Contents

TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
BOOKS BY MINDY HAYES
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
PREVIEW OF STAIN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
 If We Disappear Here
Copyright © 2022 Mindy Hayes
All rights reserved

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording or by any information storage retrieval system, without prior written
permission of the author except where permitted by law.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or
dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Mindy Hayes

Cover design by ©Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
Editing by Traci Finlay
 ALSO BY
MINDY HAYES

Faylinn Novels
Kaleidoscope
Ember
Luminary
Glimmer
Daybreak

Willowhaven Series
Me After You
Me Without You
Me To You

Standalones
The Day That Saved Us

MINDY HAYES
WRITING AS M HAYES

Standalones
Stain
If We Disappear Here

CO-WRITTEN WITH MICHELE G. MILLER

AS MINDY MICHELE

Seaside Pointe Novels

Blossoms & Steel
Copper & Ink
Satin & Grit
Raven & Ice

Paper Planes Series

Paper Planes and Other Things We Lost
Subway Stops and the Places We Meet
Chasing Cars and the Lessons We Learned

Backroads Duet
Love in C Minor
Loss in A Major

Standalones
Nothing Compares 2 U (novella)
To the survivors
 ONE

maeve
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
What is tha––
Agh. A sledgehammer pounds against my skull. Over and over.
And over.
I groan, prying open my sandpaper eyes. Hurts. Everything hurts. I shift, a
cool surface beneath me lacking give, and I shiver. This isn’t my bed. It’s not
even the carpet or hardwood floor in my house.
When everything comes into focus, I blink and blink again. Fear pours into
my veins.
Where am I?
A rusted industrial light is mounted in the center of the ceiling, mini metal
cages surrounding each bulb. One flickers every few seconds, same as my
oxygen. Peering around, all I see is concrete. Floor, ceiling, walls. Concrete
with chalky, colorless paint peeling off.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
 My gaze stops. In the corner of the cold, muted room is a masculine, limp
body, a slow drip falling from the ceiling by his head. His limbs are fixed at
odd angles, like he was dropped there and didn’t move. Ashton?
“Ashton,” I try. My voice is gravel, jagged and small. I cough and crawl
across the unrelenting surface. Missing strength, I flop to my stomach and
slither, my knees scraping the uneven ground. “Ash-ton,” I cry, and even the
tone is sluggish, his name coming in two choked syllables. I need water.
Gripping his shoulder, I roll him onto his back. His face angles toward me.
Square jaw, slightly crooked nose, short black scruff.
I scramble back.
Not Ashton.
Not my husband.
If I had the energy, I’d scream.
Who is this man?
I poke him with my foot, but he doesn’t move. Is he alive? I wriggle back
to him and listen for a heartbeat. It’s slow, but it’s there. He doesn’t so much
as twitch at the weight of my head on his chest. I lean away.
Where are we?
On one wall is a large steel door with a tiny rectangular window at the top.
If I can just reach it.
On my hands and knees, I force myself across the floor, inch by inch, my
brain instructing my limbs to put one in front of the other. The effort dizzies
me, blurring my vision, and I’m reminded of that one and only frat party I
went to in college when some jerk spiked my drink. Patches of concrete
move in and out of focus. I have to stop halfway there, close my eyes, and
take a deep breath.
When I reach the door, the cold metal does nothing to help my frozen,
heavy fingers. With no handle to hold on to, I claw my way up the smooth
steel, getting to my knees. From this angle, the window is miles away, too far
out of reach. I can’t make myself stand.
I slink back down. Unable to keep my eyes open any longer, I let the
darkness take me.

Something jabs my shoulder, and I shy away. My brain isn’t ready to work
yet. The soft, rounded stick jabs me again. My head lolls to the side as I lift
my weighted eyelids. Sharp green eyes stare down at me with a finger
pointed in my face.
“Oh, good. You’re alive,” he says, gruff, as he crouches above me. “Who
are you?”
I roll away like he burned me, my back hitting the rough wall. The reality
of what I woke up to earlier crashes down. No. It wasn’t a nightmare.
“Who are you?”
In a steady voice––the opposite of my galloping heart––he says, “My
name is Ledger.”
“But who are you?”
His dark brows knit together, a stern crinkle to his forehead. “Someone
stuck in this concrete hell beside you. Now, I’m going to ask again, who are
you?”
Is this the man who took me or is he really a prisoner like I am? For all I
know, Ledger kidnapped me and trapped us in here together for some twisted
pleasure or experiment. He’s not exactly the most personable man.
I swallow, coating my parched throat. “How do I know that’s your real
name?”
Rising to his full height, the man pats his pants pockets like he’s looking
for his wallet. The tiniest of dry smirks graces the corner of his lips. “I guess
you’ll have to take my word for it.”
Is he cracking a joke? Or mocking me? My entire body is shaking, tears
begging to brim, how can he find any humor in this terrifying situation?
I steal a couple of breaths, allowing my eyes to take him in. Standing in
faded jeans and a black tee, he’s shorter than my husband, but that’s not hard
to do. He can’t be more than five-ten or eleven. His hair is the color of how I
like my coffee. Dark with a hint of cream. The emerald eyes I woke up to are
weary and bloodshot, flecked in amber. And he’s barefooted. Same as me.
It’s not the Arctic in here, but it’s unpleasantly cold. My toes curl in as I
fold my arms across my breasts. In my favorite pair of ripped-knee jeans
from college and a worn out I Forgot About Dre shirt I stole from my older
sister Elva, short sleeves and jeans don’t do much to take away the bite in the
air.
I’m more lucid than I was the first time I opened my eyes, but I’m still in a
dilapidated room with a strange man. A surge of questions rush through my
mind. Is he dangerous? If he’s not, why is he here with me? Why were we
taken? And how long have we been here? How did we get here? Where is
here?
As I scan him, still crouched, there’s a small scratch at the edge of his
jawline, a dotted line of blood along the linear mark. Could be a cut from my
nail when he tried to take me or he could’ve gotten it from our captor. While
he’s not giving me much, traces of fear and distress glint his eyes. And from
the looks of it, he’s my only shot at getting out of here.
Clasping my hands together to hide the tremble from him, I say, “I’m
Maeve.”
His nod is curt as he looks over my shoulder. My eyes follow. The steel
door.
“Dumb question, maybe, but have you tried opening it, Maeve?”
“With what handle?”
His eyes rove over the only exit. “Why is there no handle?”
Able to see better now, I notice a small difference in the metal at the
bottom, like a horizontal doggy door. My elbow nudges it, but it doesn’t
budge.
With more strength than I had before, I get to my feet, lifting on my
tiptoes to peer out the slim window. I’m not tall enough. I turn back to
Ledger, and he motions for me to move. So I step aside, giving him a wide
berth.
Swiveling his head from side to side, he searches. “It’s a dark hallway. I
can’t see much aside from a couple other steel doors like this one.” Then his
fists pound the metal, the hollow bang echoing. “Hello?” he yells. “Hello?
Somebody! Anybody! Help us!”
I beat the door beside him. “Somebody help us! Please! HELP!”
No one responds.
Ledger slams his fists against the steel door again.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
“HELP US!” We scream until our voices are hoarse.
No one comes. Nothing happens.
Ledger turns back with a defeated sigh.
“Why are we here?” A tear trails down my cheek.
“I don’t know. I think we were drugged.”
Squeezing my eyes tight, I try to grasp screenshots of who might’ve done
this, but all there is is empty space. “By who?”
“I woke up with the same answers you did, next to a woman I’ve never
met.” Ledger rubs his eyes and exhales. “My throat is killing me.”
Mine, too. “How long do you think we’ve been out?”
“There’s no telling. My body feels like it’s been days, but drugs have a
nasty way of skewing reality.”
I nod and take in the neglected room again with a clearer head, blinking
away moisture. The only things other than the impenetrable door and the
industrial light are a random hook—what on earth?—in the ceiling of the far
right corner and a small metal box with a circular grid in the top left corner.
An antique speaker? How old is this place?
“Where do you think we are?”
“Some abandoned asylum? Or a warehouse? I’m trying to figure out what
kind of place has something that old.” He points to the left corner.
It’s a rusted silver box. Something you’d picture in an old military bunker.
Imagining this place as an insane asylum sends my skin crawling.
Ledger skirts the perimeter, hands walking across the paint-crumbling
walls like he’s checking for any give. Something on his left hand catches in
the inconsistent fluorescent lighting—a thick, silver wedding band.
Ashton must be terrified, wondering where I am, if I’m alive. If the roles
were reversed, I wouldn’t sleep until he was found.
Please find me, Ash.
My stomach growls, the hunger pangs hitting. I’m starving. When was the
last time I ate?
Flipping through my memories, I try to figure out the last thing I
remember. I took I-95 home from the hospital and once I got there, changed
my clothes, sat down to eat dinner with Ashton and… and… That’s it. I don’t
remember doing dishes or going to bed. I don’t remember anything after that.
Did whoever took us hurt Ashton? Oh my gosh, what if Ashton isn’t okay? Is
he dead? Did they kill him and take me?
I look back at Ledger, still inspecting the walls. Searching for a trap door
or hidden handle? “What’s the last thing you remember?”
Ledger stops investigating the concrete as he rotates to his back. Sliding
down the wall, he rests his forearms on his knees and locks me with a
penetrative stare. “You ask a lot of questions.”
I cringe away from his sour tone. “I’m sorry for waking up scared and
confused in a prison with a strange man. Do you not have the same
questions?”
“Something tells me you don’t have the answers to my questions.”
“You’re kind of a dick, aren’t you?”
He grunts, lowering his gaze to the ground. “Forgive me for not being a
damn conversationalist. I’ll get right on the chit-chat train as soon as we
figure out what the hell is going on.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, jackass.”
He releases a resigned sigh as if to say, fine. “I was getting in my car after
work. But that’s it. I don’t remember driving home or anything else.”
Not that he asks, but I offer my answer in hopes of gaining some
comradery. “I was eating dinner with my husband. If we were drugged, with
who knows what, we can lose hours of time. We could’ve been taken at any
point.”
Ledger’s head bobs, but he doesn’t look at me, keeping his stare far off.
If I scream would anyone hear me? Probably only whoever put us here.
Concrete and steel? Nothing is getting through. We could be in some
basement, too far from civilization for anyone to find us.
“We need to get out of here.”
Lifting his head, Ledger cocks a sardonic eyebrow. “I’m open to
suggestions.”
Ignoring his derisive comment, I take in our prison once more, hoping I
missed something. A window or drain, a vent we could crawl through, but
there’s nothing. No means for escape. The panic flowing through my veins
converts to rushing rapids, making it difficult to breathe. But I close my eyes
and clench my quivering jaw, hunting for deep breaths to slow my cheetah-
racing heart.
Why were we taken and brought here? I can’t think of any reason why
someone would kidnap me. Or us, together. I deliver babies for a living and
have little to no social life. All my free time goes to Ashton and my sisters.
Ledger sits with his head bowed, eyes trained on the floor. Nothing about
him screams psychopath, but they come in many forms. The handsome ones
are just as deadly, if not more, so unsuspecting.
I don’t know any Ledgers. Not now, not growing up. But maybe his last
name could trigger something. Maybe I know his wife.
“What’s your last name?”
Ledger’s gaze lifts, red-rimmed and on edge. He blinks as if trying to
figure out what I asked or maybe gauging why I’m asking, but he clears his
throat and says, “Abbott.”
I don’t recall any Abbotts, but my head also isn’t the clearest at the
moment. Not that that means anything. His wife might not have taken his last
name.
“You?” he asks.
I don’t know why I hesitate.
“Tit for tat.” His eyebrow arches.
“Campbell. Maeve Campbell.” I lick my chapped lips and take my
chances asking him another question. “Can you think of why someone would
want to kidnap you?”
Ledger snorts. “I could think of a reason or two.”
I wait for further explanation, but he doesn’t elaborate. Opening my mouth
to ask him why, I’m cut off when he asks, “You?”
I shake my head. “I’m an obstetrician.” Not exactly the poster child for
unhappy patients. “I live a pretty quiet life with my husband.”
I take care of pregnant women, while he works from home. We spend our
evenings together battling over the remote—Ashton voting for some
historical documentary while I plead for something comical and brainless—
before repeating the cycle the next day. And when Ashton and I aren’t
together, I’m with my sisters, running mundane errands, sneaking a workout
in at the gym. Anything to get in sister time between our otherwise busy
schedules.
Maybe there is no logical explanation for us being taken together, but if
there is, I want to figure it out.
“Where are you from?”
His annoyed sigh almost makes me regret asking as he runs a hand down
his exhausted face. “I grew up in Andover, but I live in Cambridge now.”
I haven’t lived in either of those places, but I’m not far from Cambridge.
“Grew up in Springfield, and I live in Newton.” The first speck of hope
shines. “So, we could still be in Massachusetts.”
He mumbles agreement, but makes no attempt to help make sense of the
situation.
“Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe whoever took us got the wrong people.”
Ledger nods, but he’s somewhere else. I’m a vocal thinker, while he seems
to do it all in his head. Silent and brooding. And rude.
The speaker crackles. We clamber to our feet, spines rigid as we stare at
the tiny metal box. It works.
 “Well, isn’t this precious?” A deep voice vibrates. “Trying to find a
common link? Bonding in your mutual imprisonment.”
My cellmate and I share a tense look. Our kidnapper is here. And he can
hear us. My little speck of hope disintegrates.
“Good luck.” The baritone voice chuckles through the unclear speaker.
“It’ll be fun to watch you struggle, though.”
Watch… And he can see us? My eyes dart around the ceiling, but the only
thing I see is that speaker. Is the camera inside?
“Why are we here?” Ledger’s hands fist at his sides.
“So eager. In time, Ledger Abbott. That will come in time.”
He pales. “Who are you?”
“Telling you would be too easy and defeat the purpose. That’s not the
point of this.”
“What is the point?” Though I want my voice to come out demanding and
unafraid, it wobbles and cracks. Nothing more than a dry leaf.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Yes, you psychopath. Yes, I would.
Ledger and I shift our attention to one another again, twin stares of
saturating fear, before we return our gazes to the metal box.
The man without a face speaks again in a calm, callous voice. “To make
you suffer, Dr. Campbell.”
A violent shiver courses up my spine. Did he hear that whole conversation,
or did he already know our names? And if so, what else does he know?
“Why?” Ledger shouts, and I flinch at his harsh timbre. “What have we
done?”
But we get nothing in return.
“Why are we here?” His raised voice rumbles, but again, nothing.
Silence.
Tears fill my eyes. My trembling hand covers my mouth as I wrap my
other arm around my waist. Ledger and I peer at one another. He cloaks his
emotions, while mine shine unmistakably.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
We’re never getting out of here.
 TWO

