CHAPTER SIX
Fog fell like ghostly fingers across the cove, misty rain splashing onto the sand and palm trees, spreading into the mercurial water of the Atlantic as if the shadow of Tinsley’s past had followed her to Sunset Cove.
She couldn’t escape it, no matter how far she’d run. And she had run, dammit.
She paused by her parakeet’s cage, reached a finger inside, and stroked his head gently. When she’d finally come home, she’d been relieved to know her neighbor had taken care of Mr. Jingles. But she’d churned over the fact that she was keeping the bird locked in a cage. During her abduction, she’d learned what it felt like to be trapped. That night she’d moved Mr. Jingles with her to the cottage and opened his door, giving the bird its freedom.
Mr. Jingles used to talk and sing tunes from TV commercials all the time—the reason she’d given him the name. Now, he sat quietly and stared at her as if he were angry because she’d abandoned him for so long. She’d hoped allowing him to fly around the house freely would soften his attitude, but he’d yet to venture outside the cage.
This place—the cove with its spectacular sunsets, the beach, the view from her cottage—was supposed to give her solace and peace. It was supposed to help her recovery process. To make her forget the helplessness and pain she’d experienced and move on with her life.
Yet tonight the ocean, vast and wide, loomed beneath the inky sky like an endless tomb of nothingness without light.
All because a dead body had been left on the dock in front of her house.
She closed her eyes and envisioned the beauty of the twinkling stars and the vibrant reds and oranges and yellows of the sun as it faded each night.
When she opened them, the dreary blackness outside chilled her to the bone. The sound of her own screams the night she’d been abducted reverberated in her ears and drowned out any pleasant sounds, a reminder that evil had stolen what constituted her normal life at twenty-nine.
Afraid she was bordering on psychotic with her morose thoughts, she turned to her blog. At her therapist’s advice, she’d started journaling her thoughts about her abduction, her attacker, and the fact that he’d escaped. Surprisingly her entries had incited others to share their stories of being victimized and of the injustices that had cost them their sense of security, their happiness, and . . . their future.
She’d named the blog Heart & Soul because that’s what she did—she poured out her heart and soul in the words that filled the screen. She’d been surprised at the interest the site had drawn.
The blog had brought her friends, a support group, a way to not feel lonely when she was a prisoner in her own house—and very much alone.
The photo of the sandy shore dotted with broken shells and sea glass to her right made an ache stir deep within her. She wanted to be part of the world again, to comb the shore and search through the broken shells and find the one or two that had survived the tides undamaged. To recover the bits of sea glass that she’d collected as a child and craft them into jewelry to wear as a reminder that beauty still existed in the world.
She wanted to feel the sunshine on her face and hear the children’s laughter as they chased the waves, not be an outsider watching through locked windows and closed doors.
Rain drizzled down, pattering the tin roof and splashing raindrops against the weathered glass windows.
Not that it mattered whether the sun was shining or the heat was unbearable, or whether it was cold outside or there was a hurricane.
Not when she was trapped inside these walls.
It was a prison she’d made for herself—to keep safe.
Only she didn’t feel safe. Or alive.
Each day blended in with the others—the monotonous routine of climbing from bed for morning coffee, then checking the news to see how many innocents had become victims, how many criminals had escaped, how many times the system had screwed up and another man who’d hurt someone walked the streets, free and able to hunt again.
Each time she posted to Heart & Soul, she was flooded with tales from soul sisters who understood and shared her fears and pain. Ones who wanted justice for the innocents as much as she did.
She inhaled and took a sip of tea, then settled down to write. Her fingers moved over the keyboard, and she lost herself in pouring out her turmoil:
I want to leave the house, to walk along the surf, to sift my toes through the sand and feel the gentle waves lapping at my feet, the sun warming my skin, and the breeze ruffling my hair.
But I am trapped. A hostage who may never know that freedom again.
He kept me inside a cage like an animal. Inside a small room with dark walls that had been scratched by others he’d caught. Each one of us marked the days we were held with fingernail claws into that wall, as if we were animals ourselves.
Little did he know that we were—I was—simply sharpening my claws and waiting on a time I could use them on him and escape.
But even when I did, he got away. And I was trapped again.
This time I locked myself away.
I mark the wall with the days—ninety-two now—that I have hidden in this place. Too afraid to step foot outside the door. Too afraid to walk on the beach or venture into town to shop or go to a restaurant to have a meal.
Too afraid of dying to really live.
Yes, I am an agoraphobic.
While he is running free, I’m chained to him, to his voice, his touch, the things he did to me. To the memories that choke me and sometimes make me want to die.
The only way I escape is in my head and my dreams.
Yet too many times I am tormented by the nightmares, and he is chasing me again.
It will never end.
Unless she ended it.
Five minutes later, responses from her followers flooded the screen. Some were sympathetic and offered hope. Others poured out their own horrid experiences. Two women had been victimized by the River Street Rapist, who’d terrorized Savannah’s college coeds for the past year. Another at the hand of her own husband. Then a post from a mother who’d killed her boyfriend to stop him from molesting her son.
Most of the comments were anonymous.
The victims connected and didn’t need names.
Sometimes it hurt more to read the other women’s sorrowful accounts than it did to think of the inhuman way He had treated her. She didn’t know his real name and refused to say the name he’d called himself.
She slipped open the desk drawer and stared at the knife inside. The ivory handle felt cold. Slick. Foreign. Yet the blade comforted her as she ran her finger over the sharp edge.
Sweat beaded on her neck. Her hand trembled.
Relief was only seconds away.
She envisioned raising it to her wrist and slicing the pale skin. Blood would flow, freeing her of the burden of living each day when she wasn’t really living at all.
It would feel too good to be free of the pain.
To know that He wasn’t keeping her hostage.
But killing herself wouldn’t be killing him. It would mean He’d won.
She shoved the drawer closed.
A light outside the window flickered in the dark, distant and foggy in the rain. Pulse hammering, she stood and moved to the window.
The police—Hatcher—and that other agent had left.
But someone was out there. More police or investigators? Had Hatcher returned?
Or was it Him?
Terror made adrenaline shoot through her veins, and she grabbed the knife from the drawer. She wouldn’t use it on herself.
But if he came after her, she would use it on him.