It’s only been forty-five minutes since Preston left.
Not much of a nap.
Oh, well. Now I’ve got time to do my makeup before Preston gets back, and there really is a lot of laundry to do.
Feeling even more tired now than when I went to sleep, I chuck another log into the stove to keep the fire going.
I grab my makeup bag, and on the way to the table, I turn the radio on. No matter what I do with the antenna, the reception is crappy, and the songs are scratchy at times. I don’t care. I still sing along, humming softly as I push a mound of puzzle pieces out of the way to make room for my beauty products.
Wishing I had a YouTube tutorial to follow, I hold up the compact mirror. My hand trembles, but I ignore how wobbly my reflection is because I’m too worried about my face.
I’m so pale. I mean, I look sick. Really sick. More than usual. Preston did say the third and fourth days of detox might be the peak, and I’m feeling it. At least I haven’t thrown up yet.
As I try to channel my inner Harlee Verona, I swipe some shimmery pink shadow on my eyelids, along with some thick black liner. After I’m satisfied with my eyes, I carefully apply my foundation. With a little extra concealer and blush, I achieve an okay-ish look.
Next, I go over to the sink basin. It’s already been filled with clean water and there’s a bar of laundry soap on the counter. I put on some rubber gloves and get to work.
Even though it hurts just to move, I find the task soothing in a way. I focus on one article of clothing at a time. Shirt—scrub, then rinse in the bucket of clean water. Sports bra—repeat. Pants—repeat.
By the time I finish with the pile, the laundry basket is full of wet, clean clothes, and another hour has gone by.
I sluggishly tie my shoes and slide into Preston’s leather jacket, but my mood is a little lighter as I lug everything out the back door. Because Preston should be back for lunch soon.
Wincing at the bright sunlight and the pain shooting through my skull, I set the basket down by the clothesline and decide to go back inside to get Preston’s old baseball cap to shade my face.
Just as I’ve stepped into the house, I see movement out the front window. Curious, I creep forward.
There’s a flash of black among the trees on the outskirts of the property.
A bear?
The figure becomes clearer, then it breaks into two.
I gasp when I realize a couple of men in dark clothing are emerging from the woods near the lane. They’ve almost made it to the yard, and they’re moving stealthily as they stay partially hidden in the bushes.
My true-crime-documentary mind assesses them quickly.
Preston said the closest residence is a few miles away and sometimes hunters wander this way.
These guys can’t be hunters, though. If they were, they’d be wearing camouflage. With their black pants and shirts, they stick out like sore thumbs. Plus, they’re not carrying rifles.
Sunlight glints near one of their gloved hands, and I realize one of them has a sleek handgun.
“Oh my God,” I breathe out, my heart beating fast.
I duck down and crawl toward the back door. Once I make it out onto the splintery wooden deck, I reach up, grab the knob, and slowly pull the door shut.
After silently sliding off the deck, I sprint past the clothesline. I’m breaking my promise to Preston, but I think he’d approve right now.
I’m probably too noisy as I brush past some overgrown branches, snapping twigs and rustling leaves as I go. A big fallen tree is about thirty feet into the woods, and I dive behind to kneel down. Peeking over the top of it, I watch the house.
In the back windows, shadows move around.
They’re inside.
If they’re looking for us, they’re going to know we were just there. The fire’s still burning. The radio is on. The bed isn’t made, the puzzle is all over the table, and our clothes are dripping wet.
Which means they can assume we aren’t far.
I have to find Preston—there’s no other choice, bad sense of direction be damned.
Fueled by determination, I crawl deeper into the woods, staying low on my hands and knees. The ground is still wet from yesterday’s storm. Leaves and mud coat my palms and soak into my sweatpants, but I make sure I’m a good distance in before I stand and start running.
I’m not sure where I’m going. I remember Preston telling me the creek is less than a quarter mile away behind the house. In theory, if I go straight, I should get to him eventually.
At least five minutes go by as I stumble over logs and sticks. I’m reminded of the night I made my escape. I’d been so sure I could do it on my own. I was a fool. I couldn’t have gotten away without Preston’s help.
I didn’t trust him then.
I do now.
“Preston!” I whisper-yell. If I’m too loud, the men might hear me. “Preston!”
Confused about where I am, I turn in a circle.
Mistake.
Everything looks the same in every direction, and now I don’t know which way I came from or which way to go.
“Preston,” I whimper, a little louder now.
Paralyzed with fear, I sink down and sit with my back against a tree.
Even though I have Preston’s coat on, cold seeps into me. I’m shaking, and my stomach is lurching. Blood is rushing through my head, creating a quiet roar inside my mind.
I’d give anything for my pills right now. Just a half. A full would be better. Either would give me some kind of numbing peace.
The snap of a twig and the distinct sound of footsteps on crunchy leaves has me holding my breath.
Shit.
The men are coming after me.
In my dream earlier, I was brave. I made the choice to jump when it would’ve been easier to stay put.
I stay put now.
Dream-me has courage.
Real-me is a wimp.
Covering my ears, I lean my forehead against my knees and try to be as small as possible. Maybe the guys won’t see me.
When a hand clamps down on my shoulder, I shriek and jerk so hard I fall over onto my side.
“Rosalie.” The person’s still jostling my arm, but that person sounds a lot like Preston.
Opening my eyes, I gaze up at the best face in the world. “You’re here. You found me.”
His lips turn down. “I thought I heard you say my name. The creek’s right over there.” He points. “Past the tree with the split in the trunk.”
I’m closer than I thought.
That’s when I realize if I’d been listening better, if I hadn’t been so afraid, I would’ve heard the rushing water. A sound that would normally freak me out doesn’t, because there are more pressing matters at hand.
“People are in the house. Two men,” I blubber, and Preston’s eyes shoot up in that direction with a hardness I’ve never seen before. “I don’t think they saw me run away, but who knows? They could be chasing after us right now.”
“What did they look like?” Helping me to my feet, Preston starts picking leaves and other debris from my hair. “Was there a vehicle?”
“Just average-looking white dudes, wearing all black. I didn’t see a car or anything. It was just them. One of them has a gun.” I’m hyperventilating now, and Preston calmly shushes me while telling me what a good girl I am. How I did the right thing by coming to him and he’s proud of me.