ledger

Maeve lies curled on her side in the corner, her tangled blonde hair splaying
on the cement floor. Her thick dark eyebrows remain pinched in distress even
as she sleeps.
She’s been out for a couple of hours—maybe more, maybe less—after
crying herself to sleep. With no sunlight or clock, it’s hard to tell how much
time passes.
I haven’t fallen back asleep, too anxious to close my eyes. So, in the
corner I sit, waiting, contemplating. Am I scared? Hell yes I am. But I’m also
pissed. For the first time since I was a teenager, I’m in a situation I have no
control over, and I promised myself I’d never be placed in that kind of
position again.
The voice through the speaker hasn’t said anything more. At least half a
day has passed since we woke up. We haven’t received any food or water,
not even a thin blanket. I’m not one who hates the cold, but socks would be
nice.
What is Becca doing? Crying and pacing? Pulling out her hair? Screaming
at the police to find her husband? Who knows if it’s even been long enough
to file a missing person report? Has it been twenty-four hours? Forty-eight?
Hell, it could be seventy-two. We have no idea what he gave us or how long
it knocked us out for.
My bladder is about to blow, though, so it can’t be that long. Guaranteed
I’d have wet myself while I was knocked out if it’d been a full day. And I’d
have relieved myself by now if I could. I’m sure Maeve would love waking
up to the sound of me pissing in the corner. I wish we at least had some sort
of drain in the floor. If I wasn’t sharing this damn room, I’d have gone
already.
Not that it would make a difference, but it’d be nice to know if it’s
morning. Midnight? There’s got to be a way to figure it out. When Maeve
wakes up, I’ll see if I can get more answers from the man behind the speaker.
Or mercy, maybe. I’d kill for a glass of water and a blanket. Food would be
nice, but I need water more. My throat is the Mojave Desert.
The point is to make us suffer, but why? Because he’s some sick, twisted
sadist? What have we done? Something he obviously deems worthy of
punishment. Maybe he’s some religious zealot and believes we’ve committed
serious sins. But who is he? I didn’t recognize his voice, though he could’ve
disguised it somehow. What will he do to make us suffer? Go without food,
water? Make us freeze to death?
There are worse ways to go, but I don’t want to experience any of them.
Is he looking for a ransom? If he is, he picked the wrong family. My father
won’t pay. He’s not the kind of man who allows others to manipulate him.
Not even for his own son.
A piercing screech of metal draws my eyes to the door. At the bottom, a
tray with a small plastic dish and a glass of water––the liquid sloshing over
the rim––slips under the slim door before snapping shut, locking it in place.
The harsh bang startles Maeve awake. Coiling into herself, her eyes widen,
panicked.
I raise my hands to calm her. “It’s just some food and water.” I hope.
She sits up, brushing the wayward hair from her eyes. “What is it?”
“A frozen dinner, I think.” I walk over and squat, my forehead creased as I
squint at the little sectioned black plate covered in cellophane. “Chicken fried
steak, maybe? With mashed potatoes and green beans.”
Mirthless amusement spurts passed her lips. “Why feed us?”
“To keep us alive?” For whatever torment he has planned. It’s hardly
enough food for one person, let alone two.
“It’s probably laced with something.”
“Probably, but what’s worse? Getting drugged again or going hungry?” I
peer over my shoulder at Maeve.
With her knees tucked into her small frame, she says, “I’m more
concerned about what happens while we’re drugged. Or if whatever it is
makes us puke up anything and everything we have left in our bodies, leaving
us worse off.” Maeve swallows as she eyes the glass cup. “But I might get
over it for a sip of that water.”
Before I take a drink, I offer it to her, or I’ll down the whole thing.
Maeve stands and takes a couple steps to close the gap, accepting the
discolored glass with both hands, eyes appreciative. After gulping down a
couple swallows, she holds it out to me. “You can have the rest.” She didn’t
drink as much as she should have.
“No. We share it. You get half. I get the other.” Time to set a precedent.
We’re equals. In or out of this place, but especially during a game of survival.
“You’re bigger than I am. I can survive on less.” The cup remains
suspended between us. The woman is close to a twig, but that only means she
has less to lose than I do. It’s clear she’s trying to be polite, but now is not the
time for manners.
And it kind of pisses me off. If she doesn’t stick up for herself with me,
she stands zero chance against the man behind the speaker. “It doesn’t mean
you should.”
She eyes me with uncertainty. “We might be trapped in here together, but
it doesn’t mean you have to be a gentleman. I’d get it.”
“Trust me. I’m no gentleman, so when I offer something once, accept it. I
might not be as generous the next time.” I push the glass away. If there was a
strange man in here with Becca, I hope he’d have the same decency. I could
easily take advantage of her politeness.
With a slight nod of gratitude, Maeve drinks more before handing it back.
She still left more than half, but I’m done fighting her on it. I could drink a
gallon and still be thirsty.
I peel back the plastic, and a savory scent fills the cell. “Are you going to
eat any of this?”
As if her stomach smells the food, it rumbles.
“If you are, we’ll share it.”
She nods. “Eat half, and I’ll eat the rest.”
“You want me to be the guinea pig?” A faint biting chuckle leaves me.
One side of her mouth quirks up, and she shrugs. “If you’re going to eat it
either way, it wouldn’t hurt to know for sure.”
 This is only enough to tease me, but it’s better than nothing. I’m verging
on ravenous. There’s no telling when we’ll get to eat again. Or if this is all
he’ll give us. Our last meal.
With no utensils, I pick up the gravy-soaked fried meat with my fingers
and take a bite. Cheap processed meat has never tasted so good, even
lukewarm. I dip my index and middle fingers in the mashed potatoes like a
scoop and suck them off. When my eyes meet Maeve, she’s watching me
with intent. Never have I felt more like a caveman.
“I realize this isn’t the most sanitary of ways to eat food, but…”
Her head shakes, like she’s breaking out of a spell. “It’s our only option.
It’s fine.”
After I eat my portion, I give the plastic dish to Maeve. She doesn’t
hesitate, digging in and licking her fingers when she’s finished. I half-expect
her to tongue the sections clean. I wouldn’t blame her. I’m tempted to ask her
for it back to do just that, not wasting a single drop, but I cut myself off at
caveman before crossing over to savage.
Setting the empty dish and glass on the tray at the base of the door, I turn,
eyeing the speaker, an idea sparking. “Maeve, get on my shoulders.”
“What?”
“Get on my shoulders.” I move closer to it and crouch down, tapping the
top of my back. “I want you to inspect that metal box. See what you can see,
if it can be removed or tampered with.”
“O-kay.” Gingerly, she places her hands on my head while lifting one leg
then the other around my neck.
Hooking my hands around her thighs, I stand with ease. This woman is not
going to survive on half of a TV dinner.
“I see a little red dot inside, but I can’t see much more than that, and it
won’t budge.”
What did he do? Weld the metal grid shut after he installed a camera? “Do
you see anything else?”
“Just some cobwebs and confirmation that this thing wasn’t built in this
decade.”
Great.
Squatting, I help Maeve down with my hands on her slender waist, and we
move to opposite sides of the cell. After a few minutes of sitting in silence, I
ask, “Are you feeling all right?”
“So far. You?”
 I nod.
“If he wants us alive, and he’s not drugging us again, what do you think
he’s going to do?”
She doesn’t want to know what I think. It’ll only feed into her fear, and I
can’t handle a hysterical woman on top of all this. She’s bound to get there at
some point, but it’s too early for that.
When I don’t answer, she continues. “We’re never getting out of here, are
we?”
“We will. We’ll get out of here.” I say it to reassure myself more than her,
but in my gut, I don’t see how we will. Unless this guy was stupid enough to
leave a trail, there’s no way of knowing if the cops will come. If he was smart
enough to drug us and wire this decrepit place with a camera, something tells
me he didn’t leave any evidence behind. “Someone will come.”
A fragile hope flickers in Maeve’s blue eyes. Then she lies down, curling
into the fetal position. Her hands clasp beneath her head as she stares at the
wall opposite her. I don’t lie down, but I rest my back against the wall and
close my eyes.
What I need is to get back to my wife, my Becca. Whatever it takes. Even
if that means forming an alliance with my cellmate—I haven’t figured that
out yet. But I cannot let the last time I saw my wife be the last time.
She’s all alone. No family to turn to but my father. And I’m sure he’s less
than comforting.
I’ll find my way back to you, Becs. I swear it.

“Rise and shine, puppets.”

My head shoots up, my neck muscles screaming with a tight ache.
Maeve slowly shifts to her knees, bending them beneath her. She folds her
arms across her chest, shivering from the chill in the air. Even from where I
sit across the room, I can see goosebumps break out along her forearms.
“Today your gifts begin,” the voice says.
Today? Does that mean it’s a new day? It doesn’t feel like I’ve slept a full
night. It doesn’t feel like I slept at all. “How long have we been asleep?”
“An hour? Ten? It won’t make much of a difference to know. You’re not
going anywhere, so embrace the freedom of not living by clocks and
technology.”
You never know how much time matters until there is none, until time
ceases to exist. It’s like losing a sense of reality. Where there is no time, what
does exist? Certainly not his ironic idea of freedom. We’re not only trapped
by these walls, we’re trapped in time.
“What day is it?”
“Do you have someplace to be, Abbott?” He releases a pithy laugh and I
catch a hint of an accent, but it’s indecipherable through the speaker.
“I do, actually.” At home with my wife. Or anywhere but here.
“This is your home now.”
I snort. “If this is our home, can we go to the bathroom? Maybe get a
blanket or two? Or at least a pair of socks?” I’ll survive, but Maeve is about
to be pretty miserable if she doesn’t warm up soon.
“Already asking for favors. Some things never change.”
What is that supposed to mean? “Who are you?” I demand. “How do you
know me?”
“Gifts first.”
A few moments later the shrill schlink of the hatch at the base of the door
echoes, and Maeve shrinks back. A bag is shoved inside.
We approach the nylon duffle with caution. The food might’ve been safe,
but the way he keeps saying gifts doesn’t make them sound much like gifts. I
swear if there are snakes in that bag, I’m out. Maeve’s on her own.
We give ourselves a moment to see if the material moves. A few seconds
pass with nothing. When I unzip the bag, I peek inside to find a folded pair of
black socks and a gray blanket, like he conjured them up in the last few
minutes. I quickly reach inside, ready to feel their warmth, but something
isn’t right.
The socks are soaking wet. I pull them from the bag, and water drips from
the knit material. I could wring them out and fill a cup of water. If they
weren’t drenched, they’d be the thick wool socks of my dreams.
“Sorry. The dryer is broken. Maybe if you lay them out to dry, they’ll be
ready in a few days.”
Days? No way. These will never dry. They’ll mildew and rot before they
dry in this dank hell hole.
After I grab the blanket, I flinch, and my palm comes away stinging. I hold
my hand up to the dim light and strain my eyes. Thin, tiny splinters puncture
my fingers.
 “I apologize.” His voice sounds anything but apologetic. “I had the blanket
lying on some firewood. There might be a few remnants of wood.”
Seriously?
“The woman’s a doctor. She’s smart enough to figure out how to remove
slivers.”
“So, either we itch and sting or freeze,” Maeve says. “What’s the point of
these? Give us two things that would make this semi-endurable, but make
them impossible to use.”
“Have you ever suffered a day in your life, Dr. Campbell?” he asks. “Or
do you skate by with advantages? Everything happening effortlessly. Because
if you knew hardship, true hardship, you’d make my gifts work and say thank
you.”
She glares at the corner, hands fisted, but I notice the tremble of her limbs.
“You might’ve taken me, but you have no idea who I am or what I’ve been
through.”
There’s a pause before our captor says, “I know enough.”
“So, is that what this is?” she asks. “Trying to teach us what suffering is?
You believe our lives are free of adversity, of pain, so you need to show us?”
“You’re getting warmer, but I’m sorry. That answer is still incorrect.”
“Then gift us one more thing,” I say. “Gift us with answers.”
A short, humorless laugh flows through the metal box. “I’m afraid I’m all
out of gifts for the day.”
The day? Does that mean no food? No water? “That’s it? Wet socks and
an unusable blanket?”
“Ah, there he is again. Living that privileged life, Ledger Abbott. Next,
you’ll be demanding a king mattress with Egyptian cotton sheets. Everything
gets handed to you, doesn’t it?”
I take a threatening step toward the corner, as if he’s in here with us.
“Don’t pretend to know the first thing about me and my life. I’ve worked my
ass off for everything I have.”
“And all it took was Daddy paving the way.”
If there was a rock between my teeth, my jaw would pulverize it.
“We’re done here. I’m bored with you.”
“Wait! Can we at least go to the bathroom?” Maeve shouts but gets
nothing in return.
 THREE

maeve

I’m going to wet myself.

