Deceiving Lies (Forgiving Lies 2)

I’m fucking crazy. She’s not going to be in there.

Shaking my head, I reached out to grab it, and yanked it back. Trip ran in, and my hand fisted around the thin material as the worst type of disappointment washed away any form of hope I may have had.

I’d known she wouldn’t be in there. I’d known, but I’d still let myself believe that by some miracle, she would.

“She’s not here, bud, come on.”

Letting the wall fall back into place, I walked into the bedroom and stared at the bed for a handful of minutes before finally sitting on the edge. Bending over, I rested my elbows on my knees, and my head in my hands—and groaned out the last week and a half’s frustrations, devastations, and heartaches.

Exhaustion finally took over my body, and without even taking off my shoes, shirt, or jeans . . . I lay back on the bed and automatically rolled over to face Rachel’s side. My heavy eyelids blinked as I looked at the empty space beside me . . . nothing about that was right.

Most nights I couldn’t even sleep, the only times I did were when my body literally couldn’t go from the stress and exhaustion anymore. I hated sleeping without her, and I hated sleeping knowing I could be using that

time to try to find her. But what I hated most was waking up without her. Not only was it a cold reminder of what she was going through, but it also just felt wrong.

I wish I could hold you.

I wish I could tell you how much I love you.

I wish I could hear your laugh.

I just wish I knew that I would see you again.

You can’t leave me now, Rachel. We’re about to get married. We’re going to have a family someday. We’re going to get old and fat together.

Wherever you are, Rachel, whoever has you, and whatever is being done to you. Know that God can’t stop me from finding you, and bringing you back to me.

I will hold you again, and I’ll never let you go.

Gripping her side of the comforter in my fingers, I breathed out her name and surrendered to the exhaustion.

8

Rachel

I SPUN MY ENGAGEMENT RING AROUND on my finger just to give me something to do, since I’d just finished picking off the nail polish that had lasted this long. My eyes darted to the right of the door handle long enough to confirm he was still awake and watching me, before going back to the handle.

I didn’t know how long I’d been there, I’d tried figuring it out, and tried keeping track of certain things . . . but still wasn’t sure. The same man who had originally taken me out of the closet, and the home I’d shared with Kash, was always in my room save for an hour or so every day, and he’d finally given up trying to get me to talk to him. I believed him now that he wouldn’t hurt me, but that didn’t mean I trusted him as a person or wanted to talk with him.

Every day he took me out of my room twice: twice for the restroom, and one of those times to also shower. The first time after my attempted escape, I’d silently refused to shower, since he stayed in the bathroom with me, but the next day I couldn’t resist washing what I was estimating was three days’ worth of grime off me. He’d stayed in the bathroom, but he’d kept his back to me the entire time. Every day he brought me three meals unless I was sleeping through one of them, and after the first four meals had gone untouched, I’d begun tearing through them whenever he brought them.

I figured I’d slept through the entire first day, and past breakfast the next day, since the first two meals he’d brought me were generally for lunches or dinners. And since I slept as often as possible to pass the time, and sometimes that meant missing meals, I only had my showers to track the days that were passing. By the time I’d taken what I thought was my fourth shower, I realized I couldn’t remember if it was really the fourth or fifth. And while I was about 90 percent positive that was three showers ago, it could have been four. Still going on the theory I’d missed two full days of showers, I was guesstimating I’d been gone for eleven days. Or nine . . . or I could just be going crazy and it had really only been five. But who knows.

I hadn’t spoken a single word since the first time he’d brought me food and I’d tried to escape, which I think was day two. And somewhere on day x, y, or z, I got tired of referring to him as him or he and decided to name him Taylor, solely based on the fact that he looked like Taylor Lautner’s twin.

Regardless of what I’d named my kidnapper—or how many days I’d been here—there was still nothing about a rescue, I didn’t know why they had taken me, and I didn’t know what they were going to do with me.

I’d seen a few other men on my walks to and from the bathroom, but no one had said much, other than speaking Spanish to Taylor, which I didn’t happen to know much of. And not one of them had done, or said, anything to me since that first time out of the room. The men seemed to ignore me for the most part, but that could’ve had something to do with Taylor’s reaction to Marco, or the fact that he now had his gun out every time we walked up and down the hall.

None of this was making sense, and as the days continued to pass, my fear had steadily grown into something deeper. Something I didn’t have a name for. And in that fear was confusion, longing, and sorrow.

With a few grunts, Taylor stood from his faithful spot on the concrete floor up against the door, and stretched for a moment. Why he never brought a chair in here was beyond me, but I also couldn’t fathom why he was babysitting me for countless hours on end, every day. He’d already taken me for the first bathroom break before he brought me breakfast, so I was guessing now was lunchtime.

When he walked up to me and grabbed my empty plate from breakfast and checked my half-full water bottle, I knew I was right. I didn’t try to get away from him as I had so many times in the first few days. I just stopped twisting my ring and watched his every move . . . waiting for what I knew would come next.

“Don’t go to sleep.”

He was gone longer than he normally was when he went to get my food. How long did it end up being? I’m not sure . . . it felt like hours, but could have been only one. I knew there was someone else that had to be cooking in the house or building that I was in, because the longest Taylor was ever gone was probably half an hour. And I knew in that time he took his showers, ate, and would come back with meals that could have taken hours to cook.