It’s been five days, and I haven’t been able to eat anything. Whenever I try, my stomach rejects the food, making me feel even more physically and mentally ill.
The first two days after the attack, I avoided talking to Dad, telling him I had stomach flu. It helped explain why I looked like death during our call on the third day. Yesterday and tonight, I forced myself to smile while nibbling on an apple so Dad could see me eating.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell him what happened. After the shock wore off, I couldn’t force the words over my lips.
When he asked why I was staying in a hotel, I told him the AC had been acting up, and I was waiting for it to be repaired.
I also asked Dad to arrange movers to pack up the rest of the house. He said he’ll have them transport everything to Southport, where it can be held in storage until I’ve picked a new house.
I keep replaying my conversations with Dad, fighting back the memories of the attack. Every time a flash of trauma explodes behind my eyes, it rips a whimper from me.
I keep the lights on, and I don’t leave the room. I barely sleep, mostly sitting on the edge of the bed while jerking at every noise I hear.
I haven’t cried yet. It’s as if the ability to shed a tear has been robbed from me.
My phone vibrates, and I glance at the screen where the device lies next to me on the bed.
Quinn: How’s the packing going?
Slowly, I reach for my phone, and opening the screen, I read the text again.
Finlay: I’ll be there much sooner. Flying to Wilmington tomorrow.
Quinn: Yes!!! Let me know when you land and when the bus will arrive in Southport.
Finlay: I will.
Quinn: I can’t wait to see you! This is the best news. You’ll stay with Eli and me, right?
Shit.
I swallow hard at living in a strange man’s house.
Finlay: I don’t know. Maybe it would be better for me to…
I pause, not sure what to say.
Quinn: Everything okay? Eli’s house is big, and I’ll fix up a guest room. It will be wonderful having you here.
I delete what I had typed out.
Finlay: You’ll be with me at all times, right?
Quinn: Of course. I’ll be stuck to your side like glue.
Finlay: Okay. I’ll stay with you until I find a house to buy.
Quinn: We’re going to have so much fun.
Finlay: Can’t wait.
I should’ve left sooner.
Living alone, I should’ve been more cautious.
I glance down at Dad’s gun that’s next to my butt. I took it from the safe along with all our personal documents. I’ve never handled a weapon before, but having it with me makes me feel a little stronger.
The moment of reprieve vanishes, and the horror slams into my gut, forcing tremors through my body. My breath stalls in my throat, and it takes more strength than I have to work through the panic attack.
A thin layer of sweat coats my skin, my eyes burning with the tears that refuse to fall.
Images of him torture me. The feel of his body on top of mine. Him moving inside me.
A wail’s ripped from my chest, and I slide off the bed until my butt hits the carpet. I curl up, gripping my knees to my chest as dry sobs burn my throat.
It takes long minutes before I’m able to push the nightmare down, and feeling drained, I begin to hum, needing to hear something else besides the ghost of the sounds his body made against mine.
I stare at the wall, too scared to close my eyes.
The tune I’m humming is random, not something I’ve heard or written.
My arms are cramped around my shins, residual tremors still shuddering through me.
How?
How do I recover from this?
He’s still out there.
What if he comes back?
Panic flares through my chest, making my lungs constrict.
He said next time.
He said there would be a next time.
The panic grows until it forces me to my feet. I gather my bags and hate that I have to pack the gun away, not able to carry it on my person.
As I rush out of the hotel room, I use my phone to request an Uber. I hand in the keycard at reception and hurry to the front where an Uber’s waiting.
When I burst out the doors, a woman looks at me. “You Finlay?”
I nod and walk toward her. “I’m Sherrie, your Uber driver.”
“Thank you.” I feel a flicker of relief that my driver’s a woman.
“O’Hare?” she confirms my destination once we have the luggage in the trunk and I’m seated in the back.
“Please,” I murmur.
I pull up my flight details and request a change to the first available flight. It shows there’s one for just after eight. I check the time. One hour. I accept it, wanting to get away from Naperville as soon as possible.