My bladder is stretched and cramping. I needed to go before we fell
asleep, but I’ve been keeping it in, to the point of pain. If I hold it much
longer, I guarantee I’ll get an infection, or Ledger will witness a grown
woman have an accident all over this disgusting floor.
“What do we do about going to the bathroom?”
“I doubt he’ll let us out. We’ll have to make do.”
Make do? Am I supposed to just pull down my pants and pop a squat in
front of Ledger? This room is bad enough as it is without the smell of our
bodily functions.
My head cocks to the side. “You want to designate a corner?” I can’t keep
the sass from my tone.
Without an ounce of humor, he points to the front right corner, opposite
from where he’s been sleeping. “Seems as good as any.”
On my side. Of course. “How are you so calm about this?”
One of his eyebrows curves high. “Do you think freaking out will help?
Will it mean more food or water? Blankets or socks? Will it help us figure
out a way out of here?”
I get it. He’s Mr. Levelheaded. One of us needs to be, but it’d be nice to
know I’m not alone in my panic. We’re in a cold cement room with no
bathroom, and eating is unlikely today.
Steel squeaks as the small hatch at the base of the door slides open, and a
shallow pail tumbles in with a roll of toilet paper before he snaps the door
shut.
A minute later, the speaker crackles. “This is a gift for me, so I don’t have
to smell your pile of waste from here. Use it.”
“You won’t even let us out to go to the bathroom?” I ask.
Nothing. His favorite answer.
I guess a bucket that can be emptied is better than a bathroom corner.
Though it’s no less mortifying using it in front of a complete stranger. An
attractive complete stranger, at that. He’s one of those men that make it hard
to keep eye contact with because he’s so gorgeous. Married or not, no woman
wants to be mortified in front of a handsome man. Even if Ledger turns his
back. He’ll hear it. He’ll smell it. I can’t do this.
My body says otherwise.
“Ladies first.” Ledger hands me the gray pail with the roll of cheap, thin
toilet paper inside. The kind you’d use at a gas station that disintegrates with
one swipe, but it’s toilet paper. I’m surprised he offered us even that. He
could’ve given us nothing.
I take the bucket to the corner closest to the camera, placing it beneath so
our jailer has less of a chance of seeing me and ask Ledger over my shoulder,
“Can you please turn around?”
“I wasn’t planning on watching.” With his expression rumpled in
annoyance, he walks to the far corner, facing the wall and crossing his arms.
As I unbutton my pants, I tense. “Will you plug your ears?”
Without a remark or laugh, he sticks his fingers in his ears.
This is so humiliating. Holding back tears of embarrassment, a low hum
drifts from Ledger. A pleasant, deep melody I don’t recognize, but it’s
enough noise to drown out my unease.
Crouching over the bucket, I face the corner, so if Ledger happens to look,
he gets my backside. If I didn’t have to go so badly, I’d probably have stage
fright knowing two men can see and hear me, but instead I stare at the solid
gray floor and relieve myself. It is the single most satisfying feeling.
When I zip up and move toward Ledger, I tap his shoulder. “I’m done. I’m
really sorry.”
He turns with a resigned shrug. “You’re not the only one who has to use
that thing like a toilet in front of a stranger.”
I nod, but I can’t meet his eyes as I assume his position in the opposite
corner. Plugging my own ears, I hum. I can’t carry a tune to save my life, but
it’s noise, and it helped ease my mortification. So, I hope it helps him, too.
When he’s done, Ledger carries the bucket to the door and places it in
front of the small hatch at the base. Minutes pass, and it stays closed. We
know he can see us, but nothing happens. It’s trapped in here with us.
“Are you going to make us stay in here with it?” I holler at the speaker.
Crackle. “There are far worse things, Dr. Campbell.”
Monster.
We try not to focus on the smell, but it’s impossible. It steals our
conversation―not that we’ve spoken much―and my focus. I can’t think of
anything else. Even after it’s removed, with no air flow, the stench will
linger.
My butt is numb from sitting on the hard ground, so I roll onto my side
and face the wall, allowing tears to fall. I try stifling the sound, but I doubt
I’m quiet enough. Fear like I’ve never known curls and knots my insides. I
want to go home. I want Ashton. I don’t want to die.
Twirling the black diamond studs on my earlobes Ashton bought me two
Christmases ago, I seek a modicum of comfort, of home, of Ashton. We’d
sworn we weren’t doing presents that year to alleviate stress we’d been
under, but he surprised me Christmas morning with the quarter carat earrings
I’d been eyeing since we’d gone engagement ring shopping. It was such an
Ashton move. He loves surprises.
I could really use a surprise rescue about now, Ash.

Hours later, metal screeches and a black-gloved hand sneaks in, removing
the pail.
In silence for so many hours, Ledger’s voice startles me, “How about a
game?”
“A game?” How can he think about games at a time like this? Shouldn’t
we be planning an escape or brainstorming ways to outsmart this guy?
Then reality bashes me over the head. What’s the point when he can hear
us?
“You know what?” he grumbles. “Forget it. It was a dumb idea.”
“No, no. I want to.” Wiping at my wet cheeks, I twist my head to look at
him. “It’ll take our minds off the silence.” And distract us from my crying
and our whining stomachs.
He has yet to voluntarily talk to me, so I shouldn’t have made him feel
stupid for the idea. I was just caught off guard, but even if he’s not acting like
it, he has to be struggling as much as I am.
Ledger slides down the wall, resting his forearms on his knees. Keeping a
broody stare, he nods. “How about Two Truths and a Lie?”
We’re really doing this. What’s next? Duck, Duck, Goose or Hide-and-
Seek?
I nod. “You first.”
He pauses while scratching his five o’clock shadow. His jaw has the
angles of a Kennedy and sets in a position of confidence. Not to back the man
behind the metal box, but Ledger is probably never told no. When my eyes
rove his clothes, there’s something about the cut of his jeans that screams
designer. Even the fit of his T-shirt. It’s not a boxy frame. It forms to his
chest and torso like it was tailor made for him. He knows money, and he
knows style.
The clearing of his throat brings me back to Ledger’s face, and I blink out
of my perusal of him.
He meets my stare for a few seconds, a pregnant pause between us, before
he says, “I’ve never been to Italy. I hate cheese. And my dog growing up was
named Fletcher.”
Soft laughter slips past my lips. Digging real deep for the hard stuff, I see.
“There’s no way that you hate cheese. No one hates cheese.”
“I do. Everything about it. Taste, smell, texture.”
“That’s crazy talk. Cheese is God’s gift to the world. It’s in almost
everything delicious.”
His subdued amusement twists his lips. “Agree to disagree.”
“So…” I toss another dart into the dark— “You’ve been to Italy?”
“My dog’s name was Pepper. Your turn.”
Huh. A few minutes of reprieve. For that one round, I didn’t focus on our
surroundings or my starved belly. My mouth moves from side-to-side as I
debate my two truths and a lie.
“Okay. I wanted to be an astronaut when I grew up. My favorite food is
Indian. And I’ve met Will Ferrell.”
“No. I don’t believe it. You haven’t met Will Ferrell.” He mutters,
“Though, that’s too far-fetched not to be true.”
A meager smile finds its way to my lips. “I have, actually. At JFK, he was
getting off a plane I was about to board, and there was no way I couldn’t get
an autograph. My husband would’ve cursed me.” My heart wrenches as a
small snort escapes me. So much for another few minutes of reprieve. “But
anyway, I didn’t want to be an astronaut. I wanted to be a cafeteria lunch
lady. Mine was always so happy, a constant smile on her face.”
Ledger arches a dark brow, and the pleasant expression on his face
highlights how attractive he is. I peed in front of this could’ve-been-a-GQ
model. Wonderful.
“Not so bad, was it? Another round?”
“Not like we have anything better to do.”
He cracks his knuckles, then rolls his eyes. Maybe he can’t believe we’re
doing this either, even if he is the one who suggested it. “I love to read crime
fiction novels. My best friends call me Pud. And I’ve been married for five
months.”
“Your friends don’t call you Pud. What does that even mean?”
He nods with a snort. “Oh, they do. My best friend Jared saw a picture of
me when I was a toddler. I was really pudgy, like the Pillsbury Doughboy
and wasn’t very good at smiling in photos. As a kid, it always looked like I
wasn’t ready, mouth like I was mid-sentence, eyes like I was caught off
guard. My friends teased me for years and it just stuck.”
I don’t believe it. There’s no way this man doesn’t look made for
photography, but suggesting I find him attractive would be inappropriate and
weird.
“So, you’ve been married longer or less than five months?”
“I actually love reading science fiction.”
I like when things surprise me about a person, but it’s not helping me win
this game. “What’s your favorite book?”
Ledger looks at me like I have antlers growing out of my head. “You must
not be a big reader.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because an avid reader can’t pick just one favorite.”
Another small laugh pulls from my lungs. I don’t know how it’s possible
in such a destitute place, but Ledger’s presence is going to be my saving
grace. Whether he’s a jerk or not, I can’t imagine being on my own.
Knocking his chin forward, he eyes me for my turn, but my brain snags on
another one of his truths. Did he say five months? They’re newlyweds,
babies. Ashton and I have been married for six years and it feels like
yesterday. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to be snatched away when in
the honeymoon phase.
I nibble the inside of my bottom lip, deciding to let it go. “My favorite
animal is a sloth. I hate when people chew too loudly or slurp. And I’m an
only child.”
“A sloth, the guys with the bowl cuts? Is it really?”
I nod, the corner of my mouth curving up. “Those big, happy brown eyes
and dopey grins. What’s not to love?”
“So…”
“I actually have two sisters. One older, one younger. Elva and Eden.” Who
are probably worrying themselves into panic attacks, circling through all the
worst case scenarios of what happened to me. Eden is driving Elva insane.
Neither are sleeping, but Elva’s going to be the only sane one to keep Eden
from starting her own manhunt to track down the guy responsible for taking
me.
“We’re gauging each other wrong all around.”
For now. Another few days of Two Truths and a Lie, and he’ll know me
better than most of my friends.
“All right. I have to ask.” Ledger juts his chin forward. “What’s up with
the shirt?”
“My Dr. Dre shirt?” I peer down at the black text on my white tee, though
can I even call it white now? It’s basically gray from sleeping on the ground.
“The song Forgot About Dre?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Came out in the late ’90s. I realize we were babies, but it’s a classic.”
Close-lipped, he shakes his head like I’m the loser who knows nothing
about ’90s rap.
I can’t help it. I start rapping the chorus like I’m Eminem. When Ledger
bites his lips, the corner of his mouth tilting up, I know I’ve been played.
Stopping in the middle of a line, which I hate doing, I glare, but smirk with
him. “You punk. You know exactly what my shirt means.”
“Yeah. I just wanted to see if you were wearing the shirt because you’re a
true fan or if you were a poser.” With a trace of teasing in his eyes, he says,
“Move aside Eminem. You’ve got some competition.”
“Shut up.” I roll my eyes, biting back a smile. “Your turn.”
Another few rounds go by when our eyes grow heavy with sleep. I roll
away, facing the wall. Then quiet laughter drifts from Ledger’s side of the
room, and I almost ask him what he could possibly be laughing about when
he murmurs the end of the chorus, finishing the line I got cut off from, and I
fight off a soft chuckle before drifting off.
 FOUR

ledger

“Tell me about your wife. What’s her name?”

