, obviously reliving a similar sentence. “It’s scary and cold, and you don’t sleep much. And then, in the morning, you have to wash your mouth out with the dishwashing brush while Uncle Jeffrey helps clean your dirty tongue with vinegar.”
“Thank you, Olive. You remembered your lesson very well.”
She shivered and switched her blue pencil for a red one, digging the pigment into the paper all while tears dripped onto her design.
I held back my own shiver and kept my spine locked. “You think you’re special for torturing a child? You’re nothing more than a mons—”
His hand lashed out, all five fingers squeezing tight around my throat. The smear of paint on my skin felt oily against his touch, all while dried parts flaked away.
My roped wrists swooped up, trying to scratch him for breath. But he merely caught the rope and kept my hands away.