I have six hours to kill this asshole or he’s gonna rape me and I’m not about to let that happen.
“Do you want something to eat?” I ask him politely.
“I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?”
I am, but this feel like a trap. It feels like if I say yes, he might flip out because I’m pregnant and I need food. I don’t want him to think about it. I need him to stop thinking about it.
“Take another test.”
“What?”
“Take. Another. Test. I want to make sure the results are accurate.”
I swallow hard and nod. So much for making him forget about it. I get up off the couch and my knee bumps into the computer he’s using. It’s open to my Facebook page, but it’s not logged in. Yet. I’m sure he’ll have me make some sort of public declaration on there too. If I could just get a message on the social sites, tell them I’m still being held against my will… but I don’t even know where I am.
I slide past and walk down the hallway to the bathroom, one last glance before I round the corner, and then I stare at the second package that came in the test kit.
“Don’t cheat,” he says directly behind me.
I force myself not to react even though that just scared the shit out of me. “I’d never lie about a baby.” I walk the few paces to the counter and rip open the second test. He’s still standing in the doorway and it’s freaking me out. “Can I have some privacy?”
“No.”
I stiffen.
“You are my wife. You might be pregnant with my child. We’re excited to find out the news.”
I turn and smile. “Of course. We’re so happy and excited.” I smile. Big. Huge. All my teeth are showing, my eyes lift up, my cheeks stretch. “My stomach is all fluttery. I’m so nervous.”
“Why?” It comes out as a genuine question. He likes when I admit I’m weak or stupid. This I do remember.
“Do you think I’d be a good mother? I’m worried about it. I didn’t have the best childhood—”
I know the second it comes out it’s the wrong move, but even if I didn’t, the slap across my face clues me in.
“Your childhood was perfect,” he growls. “I saved you from a family of abuse.”
I nod as the blood trickles down my face and drips onto the floor. Just another surface I’ll have to clean. My hands are shaking so bad I can’t rip the test package open, and I have to use my teeth. I pull out the stick and look up at the man in the mask, hoping he will step out of the bathroom and let me have some privacy.
“Hurry up.” No such luck.
I pull down my shorts and squat as I hold the test under my stream for a second time. I hand it directly to him and he turns and walks away.
The sobs inside me are threatening to break free as I pull my shorts back up and wash my hands.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry…
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry… I say it over and over in my head. Just do what he says and he’ll be nice. Just do what he says and he’ll take care of you…
That’s how it started. I went from being a carefree teenager living on a farm and fantasizing about all things thirteen-year-old girls fantasize about, to an abducted child whose only thoughts were about pleasing the man who kidnapped her.
I studied this endlessly in my late teens and even part of my first year of college. I used to go the library and look up everything I could on the psychology of kidnappers. I was obsessed with other cases like mine. I was looking for patterns and similarities. I tried to keep track of the kids after they came home, but most of them were hiding. Like me. New names. New lives.
And then one day during my first semester of college, I ran out of things to research. Just… ran out. It was all old and there was no answer that satisfied me. That was the hardest thing to accept. There was just no good answer.
No one knew how to get over what I’d been through. Even those pretending that they did would eventually admit this is not an area that is well-studied. Too few cases. Too few willing participants.
I was tired of being Grace who used to be Daisy so I decided to create a new me. The Filthy Blue Bird. Tweeting was how I moved my obsessions into something… well, maybe not positive, but at the very least, normal. Everybody wants a fantasy and in today’s world, it’s easy to get that.
Vaughn was not difficult to research. He was everywhere I looked online. Pictures and pictures of him spanning decades. Quotes, and interviews, and pages and pages of biographical things.
And little by little, day by day, my past just slipped away. Just… evaporated.
“Come out here, Daisy.”
Until now. Until it coalesced and reshaped itself in the form of round two.
But I always knew he was out there. I’ve been waiting for him. I’ve been waiting for him for ten years. He stole two hundred and twenty days. And there’s no fucking way I’m going to let this sick freak claim any more.
This day is the only one he gets. It’s me or him. One way or another, it will end tonight.
I dry my hands and walk back out to the living room, scanning the windows—electrified, he said—the front door—slightly ajar, but it leads to the mudroom, which I know is surely locked from the inside—the computer.
One tweet. One hashtag. One chance to shine.
It’s my only hope.
Chapter Eleven
“WHITE male,” Felicity says. “I’m pretty sure it’s a white male. I think he lives up in that rural area where Grace is from. Maybe even a neighbor. Maybe even a farmer.” She looks up at me, conflicted and confused. “V, I’m no good at this. These are just guesses. I have no idea what I’m talking about.”