It’s the only thing Maeve has said to me since our kidnapper woke us up
with a sniggering good morning and tease of opening the door to allow us to
stretch our legs after we used the A.M. bathroom bucket. Spoiler alert. The
door never opened, and we haven’t heard from him since.
I’ve appreciated the lack of unanswerable questions from Maeve, but
being alone with my thoughts is leading me down a dark path, so hearing her
voice is a refreshing change.
My first instinct is to keep Becca to myself. Even if our captor knows
things about us, I don’t want to give him more ammunition. It’s why I kept
my truths so unimportant in our little games the other day. I don’t care if he
knows my favorite color is blue or that I gag on cheese, but if he doesn’t
know anything about my personal life, I want to keep it that way. Granted,
he’d be the worst manipulator if he didn’t learn about our spouses.
How many days have gone by? Three? Four? And as much as I’ve wanted
to keep our interaction trivial, I need to distract Maeve from another spiraling
breakdown. When she isn’t rocking and crying against her wall, she’s
rubbing that earlobe of hers raw. And I didn’t want to accept this as our
reality. But now…
 “Be—” My throat clogs with inactivity, and I clear it. “Her name is Becca.
And your husband?”
“Ashton.” Her voice is wistful, a choked somberness. “He’s a computer
engineer. What does Becca do?”
She’s free. I laugh to myself. And I love it for her, it’s what I love most
about her. She’s not the type who could ever be tied down to a corporate job
or a nine-to-five. Becca dances to the beat of her own drum. It’s why we
work so well, to balance each other out.
I run a hand down my coarse jawline. I never go more than a day or two
without shaving, my father wanting me to remain clean-cut at the office. It’s
going to itch soon. I hate that stage.
“She’s too much of a free spirit to stay in one place for long,” I say. “Not
long ago she quit working for a party planning company, and before that she
was a receptionist at a hair salon. Right now she’s taking a break, deciding
what she wants to do next.”
Maeve’s eyes widen as she shifts. “Wow. I can’t imagine moving around.
I guess I’m too much of a conformist for that, but I assume you have a pretty
sustainable income. Why stay in one place when you can try it all? Find what
truly makes you happy.”
Ha. If that’s what she’s searching for, she must be pretty unhappy. That
thought gives me pause. Is Becca unhappy? I always assumed she was a little
restless and lacking inhibition, but not unhappy. Though, if our last fight is
any indication, she’s not only miserable in her professions, she’s miserable in
life.
“How did you two meet?”
I exhale the creeping guilt. I haven’t thought about that day in a long time.
Rewinding back a few years, my brain replays our first encounter. “I was
getting my MBA at Boston College when she came up to me at a coffee
shop.”
“A go-getter, I like it.” Maeve lifts a pensive smile.
Tilting my head and closing my eyes, I picture Becca clear as day. Her
long, dark brown tresses that always get tangled in her purse strap. Those
warm, russet eyes with an ever-present hint of mischief. The dimple in her
right cheek that appears most when she belly laughs or the slim gap in her
two front teeth when she smiles. I miss all of it.
“Yeah, she is.”
Head bowed, I poured over my statistics textbook for a final exam when a
brunette plopped in the empty chair across from me.
“Give me three minutes. Pretend like you know me.”
“I’m sorry?”
She lowered her voice, leaning across the small table, her eyes darting
over my shoulder. “I’m avoiding someone, so I need you to pretend like
we’re together.”
Sitting upright, I made a move to turn my head, but she gripped my arm on
the tabletop, sparing another glance over my shoulder. “No, don’t look. Then
he’ll know we’re talking about him.”
Forehead rumpled, my lips corkscrewed as I took her in. From her big
chocolate eyes to her long curly hair, down to the tight sweater stretched
across her ample chest and the iced latte in her hand. She was beautiful, like
drop dead gorgeous. I was a half-decent looking guy. I’d been approached by
beautiful women before, but no one like her.
Her initiation raised my haunches. Did she know who I was? When people
found out I was an Abbott, they had a tendency to weasel their way into my
life to see what I could do for them.
“Well, can I at least get your name?”
As if she was finally seeing me, her full red lips turned up at the edges.
“Rebecca.” Her smile widened, revealing a thin gap between her top teeth.
Charming. “I’m Becca Pyne. And you are…?”
Reaching across the bistro table, I held out my hand. “Ledger.” I didn’t
tack on my last name, but I was intrigued enough to see this thing through.
“I’d offer to buy you a drink, but I see you already have one.”
“I wouldn’t turn down a donut.”
That pulled a small smirk from me. “Powdered or glazed?”
“Sprinkles, obviously.”
And right there, I lost any semblance of self-preservation. I was a goner.
“And you swept her off her feet, I bet.” Maeve balances her chin in her
palm, resting her elbow on her bent knee. The dreamy state women get in
when hearing love stories.
“No, actually.” I blink back moisture in my eyes. “She swept me.”
People talk about whirlwind romances, but that was all fiction to me.
Things in movies and those bodice-ripper novels my mom loved to read
when I was younger.
Until I met her.
I’ve never loved anyone like I love Becca. She’s my offset, adds adventure
and spontaneity to our relationship. I say jump, and she asks, from which
cliff?
I’ve never been one to stay in serious relationships, never allowed myself
to be that vulnerable. Mommy issues, I guess, but she’s different. She’s my
exception.
“After six months, I asked Becca to marry me and five months later we
were married.”
“Lucky woman.”
Grunting, I say, “I just can’t imagine what she’s thinking right now. She
doesn’t have anyone but me.”
“No other family?”
I shake my head. “She grew up in foster care.” So unless my dad has
stepped up—which is highly unlikely—she won’t have any support aside
from a few friends, but that’s not the same.
Gah. I need to get out of here.
Maeve’s voice breaks my train of thought. “We’re going to see them
again.”
We are. There’s no other alternative. I will see my Becca again. We still
have so much life left to live. Children to have. Memories to create. Whoever
this man is, he won’t be the one to take that all away from me. I’ll do
whatever it takes.
 FIVE

maeve

The man behind the speaker promised our suffering, but other than shouting
good morning to scare us awake and offering empty promises of warmth or
freedom before rolling in the bathroom bucket and toilet paper, he hasn’t
spoken to us much over the last several days. Has it been several days? A
week? Gosh I wish I knew. We need some way to figure out how long it’s
been.
What is he waiting for? Why hasn’t he done more? Is this his only form of
torment or is he weakening us for the real torture?
Or maybe he’s gaining courage to kill us.
A couple halves of microwave dinners isn’t cutting it. We didn’t get to eat
again today, and my stomach is rioting as I try to find sleep. Is it nighttime? I
have no idea, but I can’t handle consciousness under this damn erratic bulb or
Ledger’s silence anymore. After talking about our spouses the other day, he
shut up again. No games, no mindless conversation to distract us for the rest
of the day.
The socks finally dried enough. They smell like mildew, but they’re still
socks, and a hint of dampness is better than no socks at all. We trade off
wearing them because the blanket is still covered in splinters. I tried
removing them, but kept pricking my fingers so I didn’t get far. Ledger took
a turn, but his hands needed a break, too.
Cinching my arm around my waist, I use my other as a cushion beneath
my head. Every muscle aches, my joints crying out with each subtle
movement.
Ledger keeps his emotions close to the vest. Most of the time he paces or
does push-ups. And maybe that’s how he processes our situation. He keeps
his body busy to prevent his mind or mouth from running. We’ve been here
for days, and he hasn’t lost it once. I’ve spent more time crying than not, but
Ledger stays quiet. I talked him into Would You Rather and Twenty
Questions yesterday, but he hasn’t said a word to me outside of that, and I
didn’t have the energy to pry conversation from him.
Games seem such a bizarre thing to do when you’ve been kidnapped and
held captive in a concrete room, but this unconventional coping is the only
thing we have. Whether Ledger’s keeping it together for my sake or his, I
almost appreciate his composure. It helps to keep me from screaming and
punching walls like a madwoman.
The one thing that continues to run through my mind is why? Why did this
man pick me? Us? Why the two of us together?
My memory is still foggy from that night. Dinner and then blank. Zilch. I
can’t even remember what we ate. Ashton cooked, like he always does. I’m
sure we talked about each other’s day because that’s us. Routine. Creatures of
habit. But, did Ashton have a good day or bad? I can’t tell you. I can’t even
tell you what he was wearing. Was he wearing his glasses or contacts? Had
he switched into his favorite black joggers? Or the worn-out high school
tennis team shirt I can’t stand? Probably. But I don’t remember if he even
greeted me with a kiss.
Will it ever come back to me? Did Ashton watch my kidnapping happen?
Did he try to fight him off? Were we sleeping? My heart seizes for the
thousandth time. What happened to Ashton? Is he okay? Is he locked up
behind one of the other steel doors Ledger saw through the top window?
Maybe Ashton and Becca are being held together somewhere else. This could
be some demented social experiment. Swapping spouses or something.
Ashton’s still alive.
He has to be.
I bolt up and pummel the steel door. “Ashton! Are you out there? Ashton!
ASHTON!”
“What are you doing?”
 Ledger’s perplexity cuts through my shouts. I swivel my head. “Maybe
I’m not in my right mind, but what if he or Becca is behind one of those other
doors? What if we weren’t the only two kidnapped?”
Ledger blinks, and I continue my one-woman fist fight with the metal.
Not five seconds later, Ledger’s hip meets mine and his clenched hands
maul the door. “Becca! Becca! I’m here! It’s me! Becca? Are you out there?”
Pausing my assault, I stop his hand, listening for any sounds, even the
faintest reply. Crackle. Far from the response I was looking for. All our
captor does is laugh through the metal box, like we’re the most pathetic
morons before going silent.
Even if he’s not there, I holler and pound more for even the slightest
chance, Ledger doing the same. When there’s nothing, without any more
fight, Ledger and I return to our walls and lie down.
My hands run up and down my arms, fighting against the bite in the air,
longing for Ashton’s warm body against mine, yearning for his touch and
comfort, his solid stillness.
“Maeve?” Ledger’s startling voice pulls me from my pondering.
I clear my throat of emotion. “Yeah?”
“Sorry.” His deep voice is so terse, it’s like he isn’t apologizing at all.
“Did I wake you?”
“No.”
Seconds pass, forming minutes before he speaks again. “What are you
thinking about?”
So taken aback, I stiffen. He must really be desperate to be talking to me.
I give Ledger the simplest answer. “Ashton.”
He pauses conversation again, long moments stretching. I’m about to ask
him what he’s thinking about when he asks, “How are you at storytelling?”
I roll to face him, and he’s lying on his back, his face angled toward the
ceiling. Storytelling? Does he want a bedtime story? I’m not following.
“Amateur, at best.”
Ledger’s mouth twitches before he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you
have a nightly routine? Something you do before bed to help you fall
asleep?”
I rise up on my elbow, curiosity sparked. “I don’t normally need much.
After my long days, my head hits the pillow and I’m out. Ashton hates it.” He
takes forever to find sleep, and my soft snores don’t help him. Ashton needs
complete silence. A soft chuckle spills from my lips, and my chest aches.
“Do you?”
“I read.” His head swivels on the cement to look at me. “Doesn’t matter
how tired I am, or how late it is. With how much my mind runs, I have to
sneak in a chapter or more. Most of the time more to quiet my thoughts.”
Ledger wets his lips before rubbing them together, as if he’s gaining courage
to ask me a question. “It’s really hard to find sleep under these circumstances,
and even harder without a book.”
He really does want me to tell him a bedtime story. “You said you like
science fiction? I can’t say I know many stories like that.”
A fraction of a smile climbs up one side of Ledger’s mouth. I crave his
smiles more and more each day. Anything kind in this less than humane
environment.
“It doesn’t have to be sci-fi. Anything. Tell me anything. A story from
when you were a kid, or some outlandish patient tale. I bet you have lots of
those. Hell, you could tell me the story of the Three Little Pigs, and I
wouldn’t care.”
Rather than deny him since I’m not much of an imaginator, I see this for
what it is. A cry for help, a distraction.
“You may end up regretting this, but here I go.” Reaching into the recesses
of my mind for a story I loved as a child, I scramble for the plot of a princess
who had to dress in a brown paper bag because a dragon burned down her
castle with all her clothes inside before stealing her future prince, and ad lib a
few details. After saving the prince by outsmarting the dragon, she ditched
him for being a pompous jerk. The best ending, one of my favorites.
I chuckle. I haven’t thought about that book since I was a little girl. I made
my parents read it to me almost every night until I was in middle school.
When I finish, the cell is silent. Nothing but a steady strain of low breaths.
I glance across the room. With his eyes closed, his prominent jawline
relaxed, Ledger lies asleep, his profile outlined by the gray background.
My lips curve up as I curl into the wall. I helped him fall asleep.
Now if only I could do the same.
 SIX

ledger

My stomach is eating itself. How long can the human body survive off half of
a frozen meal every other day and a shared glass of water once a day? A few
weeks? A month? I weigh around one hundred and eighty-five pounds. A lot
of it is muscle, but how long it’ll last, I’m not sure. I’ve probably lost several
pounds already.
I peer over at Maeve. She’s one of those women that can pull off the
natural, no make-up look. Sunkissed skin, pink bow-shaped lips, and dark
eyebrows that make her desolate blue eyes stand out. With her eyes wide
open, she stares at the dingy ivory paint peeling like dry skin on the opposite
wall as she lies on her side, delicate hands tucked under her head. She can’t
be more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. Hardly a lick of fat
on her bones. If she lasts longer than a month on what little food we’re given,
I’ll be amazed.
Will we even be that lucky? He’ll probably kill us before we get the
chance to die of starvation. Getting out of this alive is becoming more and
more unlikely.
“Do you think he’ll give us something to bathe with at any point?”
Maeve’s hoarse voice breaks through the silence. As with most days, we
haven’t spoken a word all day. Even when a puny frozen dinner was dropped
off with a small glass of water, we shared it the way we did the last two
times. Except there was no exchange of manners, offering to let the other eat
more, or drink more. After the plastic dish was licked clean, our stomachs
still groaned with hunger pangs.
It’s been at least a week in this place—rather that’s what I’ve gauged with
his taunting or shouted wake up calls—and while it’s like an icebox, I’ve
smelled better. A couple hundred hours without a shower isn’t ideal, even
without sweating.
“He’s given us a bucket to go to the bathroom twice a day and three frozen
dinners to eat with our fingers since we woke up here. I don’t think his
priority is cleanliness.”
She sits up. “Have you noticed his accent?”
“Yeah. It’s mixed with something though. Like a mashup of different
regions, but I can’t quite figure it out.”
“Me either.” Maeve slouches. “Do you think he’s always watching?”
Yes. If not always, most of the time. A man has to sleep at some point.
With our long hours of solitude, I’ve done my fair share of thinking. This
kidnapping was carefully planned, one-hundred percent premeditated. We’re
in an ancient, deserted building with a two-way speaker that looks straight
out of the second World War. No way was it originally wired with a camera.
So, somehow he came in and installed one in that metal box. If I could bash it
open with my bare hands I would, but I can’t reach it. And I wouldn’t have
the strength even if I could. It’s becoming harder and harder to keep up with
my push-ups. Even pacing is tiresome, but I have to move. I can’t remain still
or I’ll go insane.
I don’t want to add to Maeve’s fears, but I don’t want her to be so naïve
that she believes she could say or do anything unmonitored. All I do is nod to
answer her question.
“What if they don’t find us?”
My head tilts. “Losing hope already?”
“Seventy-two hours. Isn’t that what they say is the most critical in finding
a missing person? That the window closes for leads, evidence, everything.
Everything gets harder and harder. We’re past that mark, Ledger. We have to
be several days past that mark, and every day that passes makes it more
difficult. How many more days will it be?”
I wish I knew. “Many people have been found alive long after the seventy-
two-hour mark.”
 “Sure. The exceptions, but how many of those were caged in a freaking
impenetrable ten-by-ten cell with a psychopath?”
“I hope you’re not referring to me.”
Maeve pauses, and the briefest laugh escapes her before she clamps her
mouth shut and her shoulders shake. Not with laughter but tears. She attempts
to keep quiet as she has for days, silencing her cries, but she can’t hold it in
any longer. Gasps leak between each gut-wrenching sob behind the hand
clamped over her mouth.
Without thought, I shuffle to her on my knees, lining my back up with the
same wall and sit, our hips touching. Her cries don’t lessen, only growing
more uncontrollable and tragic as she bows her head. Snarled golden strands
veil her face. When it’s clean and styled, I bet her hair is beautiful. Long and
thick, cascading down her back, a subtle contrast against her light skin.
I don’t put my arm around Maeve, though that’s my first instinct. There
are no comforting words to share. All I do is sit and breathe with her. She’s
not alone. We’re not alone.
And that’s the only consolation in this realm of hell.

Crackle. “That’s enough of that.”

I’m not sure when I fell asleep, but I wake to our captor’s venomous voice.
The same startling voice as every other day. Maeve flinches, too, her head
having been resting against my shoulder. Lifting my head from hers, I stare at
the speaker, waiting for what he has to say to us.
“I’ve given you space to acclimate to your surroundings. I think you both
have slept enough over the course of the week to last you awhile.”
I don’t have the energy to ask him what he’s talking about, but when he
says nothing more, it’s clear he expects a response.
“Confined to a prison, I’m not sure what else we’re supposed to be doing.”
Maeve’s hand sweeps around the bleak room. “Perhaps maybe you’ll let us
take a bath instead of sleep.”
Her dauntless, snarky response tugs at the corners of my mouth.
Exhaustion must have smothered her fear.
“You want to bathe? Maybe a little spa treatment?” A caustic laugh
booms, clashing against my eardrums. “This isn’t the Four Seasons, Doc.
However, if you’re looking for a refined evening, how about a concert?”
Before we can question what he means, a distorted version of a song you
might hear at a circus or blared from an old ice cream truck bounces off the
walls of our cell. It’s not so loud it’s deafening, but it’s loud enough to keep a
person from logical thought, from any sleep.
Haunting in its melody. Creepy in its fractured delivery. On loop it plays,
over and over, no more than a half a minute clip. There’s a second of reprieve
at the end, a moment of hope that it’ll stop, until it picks up again.
It’s one song. There are worse forms of torture. Maeve and I can do this.
That’s my sentiment for the first couple of hours, but as the clip repeats, I
contemplate bashing my skull against the concrete. At least it’d be a quicker
death.
Sinister, disturbing, the music wobbles like it plays on a rickety record
player. Notes are offkey, missing altogether in parts. It’s enough to drive a
person to madness. I press the meat of my palms against my ears, but it does
nothing to drown out the sound.
Hours and hours pass. I close my eyes, but my brain can’t shut out the
music.
Cacophony.
Insanity.
 SEVEN

maeve
One week.
We’ve survived one full week. At least, that’s my best guess. A week of
starvation, dehydration, bitter coldness. And to top off the misery, this
maddening tune has replaced our moments of silence.
I hate him. I’ve never hated anyone in my life, but I really hate this man
without a face.
We didn’t sleep at all last night. There was no wake-up call this morning.
Though, is it morning? Is it the middle of the night? If the terrorizing melody
is our measure of time, an eternity has passed. I’ve aged thousands upon
thousands of years.
I lost count of the number of times it’s played on repeat. I stopped after
two hundred. It’s been at least a thousand more. My brain can’t formulate the
answer to a mathematical equation at the moment, but if I had to estimate, at
least twenty hours have gone by with this damn song ricocheting off the
walls.
Ledger and I haven’t been able to carry on a single conversation. Not that
we have anything to say other than how much we want to take a bat to that
speaker or die a slow, painful death rather than hear the tortuous song one
more time.
 As I lie on my back, the cold concrete a newly familiar surface, Ledger
paces. His eyes are streaked in red, his hair standing on end from countless
tugging. It’s so coated in natural oils, he could form it into any style and it’d
stay.
“Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop,” he murmurs, a quiet plea. I
can’t hear him, but I follow the movement of his lips. No matter how many
times we ask, it doesn’t do us any good. Whether the man behind the box
can’t hear us or he’s ignoring us, we get no respite.
Honestly, this is probably the anthem of our death. This is how the
puppeteer will kill us. Death by madness.
Puppeteer. It’s a fitting name for the man. The moment he called us
puppets, puppeteer is who he became. A cruel manipulator, dictating our new
life, the master of our surroundings.
He doesn’t talk to us all day. No contact. No food. No water. No bucket.
Nothing. Just this song. Not that I expected any sustenance today since we
got dinner yesterday, but it might’ve made this bearable for a few minutes
while we filled our bellies.
We don’t sleep. Has another night passed? I puke, but there isn’t much in
my stomach. Ledger and I resort to peeing in the corner—and thank goodness
that’s all we could do—not that there was much to pee. We’re bound to get
UTIs without more water. Then our kidneys will go. He’ll keep us alive just
enough to let our bodies fail slowly, painfully.

Eyes focused on the backs of my eyelids, the song ends. One second, two.
I wait for the excruciating first high note. A third second passes.
It doesn’t come.
I shoot up, and Ledger meets my eyes. Is it over?
Four.
Five seconds.
Silence.
It’s over. I cry. So does Ledger as he bends forward, falling to his knees.
A new bucket slides through the hatch at the base of the steel door, water
sloshing over the side. Before my brain processes what it means, the crackle
comes.
 “Bathe.”
I sob more because I want to be clean so badly.
Without wasting time, Ledger takes a step closer to me. “Go ahead. I’ll
shield you.” He wipes his face and turns his back, concealing me the best his
frame can from the camera in the corner.
“No,” the puppeteer bellows. “Each other.”
My head whips to the speaker. “What?”
“You wanted to wash up, so take off your clothes and bathe each other.
Your stench is wafting from there.”
“No.” Ledger wipes his fatigued face. “We’re perfectly capable of
washing ourselves.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
“You can’t force us to strip and wash each other.” I grit my teeth. The only
other man that’s seen me naked besides my husband is my gynecologist, and
I don’t plan on ever changing that. He’s stripped us of enough. He doesn’t get
all of our dignity.
“The bucket of water is appreciated, but please—” Ledger releases a
drained exhale— “give us this last speck of decency. We already have to piss
and crap in front of one another. Give us this.”
The puppeteer says nothing in return. Ledger and I share a look. A minute
passes.
“So, I take that as a go to bathe myself?” I ask, hopeful.
After I’m met with more silence, my eyes drift to Ledger. His jaw is
clenched, the dark scruff on his face now forming a short beard, as he bends
and carries the bucket to me.
“You can go first. I’ll turn my back.”
“Are you sure?” I peer inside. A washcloth and a bar of white soap blurs at
the bottom.
Ledger has to smell my bodily functions while he goes every day, I can
use the leftover water he uses to bathe. I don’t take the bucket. “You let me
go to the bathroom first. We should trade. You bathe first.”
“I do that just as much for myself as for your benefit. I’d rather not have
you—” His head cants, his eyes darting to the side, and I do the same. Does
he hear something, too?
Closer and closer footsteps pound, echoing down the hallway outside our
prison. The steel door swings open, and I scurry back against the wall,
retreating as far away as possible from the large figure looming in the
doorway. An outlined skull mask lit up in neon blue covers his face. Though
there are cutouts for his eyes, the glow obscures the details. Taller and wider
than Ledger, the puppeteer stalks toward him, the hood of his black
sweatshirt pulled over his head. Ledger takes a swing, but the puppeteer
anticipates the move and dodges his fist. After landing a blow to Ledger’s
ribs, our captor produces a syringe with his other hand and jabs it into his
neck.
I scream at him to stop, but it’s in vain. Ledger’s eyes close, and his limbs
wilt. My stare darts to the open exit. My one chance for freedom, one chance
to escape and find help, to save us both.
I take it.
Bolting, I don’t make it far when the man behind the mask hooks me
around the waist and throws me against the wall. The wind knocked out of
me, I remain on my back, blinking at the slate ceiling.
“Try me again, Doc.” His voice slices through my disorientation as he
hovers above me. “I’ve got one of these with your name on it in the other
pocket.”
I stop, my breath quivering, and he drags Ledger’s slack body from the
cell, kicking the full bucket of water over and slamming the door behind him.
“Where are you taking him?” I shout, maneuvering to my knees as I clutch
my sore back. “What are you going to do? Don’t hurt him! Please don’t hurt
him! Don’t leave me alone in here!”
My chest heaves as I stare at the closed door, panic plunging into my
heart. I can’t do this alone. Stranger or not, he’s my crutch. The one thing
holding me up at this point.
If I’d been faster, could I have made it out of here? Could I have saved
Ledger and me?

Hours pass. I’ve bashed my fists against the door with nothing but the
echo of my flesh. I’ve screamed at the speaker, but I haven’t gotten a single
response. I don’t know if Ledger is coming back, and if he does, what kind of
condition he’ll be in.
I haven’t slept in too long, but not knowing what’s happening to Ledger
keeps me wide awake, circling an endless loop of what ifs, imagining the
worst. What if he doesn’t come back? What if I have to do this alone? What
if disobeying got him killed?
Pacing, my fists closed around the roots of my hair, I sob before dropping
to my knees and rocking against the wall. A muffled sound reaches my ears,
like a sack of potatoes being dragged across the floor. I inch closer to the
entrance and stumble back when the door flings open. Smashing into the
concrete wall, the puppeteer holds the metal open as he drops Ledger inside,
his body slumped into a pile of tissue and bones. Then the steel slams shut.
I rush forward, bending down. “Ledger?”
He groans. He’s alive!
“Are you okay?” I tug on his shoulder, rolling him to his back. His bottom
lip is split, blood streaking his chin and neck, a bruise already forming around
his left eye.
“Ledger,” I say, breathless.
When I try to sit him up, he hisses in pain.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Where else are you hurt?”
“I’m…fine.” The two words take effort.
“Like hell you are. What did he do to you?”
Another pained groan leaves Ledger as he rolls to sit up. And then the
hatch shrieks open and another fresh bucket of water slides through.
I ignore it, cradling his head. “It’s okay. Don’t talk. Just rest. Lie back
down.”
Tan skin peeks through a tear at the sleeve of his black shirt, a darkened
spot at the collar. Probably blood from his lip.
“That’s not…” He swallows and clears his throat. “…allowed.”
Crackle. “Bathe him.” A demand. One I’m not going to question again.
With Ledger barely coherent, I kneel beside him with tears in my eyes.
Carefully, I peel his tattered, blood-splattered shirt over his head. He helps
me the best he can, but every motion draws a wince. His torso is a piece of
disturbing abstract art, splattered in smudges of different shades of reds and
purples.
Submerging my hand to grab the washcloth and bar of soap, I tense up at
the glacial water. Ice cubes float on the surface. Was there ice in there before
and I didn’t notice? Or is this added punishment for resisting? As if the cell
isn’t cold enough, let’s add hypothermia to the mix. Smelling like a dead
animal is better than a dangerous drop in our body temperatures, but if it
means protecting Ledger from another beating, I’ll make the sacrifice.
“You wanted to be clean,” the puppeteer bellows. “Clean him.”
Okay. Inhaling, I mentally prepare. I’m a doctor—for women—but
nevertheless, I can keep this clinical, professional. I’m nothing more than a
caregiver. So the man has toned abs and a defined V. He’s also covered in
blooming bruises and cuts. A few days ago, seeing him shirtless would have
turned me into a gawking married woman, but after witnessing the horror of
what he’s been through, after enduring the torture of the hours he’s been
gone, his body structure is the furthest thing from my mind.
As I run the soapy washcloth over his battered body, goosebumps sprout
along his skin and he shivers. Coming across more broken and discolored
skin along his ribs and lower back, outrage simmers in my belly. What did
that sadist use? His fists? Boot? A baseball bat? All of the above? I’m extra
careful around those areas, Ledger tensing with each stroke.
“I’m so sorry.”
His head shakes, a feeble gesture of forgiveness. “Just finish.”
When I’m done with his torso, he stands to try and undress his lower half,
but it takes so long, the puppeteer barks, “Help him. With all of it.”
Averting my eyes, I work his pants down his legs and off his ankles as
Ledger places a hand on my shoulder to steady himself. When I bring my
hands back up, they pause at his waist. I can’t bring myself to remove his
boxer briefs. No matter how impersonal I try to make this, it doesn’t make it
any less intimate.
Crackle. “Do it. Now.”
Fearing the consequences, I push aside my reservations and slip my
fingers into the waistband, careful where my hands touch. “I’m a doctor,
remember?”
With a subtle nod, Ledger cups both hands between his legs, the only form
of modesty he’s allowed. I suck in a breath when my gaze lands on his right
thigh, a deep purple mark the size of my head developing. What did he do to
you, Ledger?
“It looks worse than it feels,” he murmurs.
“Somehow I doubt that.”
I didn’t hear any echoes of Ledger’s cries of agony while he was being
tormented. Did he not make a sound? Or is this place so large I couldn’t hear
a thing?
“Do you…?” My gaze darts to his large, cupped hands and back to his
eyes.
His subtle head shake is enough, and we’re given a modicum of mercy
when the puppeteer doesn’t contradict Ledger’s response. His glutes tense
when I clean his thighs, and I turn my head, careful with my motions not to
get too personal.
“Your turn, Doc. And, Abbott, pick up the pace. We don’t have all day.
Oh, wait…” A menacing chuckle reverberates as I help Ledger put his
clothes back on.
Since I bear no injuries, I undress myself, leaving my jeans on at first, as
Ledger did. I turn my back to the camera and hold my arm across my breasts,
shielding myself the best I can from our monster of an abductor. Better he
sees my back than my front. A shiver ripples through my limbs, and the ice
water hasn’t even touched me yet.
Ledger sits by the bucket, wielding no strength, and I kneel at his level.
When I try to take the washcloth from him, the crackle rattles through the
speaker. “Would you like Ledger to receive a round two? Or maybe you’d
like a turn?”
I draw my hand back like the suds scald me. Ledger’s in enough pain; I
want to reduce his movements as much as possible. And I’m no prude, but
that doesn’t mean I’m comfortable with an unfamiliar male bathing my naked
body. A lone tear escapes before I can stop it.
With more gentleness than he’s shown, Ledger says, “I’ll do my best not
to look, Maeve. Okay?”
His kind offer brings marginal comfort, but comfort nonetheless. Ledger
might be a stranger, but after a week with him, I trust him, too. If he says he
won’t look, he won’t.
He works at a slower pace, his beaten limbs only allowing him to move so
quickly. Even as I remove my dirt-stained pants and underwear, I use one
arm to shield my chest, and the other between my legs. True to his word,
Ledger averts his eyes with a furrowed brow and curled lips. He only draws
them back when outlining my covered parts, keeping a safe distance. I
tremble at his touch, but mostly because his hands are frozen.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, a look of disgust tinging his facial features. Is he in
pain? Or does he have some aversion to my bare body? He glowers like my
skin personally offends him.
“It’s all right. Not like you have a heater to warm the washcloth. I’m sure
it wasn’t any warmer for you.”
“I meant for touching you in places I’d deck a man for touching my wife.”
Oh, right. I nod, readjusting the hold on my body. Ashton would have to
understand, considering the circumstances. While I’m sure Ledger’s wife
wouldn’t be too happy either, they’d rather us make it out alive. If the roles
were reversed, I’d beg Ashton to do everything in his power to come back to
me.
“We do what we have to do to survive, Ledger.”
Wincing, he reaches around to suds up my back, and I turn to give him a
better angle. “That’s my fear,” he whispers. “What else will we have to do to
make it out alive?”
 EIGHT

ledger
I’m sweating my balls off, and I have to ask, is this heaven?
Even though Maeve and I agreed to sleep close for body heat, it wasn’t
close enough because I fell asleep shivering. I should’ve just wrapped my
arms around her, but I haven’t reached that level of desperation yet.
Ever since we bathed however many days ago, I haven’t been able to heat
up. Not that we’ve been able to get warm so far, but before I could handle it.
Then we were doused in ice water. An ache that will live inside me forever.
The chill was bone deep. Until this morning.
Yesterday I attempted to continue the job Maeve did by trying to remove
the splinters from the blanket, but I only got halfway through before my
fingers were bloody, so I took another break. Even with trading the pair of
socks, the cold cuts through.
When I open my eyes, a heater is set up at the base of the door, the cord
fed through the bottom of the closed hatch. Considering he’s given us the
silent treatment these last several days, not even saying a word when he’s
dropped off the glass of water and frozen dinner, or the bathroom bucket, the
heater is curious.
“Am I hallucinating or is that a space heater?” Maeve’s feeble voice pulls
my attention as she sits up next to me, rubbing her eyes.
 “He must have set it up at some point while we slept.”
She gets to her feet and crouches before it, holding out her hands. “I don’t
think I’ve been more grateful to feel my hands and feet.”
How we missed the screeching of the hatch is beyond me. Granted, I
wouldn’t be surprised if one of us fell asleep and never woke up again. We’re
running on so little. Four frozen dinners, split in half. That’s what we’ve
eaten so far. And hopefully another today since we didn’t get one yesterday.
I can still hardly move after what he did to me. Between his fists and his
damn boot, I’m surprised I’m able to move at all. The bat he kept propped up
in the corner of the concrete room was enough to keep me compliant. The
more I showed resilience, the harder he went to town on me.
“He’s giving us an actual gift.” She peeks over her shoulder. “What do
you think the catch is?”
A realization nails me, sinking my hopes. “Maybe one necessity will be
replaced with another. No food or bathroom bucket today.”
“After being frozen for however many days in a row, I’ll survive on no
food or peeing in the corner until tomorrow. Sorry.”
While I could go for some sustenance, I snort. “I’m inclined to agree with
you.” I wasn’t going to be able to last much longer without warmth and
Maeve’s sneezing kept waking me, so hopefully this helps her, too.
She sits down in front of the heater and faces me, warming her back. “The
things we take for granted.”
“Like toilets and regular meals?”
“Ha. And blankets and socks.”
Being able to kiss my wife and tell her I love her. Even the feel of her cold
feet between my legs in bed or her inedible dinners—she tries. The scalp
massage she gives me whenever I lay my head in her lap. And her ability to
make any situation entertaining. It’s the whole reason I even suggested
Maeve and I play games. I wondered what would Becca do in this situation?
How would she survive?
If Becca were here with me, this would be bearable. Not that Maeve is an
insufferable cellmate. I just miss my wife.
I’ve gone back and forth between bouts of optimism and despair, this
constant battle within. I keep telling myself we’ll make it out. We’ll be found.
I’ll see my wife again. While the pessimist in me, the louder of the two, the
one who keeps reliving the boot to the back and the fist to the stomach,
prepares for death.
 If only I could compartmentalize, hold the pessimist in his own prison so I
wouldn’t have to continue living in the horror of that dehumanizing beating,
then I could aim my attention at something more productive like who he is
and why he’s doing this to us.
He took breaks, would chain me up in a concrete room similar to our cell
but smaller, and let me sleep for what felt like seconds. And just when I
thought it was over, that he’d bring me back to our jail, to Maeve, the man
behind the skull mask would begin again. And if that’s his retaliation every
time we disobey, I can never let him get his hands on Maeve. She won’t
come out alive.
“When we get out of here, what’s the first thing you’ll eat?”
I slide my gaze across the dreary room, blinking away moisture.
“When.” I lift a barely-there smirk. “I’m going for the biggest, fattest,
juiciest medium rare steak. With a side of garlic mashed potatoes and grilled
asparagus.”
She makes a hum of ravenous approval. “Burger. I could really go for a
double cheeseburger. With crispy salty fries. And a Diet Coke.”
“Atta girl.”
At the mention of food, my stomach groans.
“Think we’ll get to eat today?” she asks.
“I don’t know, but at least we’ll be warm.”

It’s hot, too hot. I’ve sweat so much I’m faint. Maeve and I were so
comfortable and warm, we both fell asleep. And now I’m lying in a pool of
my own perspiration, glaring at the metal space heater. How long has it been
on? How long did we sleep? The hanging bulbs’ constant flicker disguises
the time of day. What I wouldn’t give for a glass of water, or a gallon.
“I can’t breathe.” Maeve sits up from her resting place in front of the hot
box. “We have to shut this thing off.”
I move beside her as she searches for a switch. Our eyes latch onto it at the
same time. It’s busted, permanently on unless unplugged.
As if noticing what we’re seeking, his voice crackles through the speaker.
“You wanted warmth. Here it is.”
“So, that’s it,” she says. “You’re going to flip us from being on the verge
of hypothermia to a heat stroke? We’ve got starvation checked off the list.
What’s next, more sleep deprivation? Delirium? Maybe a stroke would make
you happy.”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
When I reach for the cord to tug, his threatening voice reverberates.
“Touch it. See what happens.”
I’ll take another beating at this point. Anything to make the stifling heat
stop. But even as I give the plastic-encased wire a tug, it doesn’t budge,
probably secured somehow on the other side.
I slump back on my rear beside a prone Maeve—whose face is plastered to
the concrete floor, seeking any coldness—and hang my head, unable to hold
it up any longer.
My stomach churns with a familiar stir of sickness. I haven’t puked yet,
but it’s only a matter of time. My head hurts so bad I can’t think straight, the
skin of my hands and feet the color of a lobster and hot to the touch. Maeve
calls my name, but it’s slurred, a distant echo. Black splotches appear before
my eyes, my head foggy.
And then darkness.
 NINE

maeve

“I thought you two were stronger than this. A little heat knocked you on your
asses.” The puppeteer’s voice filters through my haze. “Drink.”
Huh?
I pry my eyes open and find the space heater is gone. There are two full
glasses of water waiting on a tray in front of the hatch, as well as two frozen
dinners.
Two? Is this a trap?
“Ledger,” I croak, swiveling my head to my cell companion, but he
doesn’t budge. I crawl toward him against the back wall, my left shoulder
knocking into the cement with each sway. I rasp his name again once at his
side, but there’s nothing. Oh no. Oh, no, no, no. With no response, I check for
a pulse at the base of his neck. Please be alive. His skin is on fire, and there’s
still blood pumping through his veins. His heart’s still functioning. For how
much longer, I don’t know.
Whether the water is laced with drugs or not, Ledger needs it. I carry a
glass to him and kneel with my back to the wall for support, propping him up
against me.
Tapping his cheek, I hold the cup with a tremoring hand to his chapped
lips, trying to regulate my rapid-pumping lungs. “C’mon, Ledger. Take a sip
for me.”
With the cold glass against his mouth, he opens a fraction, but it’s enough.
I tilt the drink, and as if on instinct, his body takes control, swallowing little-
by-little.
“There we go. Keep drinking. Little sips.”
He finishes the whole glass before opening his eyes. Wiping his mouth, he
shifts on trembling arms to sit himself up. “Thanks.”
“We have food, too.” I knock my head toward the plastic tray.
His stare grows confused, noting the same thing I did. Two meals, and
another glass of water.
We eye the offering before us, glancing at one another, then to the speaker.
As if reading our minds, the puppeteer speaks. “I can’t have you dying on
me yet. Now I know your limit. How little food and water you need to
survive on.”
I could’ve told you that, jackass. And that freaking heater didn’t do us any
favors.
“It’s been an interesting experiment. If you don’t piss me off, you’ll each
get your own meal and glass of water every day from now on. Hold tight. Our
fun has only just begun.”
Fear and exhaustion mingle, swirling and settling in for the unforeseeable
future. I honestly don’t know how much more I can take.
“Stay here,” I say. “I’ll bring the tray over.”
Ledger nods his thanks, his green eyes heavy and drained.
We eat in silence, and while our bellies are fuller than the other days, mine
still complains about the space it wants to fill. Even with the added amount of
food, it’s only a matter of time before our muscles will atrophy. A few bites
of processed food every day won’t sustain us. Survive, maybe. But not thrive.
After the tray is swiped through the hatch, we sit side-by-side, staring at
the steel door. Each day we’ve thrown out possible connections to try and
figure out why we were taken together, but we’ve come up empty so far.
It’s a long shot, but I ask Ledger, “Where did you go to high school?”
“Andover Prep. You?”
I don’t know anyone who went there. I grew up in a well to do family, but
not that well to do. “Greenfield.” We were an hour and a half away from each
other growing up, so it’s not likely it was something that far back.
Ledger nods like he’s contemplating, but when he says nothing, it’s clear
we have no ties there. We didn’t go to the same college. He’s never even set
foot in the hospital I work in. And while I’ve heard of Abbott Industries,
because who hasn’t, I know nothing about the tech company. We’re running
out of ideas.
“I guess the more important question is, how old are you?” If we’re not
even close in age, where we went to school won’t make a difference.
“Twenty-seven,” he says. “You?”
“Thirty.”
A few years apart, but not an insignificant amount.
“There may be no connection at all, Maeve. Sometimes there’s no rhyme
or reason. He’s just a disturbed psychopath who decided to prey on two
people.”
“You’re ready to give up that easily?”
“I’m not giving up, but if there’s no connection between us, we’re wasting
our energy. We could be focusing on something else, and what would it
matter anyway? We’d still be stuck here.”
“What exactly should we focus on? Gaining superhuman strength to break
through a fortified door? Or maybe conjuring up equipment to build a
telephone? Oh, maybe with our powers combined we can teleport out of
here.”
Ledger doesn’t respond right away, eyeing me with strained patience.
“Look. You’re scared and frustrated, I get it, but your sass isn’t helpful.”
“Then tell me, Ledger. What is it we should be focusing on?”
“How to get out of here.” He says it so matter of fact, like escaping is
actually a possibility.
I trap a scoff before it slips out. “And what do you suggest? We’re
unarmed. Not just ill equipped but completely powerless.”
With his eyebrow cocked, his eyes slant with a scheme, almost as if
saying, We outsmart him.
Doubt is written all over my face.
“Just pay attention, Maeve,” he whispers, urging me to catch his
underlying meaning. “Don’t let a single detail slip past you.”
 TEN

maeve
If we count the number of meals we’ve been given, we’re somewhere around
the two-week mark. I think. Since he decided to feed us every day instead of
every other, it’s easier to keep track, and our brains aren’t as sluggish.
Since we met seven years ago, I’ve never gone more than a weekend
without Ashton, and that was only because I went on a girl’s trip with my
sisters. No men allowed. Otherwise, I’d have dragged him along with me. I
work long hours, but we always make time for each other at home. What is
he doing without me?
Sitting on opposite sides of the cell with our backs to the walls, my stare
meets Ledger’s. “What time do you think it is?”
“Noon, maybe? We’ve been awake for a while.”
A while. A bit. A long time. That’s how we keep time. There are no
minutes, no hours or seconds. Aside from meals, we only have our morning
wake up calls to gauge our days, and that’s assuming it’s morning when he
wakes us. Instead of speaking to us, the puppeteer has been blasting a
recording of a bugle horn through the speaker for the last week. It’s enough
to give a perfectly healthy person a heart attack.
“Food and the second bucket seem to come around the same time every
day. Five o’clock-ish, maybe?” I prop my knees up, folding my arms over my
chest. The chill has once again set into the air since he took the space heater
away, but it’s tolerable. “Do you think he has a job? Or do you think he stays
and watches us all day, scheming our next form of torture?” Is he watching us
now? Listening in?
Ledger’s eyes drift to the metal box. “If he has a job, it doesn’t have
regular hours because he’s around more than the early mornings and
evenings.”
True. Details. What kind of jobs have irregular hours? Blue collar
professions tend to. Is there a job that would have access to a place like this?
This abandoned building we’re incarcerated in. If only we knew more about
our prison. What exactly it is, and where.
“Or hell, our hours could be all off, and he works a normal nine-to-five
while we sleep and he wakes us at night.”
Shutting my eyes against the unsteady gleam, I brainstorm because there’s
nothing else I can do. If I had epilepsy this strobing dim light would be sure
to spiral me into a seizure. I miss the sun. And the moon, the stars. I only
know darkness behind the backs of my eyelids. Though, if he were to
descend us into pure pitch black, it’d be worse.
“Do you think he could be working with someone?” I ask. “They could be
taking shifts delivering our food and buckets? Even if it’s not at the same
time every day, we still get them.”
Ledger eyes me. “If there’s someone else, why haven’t we heard from
them or seen them?”
“He’s protecting them?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. It’d make sense, and that opens a slew of new
possibilities.”
A familiar wetness dampens my underwear between my legs, and tears
prick the backs of my eyes. Please no. Not right now. This was bound to
happen, but I hoped we’d be found before it did. To be sure, I turn my back
to the camera and Ledger, wriggling my pants down the best I can without
exposing my backside. Sure enough, deep red stains my underwear.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
“Start your period?”
“Good guess.”
“I have a wife. I’m familiar with the monthly visitor.”
I have ten minutes or less until my pants are soaked through. Why have I
never thought to keep the toilet paper in the cell with us when we return the
bathroom bucket?
Stepping up on wavering legs to the speaker, I make my voice as polite as
I can. “Can I please get some tampons or pads?” I’ll even take a rag or toilet
paper, but I won’t tell him that. Anything to save the one pair of pants I have.
The underwear is toast.
“A little blood won’t kill you.”
A little blood? A little blood? I guess the man’s never had to bleed for five
days straight from his penis. He gives us toilet paper to wipe with. A
tampon’s no different, sir. I can’t help bleeding the same way he can’t help
taking a dump.
It takes everything in me to hold my tongue. I don’t want to find out what
he’d do if I provoked him. Talking back won’t get me anywhere.
“You can take part of my shirt.”
“I’m not letting you ruin your clothes.”
“The same way you have to ruin yours?”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Exactly. I do.” Ledger takes the edge of his shirt.
“Don’t. It won’t do me much good anyway. It’d soak through in less than
an hour and then you’re down a shirt, and I’m in the same place all over
again. This can’t be fixed with one strip of cotton.”
But fifteen minutes later, schlink, the hatch opens and a single tampon is
tossed in before slamming shut.
He caved? And unless he was prepared for my period, which I seriously
doubt, we have to be close enough to civilization for him to be able to get one
and come back. Granted, the man installed a security camera in a WW2
speaker, he could’ve been prepared for this, too.
I’ve never been more grateful to see a plastic applicator, but… “I realize
it’s a lot to ask, but I’ll need more than one.”
“You’ll get more when I want to give you more.”
So, I’ll bleed through my pants no matter what. Peachy.
“Ledger, would you mind shielding me?”
No questions asked, he walks over and turns his back to me.
After inserting it, I slip the plastic applicator back in the wrapper and set it
in the empty corner where we use the bucket to go to the bathroom.
“Sorry. Unless he gives me the bucket when I have to take it out, I’ll have
to put my tampon there.”
“Don’t apologize for being a woman. It might be a progressive concept,
but I’m not squeamish about periods.”
I wouldn’t take Ledger for a squeamish guy, but that doesn’t mean used
hygiene products aren’t gross. I can get Ashton to buy tampons at the store,
but he gets faint at the sight of blood. Any blood, but especially his own. So
if he had to look at a pile of used tampons, I can’t say he’d handle it well.
A couple hours later, a box of super tampons gets tossed inside. Not the
cheap gas station bathroom type either.
So, he’ll let us starve and dehydrate and only let us go to the bathroom in a
bucket twice a day, but he’s willing to give me name-brand feminine
products? He makes little sense, but I’m not going to complain. They
probably belong to his wife.
The puppeteer says nothing, but I thank him anyway. Like the submissive
victim I am. Kidnap me and torment me, but thank you for giving me a
humane necessity. Though, if a little bit of gratitude will grant us a little bit of
mercy, I won’t stop.
As much of an inconvenience as my period is, it helps me track our time.
Before I was kidnapped, I was halfway through my cycle. So, that two week
guess was pretty accurate.
Two damn weeks.
I hate this place.

After a bit, Ledger’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “You haven’t

mentioned any yet, but I don’t want to assume. Do you have any kids?”
It’s a normal question. If you’re married, people want to know if you have
kids. I’ve asked the same question many times before. But if your answer is
no, then most want to know if you want any. And if you’re nearing or over
thirty, they’ll tell you you’d better hurry up because your clock is ticking. Or
tell you you’re not getting any younger. Or joke about how fun the trying part
is.
I don’t fault Ledger for asking. We’re running out of things to talk about.
It’s just not as simple as a yes or no answer for me.
“One.” My answer is a choked whisper as I meet Ledger’s gaze. “I have
one.”
“Boy or girl?”
My index finger captures a tear before it trails down my cheek. “A boy.”
If he catches onto my grief, Ledger doesn’t let on. “What’s his name?”
Holding my head higher, I say, “His name was going to be Leo. A year
and a half ago, he was stillborn at nine months.”
Ledger pauses, his stare drooping with regret. “I’m sorry, Maeve. I didn’t
mean— I’m sorry.”
I wave off his apology. It’s a conversation for another time, not one while
my mental state is already hanging by a thread.
“It must be really difficult in your field, seeing babies born every day.”
Like a mallet swinging at my heart, I clutch my chest, but even still… “I’d
much rather deliver healthy babies, than the alternative.”
His gaze shifts to the cracked floor. “Yeah, I imagine you’ve seen your
share of loss.”
I nod. “I lost my first mom and baby about a year ago.” I’ll never forget
her or her baby. And since then, I’ve seen too many mothers lose their babies.
“I wouldn’t wish that pain upon anyone.”
A tenderness Ledger has yet to show me crosses his features, but it’s the
kind of sympathy that instantly draws tears, so I swallow the lump in my
throat. “What about you? Any children?”
He shakes his head, eyes falling to the stone ground once more. “Becca
wasn’t ready. We talked about trying in a year or two after I become CFO.
My father has been grooming me for that position for years.”
“Took me a few years to be ready. I was neck deep in school and then the
beginning of my residency, and the stress was too much to try to grow a little
human at the same time.”
“Yeah, I don’t fault Becca. I’d much rather try when she’s ready than have
her resent me for pushing her into it.”
I smile through the sheen of moisture in my eyes and clear my throat.
“Smart man.”
And then the reality of our conversation sets in, our expressions stalling,
plunging. We may never get the chance to start our own families. I may never
be able to give Ashton another child, to see him be a father, to share those life
moments with him.
With my stare having drifted and latching on to the ashy peeling paint
above Ledger’s head, he grabs my attention. “Hey, Maeve. Look at me.”
When I drag my focus to him, he offers an encouraging nod. “You’re still
going to get the chance to try again. We’re going to make it out of here.”
I return a bob of my head. If I agree, send out positive vibes into the
universe, that’ll make it happen. I used to believe that, but when
circumstances are out of your control, does that really have the same effect?
 Maybe.
“We might be outside of that seventy-two-hour period, but not all is lost.
They’ll find us.”
Low on hope, I grasp onto Ledger’s.
 ELEVEN

ledger
Days pass without word from our captor. Bugle, bucket, food, bucket.
Repeat. Every day like clockwork, but his silence is deafening. And bizarre.
Being trapped in such a confined space day after day is enough to turn a
sane person psychotic. My muscles are still sore from the beating I took. Not
that sleeping on the hard ground is doing me any favors. What I wouldn’t
give for a massage from Becca and her magic hands. Like Pavlov’s dog, the
thought of even her name sends a razor-sharp current straight to my heart.
It should be a relief not to hear from him, and in a way it is. But then the
spiral of thought comes into play. How much longer do we have? Why isn’t
he saying anything, following through on his threats? Is he concocting further
torment? The silence is its own form. Anticipation of what’s to come,
questioning how much worse it’ll get, when he’ll return. And when he does,
will it be the end of us? How will it end for us? Does he already have a plan
for our death? How much longer will he keep us alive before that day comes?
And my hell, why? Why are we in this godforsaken place?
We’ve almost been in this prison for three-weeks, give or take a few days.
At least according to our mode of keeping a calendar. Our wake up calls and
meals. If we had a rock or something, at least then we could tally our days on
the wall.
 Over half a month.
So, we should be around the end of April, first of May, maybe. Will the
cell become a livable temperature in the summer, or will we remain in this
icebox? I’m bashed upside the head by another train of thought. I’m planning
our summer here, like we won’t be rescued before then or we’ll still be alive.
And the fact that we’ve gone so many days without seeing or hearing from
him leads me to believe he’s in this for the long haul. He has no fear of being
caught. No concern with speeding up this suffering he promises. He wants us
weak, too sickly to fight back.
When the hatch opens and the tray with our meal of the day slides through,
my stomach no longer groans with hunger but rolls with revulsion. I think
I’ve eaten more chicken fried steaks in this prison than I have in my entire
life. It’s always the same frozen dinner. We’re not graced with the gift of
variety. Just green beans, mashed potatoes, and a chicken fried steak with
gray gravy.
Neither of us moves from our spots on opposite walls, frowning at the
food. We should be scrambling for the morsels in the lukewarm
microwavable dishes, the only sustenance keeping us alive.
“I’m so hungry, but I might throw up again if I have to eat another bite of
that wannabe meat.” Maeve cinches her arm around her middle.
“I had the same thought.” Tapping into her doctor brain, I ask, “If we
refuse to eat, how long would we survive on water?”
She shrugs. “If we had more than a single glass a day, we could probably
survive a month or so, but with barely twelve ounces. A week, tops.
Especially since we’ve been surviving on minimal nutrition and calories as it
is. Our bodies aren’t strong enough.”
Crackle. “You’re ungrateful for your choice of food?”
“No, no.” Maeve is quick to jump in. And I get it. He’d probably take the
frozen dinner away or give us worse to punish us for grumbling, like dog
food or something equally revolting. “Not at all.”
Maeve scrambles to her feet and sits cross-legged by the tray, picking up
one of the slim black containers.
“Do you agree with Dr. Campbell, Abbott, or would you like a new
selection?”
It takes everything in me to bite my tongue. “This is fine. Thank you.” I
settle beside Maeve and pick up the other dish.
I’ve never considered what it’s like to never have privacy. To not have a
single second of the day to breathe in peace. There’s an unrelenting tick
inside my head reminding me I’m being watched. Even while we sleep, he’s
there.
Always there.
Eating with our fingers, we choke down what we’re given because it’s our
only option. When we set our empty glasses on the tray beside the stack of
plastic, the door swings wide and I stumble back, the tray flying across the
room.
Lightning fast he snatches Maeve and injects her neck.
“Wait a second.” I crawl forward, getting to my feet. “What are you
doing?”
Before I have a second to ask another question, he whips around and
knocks me upside the head. The door shuts with me inside before I can catch
my breath.
I ram my fists into the steel. “Maeve!”

I’ve done nothing but pace. He’s had her for too long when the schlink
fills the air and the door opens.
Tossing Maeve inside, he says, “Don’t ever think I can’t hear or see you
because you can’t hear or see me. I have eyes on you at all times.”
As the metal is slamming shut, I’m kneeling beside her, helping her sit up.
“Damn it, Maeve.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry he does this to you.” She spits out blood, tears
streaming through the grime and crimson caked on her cheeks.
I examine her split lip and swelling eye. There’s something about seeing a
woman in this battered state. It ignites the deepest level of my temper, and
even deeper level of helplessness. I want him to experience the same pain, the
same beating.
No. I want him to experience worse.
I tuck her into my arms. “I’ll never let him take you again.”

After we’ve used our bathroom bucket for the evening, the hatch where we
set it all to be removed opens, leaving the bucket before slamming shut. And
then the steel door swings open again. Maeve scrambles back, cowering into
the corner.
There he stands in the doorway. Mask on, hood up, hands gloved. His
throat is the only piece of skin not covered, but there’s nothing
distinguishable about it. No tattoos or scars. Not a birthmark or jewelry. He’s
a light-skinned guy, and that’s all I can determine.
“Get up,” he says to me.
I shouldn’t, but I take my time. Mainly because I don’t have the energy to
move any faster, but also I want to piss him off for hurting Maeve.
His huff of irritation is all the triumph I get before he latches onto my arm,
yanking me forward.
First, he cuffs my wrists in front of me, then kneels and locks my ankles in
another set of cuffs, a long metal tether connecting the two, as if I were an
actual inmate. “What? No sedative?”
“Shut your mouth or I’ll change my mind.”
“What are you doing? Why are you handcuffing him?” Maeve inches
closer, but keeps a safe distance.
“I’m sick of disposing of your crap.” He thrusts the metal handle of the
bathroom bucket into my hand. “Move. You’re going to do it today.”
Nudging me out of the cell hard enough for me to stumble and catch
myself, Maeve shouts after us. “Don’t hurt him! Please don’t hurt him!”
The last time he dragged me from the concrete room, I couldn’t walk for
days. When I was in high school, I got into my fair share of fights, but none
ever left me in as much pain as he did. There’s a dark rage surging through
his veins. A rage no normal human being carries.
His callous voice releases a dry chuckle. “It’s funny how she thinks her
pleas play a part in my decisions. If anything, they fuel me in the other
direction.”
Not wanting to provoke him, I stay quiet, trying not to spill our bucket
with my unequal steps and confined wrists. There are three more doors, not
nearly as many as my foggy brain imagined the last time he dragged me
through here. So, not an abandoned mental asylum. And other than a few
lights like the one in our cell to light the way, there’s not much on the walls.
This place has got to be generator powered.
When we reach another steel door at the end of the short corridor, he flings
a cloth around my eyes, tying it tighter than necessary.
Losing my sense of sight, I rely on my hearing as he opens and closes the
metal door behind us. Our feet shuffle along the concrete floors, grit grinding
underneath our feet as we go.
“Pick up the pace, Abbott. I won’t steer you wrong. Neither of us wants
that waste spilling.”
Then why don’t you carry it? I bite my tongue.
“There’s a ladder. Hand me the bucket. Climb.”
A ladder? I wasn’t fully conscious when he dragged me back to our cell
the last time, but I recognize enough that we didn’t make it this far. It’s a bit
more challenging handcuffed, but the rungs aren’t far apart. I have to use my
elbows, clinging to each rung. Seven of them.
And then once the scuff of his boots land beside me, he forces the bucket
back into my hands and steers me down another empty corridor. At least, I
think that’s what it is. It echoes like one. But it’s even shorter than the first.
“Step up,” he grunts. “There’s a flight of stairs.”
I count each step. Eight stairs. And another flight. Two flights. Eight steps
each. What is this place? Something he built to torture people? Are we not his
first? A shudder shreds through me.
“Move aside.”
Schlink. Another door and then warmth touches my skin, a light breeze
ruffling my hair and tattered T-shirt.
Outside. We’re outside.
I inhale the freshness. I almost forgot what the outside smells like.
“Keep it moving. I’m not wasting my whole evening watching you bury
your feces.”
A rod gets shoved into my free hand and I clasp it.
“Set the bucket beside you and dig.”
Dig? Why can’t I just dump it in a toilet? I don’t risk a retort. “Just right in
front of me?”
“Yes, dumbass. Don’t ask moronic questions.”
I should take the shovel to his head, but even if I made contact, how far
would I get cuffed and blindfolded? The blindfold could go easily enough,
but these cuffs on my ankles would trip me up before I made it two feet.
My progress is slow in my current state, unable to find the exact spot I
need every time to make the hole deep enough. I can’t even enjoy the fresh
air, my whole body aching in places I never knew existed. But rather than
focus on me, I do what I told Maeve. Pay attention.
Without my sight, I concentrate on the surrounding sounds. A gust rustling
leaves and an owl hoots not far off. While knowing if there are trees or not
isn’t the most telling indication of setting, it’s a start. We could probably
check off being close to the coast as I can’t smell the ocean. A waft of
something sharp, almost minty fills my nose. Is that pine? I’m not a tree
enthusiast, but that’s a fairly distinct smell.
And if I strain hard enough, the dull hum of a passing car reaches me. Not
close, but if there are sparse trees and not a forest, I’d probably be able to see
a road in the distance. If I were to wave my arms in the air, could they see
me? Or would that just get my skull bashed in?
“Easy, easy! You’re flinging dung on our pants. Now I’m gonna have to
hose you down.”
I hate that his terse comment makes me flinch. I was raised not to back
down from anyone, and here I am recoiling from a coward who won’t even
show his face.

By the time we make it to the steel door of our cell and he removes my
blindfold, I’m exhausted.
Maeve’s head darts up as he shoves me inside, causing me to lose my
balance and tumble onto the hard floor. With my wrists still restrained, they
bend at odd angles and my knees ache from the collision. I groan and roll to
my side. Maeve gasps my name.
Tossing the key to the handcuffs in with me, he says, “I’m not risking you
trying to pull something stupid. Take them off yourself and set the cuffs with
the key in front of the hatch when you’re done. I’ll be waiting, so make it
quick.”
When the door echoes with its closure, Maeve scrambles forward.
“Ledger. My gosh. Are you okay?”
Grunting, I sit up. There’s a lingering throb in my wrists and knees, but I
can handle it. “I’m fine. Will you get the key and let me out of these things?”
“What happened? It felt like you were gone forever.” She takes one of my
wrists in her hands.
“He blindfolded me and made me dig a hole before pouring out the bucket
and covering it back up. That’s why it took so long. I couldn’t see a damn
thing. Not to mention I got some on me, so he hosed me down.”
“That explains why the cuffs of your jeans are so wet. I’m surprised he
didn’t just let you sit in our filth.”
“I understand him less and less every day.”
“Could any light get through the blindfold? Could you at least tell what
time of day it is?”
“It wasn’t too bright, I don’t think. Maybe mid or late evening. It was
warm, but the blindfold was so tight, I couldn’t see much. And truthfully,
with it being so cold in here, even a slight rise in temperature would’ve felt
nice. It might’ve just been a warmer night. We’re what, in early summer?
Late spring?”
“Even still, the fact that he let you out with even the possibility of a little
light is telling.”
My thoughts exactly. We’re obviously somewhere far enough from
civilization he wasn’t worried we’d be seen.
“He could’ve had me dump the bucket in a toilet and be done. It would’ve
been a lot faster. There’s got to be one down here somewhere. So, why let me
go up? Why make me bury the contents?”
“To taunt you? Give you a taste of what you’re missing? Or let you
believe you have a shot at escaping when he knows something you don’t. The
impossibility of escape, maybe. Are we surrounded by fencing? Or gates? A
forest?”
“Yeah. Maybe.” If he’s been this prepared, for all we know we’re enclosed
by electric fences. My eyes dart to the hidden camera, an idea sparking.
Rubbing my wrists once I’m free, I watch Maeve as she places the sets of
cuffs and the key at the hatch, and I follow her to her side of the cell. When I
sink beside her against the wall, she leans away a fraction, studying me. I’ve
never done this before. I’ve sat by her but only to comfort her. Other than the
night we slept close for warmth, normally I stay on my side and she stays on
hers. It’s been an unspoken practice. We give each other personal space
because we get so little.
Lowering my mouth to her ear, I whisper, “Unless he has a camera with a
sensitive microphone, it’s possible it won’t pick up the sound if we’re quiet
enough. If we pretend to be comforting each other, maybe we can get away
with it.”
Nodding her understanding, she inches toward me, angling her head
closer.
“What did you notice about him?”
Keeping her voice at the same volume, she talks to the floor, resting her
head on my shoulder. “He’s taller than you, but not as tall as Ashton, so
maybe six-one or so.”
“Anything else?”
“While he was cuffing you, I focused on his hands, and there was
something on his gloves. Dog or cat hair? Or some kind of animal hair. A pet,
maybe?” Maeve shifts closer in. “What about you?”
“His accent.” I loop my arm around her shoulder, keeping up the façade.
“He talked a lot more outside. It’s not a northerner accent—definitely not a
Boston native—or even southern. Maybe a west coaster? Or almost a lax
accent, like from another country, and it’s been watered down by the states.”
Maeve nods, soaking it in for a moment. “If he’s from the west coast, why
do you think he moved to this side of the country?”
“Family?” Though as soon as the suggestion comes, it doesn’t feel right.
He doesn’t seem like much of a family man. “A drifter, maybe. Or he moved
around the country a lot. A military kid?”
“Could be.”
“And I’m positive we’re underground. I had to climb a ladder and a couple
flights of stairs.”
Maeve leans back, but catches herself before saying anything and rests her
head on my shoulder. “Underground, where? In some kind of bunker?”
“I think so. There were only a couple more doors out there, so it’s not a
huge facility.”
“A bunker,” she murmurs.
It’s not a lot, but it’s something. One step closer to understanding our
captor.
 TWELVE

maeve

I lay awake, the cracked ceiling going in and out of focus. “There’s got to be
some sort of connection between us. That one theory. The six degrees of
separation. Somewhere we have an association.”
Ledger groans like I’ve woken him up. “Maeve. We’ve been trying for
weeks. There’s nothing.”
“We haven’t tried hard enough. Maybe we need to circle back, maybe we
didn’t put ties together. Vacations. Have we been to any of the same places at
the same time?”
A heavy exhale comes from his side of the room. “I only went out of town
with my buddies for spring breaks or summer trips. We never took any
vacations with my dad after— Forget it.”
I can’t forget, but even if I press, something tells me we didn’t go to the
same places. “My family typically only went up north to visit my
grandparents in Maine and Vermont.”
“Never went there with my friends.”
Not surprising. I’m sure he went to places like the Hamptons or the
Bahamas.
“What about college? Where did you say you went, again?”
“Boston College.” He tosses an arm over his eyes.
 Neither of my sisters went there or any of my close friends. I grew up an
hour and a half away, and I never even toured the campus. “And I went to
Brown.”
“Right.” Ledger yawns, but removes his arm from his face. “Wait. I
actually have a buddy who went to Brown.”
“Really?” I sit up. “What’s his name?”
His head rolls on the floor to look at me. “Jared Packard.”
I shake my head, not recognizing the name.
“I mean… I went to a party at Brown once when I was visiting him. I was
probably nineteen.”
I rarely went to parties and I would’ve been in my fourth year by then, if
not already graduated, but I ask anyway. “Was it a frat party?”
“It was one at the Theta Alpha Pi house, I think. Cops raided it.”
“Wait. The fight club gambling ring raid?”
“Yeah.” He perks up, perching on his elbows. “Were you there?”
I squash his hope with the shake of my head. “No, but I heard about it. A
ton of crap went down at that house that weekend. If I remember right there
were a few girls that were sexually assaulted that night, too. Half of the
basketball team got suspended after that party.”
“So the cops should’ve done more than raid that house. They should’ve
burned it to the ground.”
“Probably.”
“Maybe I witnessed something and didn’t even realize. I was pretty out of
it that night.” His eyes close, fingers digging in and rubbing. “But you
weren’t there, so that doesn’t exactly help us.”
“Maybe if somebody wasn’t such a negative nancy there could be
something more. You were at Brown for a weekend when I was. Maybe
something else happened that we could match up with, something that had
nothing to do with the party.”
“I’m not negative, Maeve. I’m exhausted and close to psychopathy trying
to figure out why we’re here.”
“I know… I just thought…”
“I know what you just thought. Just—” Ledger lies back down and turns
away from me. “Not right now, please. Okay? We can pick up again
tomorrow.”
 Day after day, we survive. And each week is a new form of psychological
warfare. There isn’t a moment where I don’t question how much longer I’ll
survive. When I’ll see Ashton again.
If.
Gosh, I hate that word.
We get a bucket twice a week to bathe, and every time we’re forced to
clean each other. Ledger tried refusing again last week, and that got him beat
to the point of unconsciousness. When the puppeteer dropped him off in a
heap at the door, I screamed at the sight of him covered in blood. I remained
by Ledger’s side, checking his pulse every few minutes until he woke, and I
could finally breathe easy again. We didn’t get to bathe that day. He was
caked in crimson for days until we got another bucket. I used that bucket to
clean my underwear. It’s not free of stains, but at least I don’t have to go
without.
Today we bathe in silence, having formed a routine. Ledger first—I insist
because he continues to have me use the bathroom bucket first—then me. His
facial expression never changes. Eyes pinched, lips drawn in a straight line,
forehead creased. Either his bruises and muscles still hurt from his previous
punishment, or he can’t stand bathing me. And I get it. It’s uncomfortable
washing the opposite sex when you’re faithfully married, but I’d feel better if
he schooled his features. I’m vulnerable enough as it is.
The bathing water isn’t warm, but it’s not freezing. It’s tolerable, and for
that I’m grateful. And I’m grateful Ledger doesn’t refuse this time. I can’t
handle seeing him like that again. The man has principles and integrity—I get
it—but there are worse forms of torture than assisting another human while
bathing.
Though Ledger’s beating is punishment enough, a part of me thinks the
puppeteer uses this form because he wants me to suffer, too, and he knows
how much it pains me to see Ledger hauled off. Does he revel in my screams
while he lays into Ledger? Does it feed him? Our abductor has only laid a
hand on me once, but for a second time there was a glint of satisfaction
through the eye holes of the mask when he dropped Ledger off and witnessed
me so distraught.
Kneeling down, Ledger lifts one of my feet to the top of his thigh, and I
steady myself with a hand on his shoulder. After standing on these floors,
within an hour our feet are caked in black. Even if as soon as we’re done
bathing, our feet will turn just as grimy, it’s nice to have clean skin for a
fraction of time.
When Ledger’s thumb digs into the arch of my aching foot, I damn near
moan, clutching his shoulder to keep my balance. He dips the washcloth into
the sudsy water and brings it to the bottom of my foot, scrubbing and
massaging. Scrubbing and massaging. One foot and then the other. It takes
every ounce of self-control not to cry.
After he finishes, I step back and whisper, “Thank you.”
He doesn’t acknowledge it, but the next time we bathe, I’ll give Ledger the
same treatment so he understands just how grateful I am.

Crackle.
Until the day I die, however soon that may be, the static of that speaker
will haunt me.
“Now that you’re both freshly washed, how about we give you a new
activity for the day? I’m in the mood for a different form of entertainment.”
The innuendo in his voice frays my nerves. He devises something new
every week. From disturbing, loud music that keeps us awake for days to
forcing us to stand without moving a muscle for hours on end. When I
couldn’t keep my shoulders still after what felt like an entire day, Ledger took
the brunt of the punishment again. I shudder to think of what he wants from
us today.
“Abbott, I want you to screw her.”
“Wait, what?” I step toward the metal box.
“Did I stutter? Have sex with your cellmate.”
With our faces slack in bewilderment, our eyes meet. This can’t be
happening. He can’t be asking what I think he’s asking.
“There are a lot of things I will endure and surrender to, but disrespecting
my wife isn’t one of them.”
“It’s not really disrespecting unless you think you’ll like it.”
Ledger’s face flushes red with anger, his voice rising. “You don’t have to
like sex for it to be unfaithful.”
 “This isn’t a request!” The puppeteer’s shout rattles my bones.
“I didn’t think it was.” Ledger stands firm, even as his fingers twitch,
fazed by the volume of our captor. “But I won’t cheat on my wife. And I
won’t force myself onto another woman. Maeve shouldn’t be coerced to
share her body with me, or cheat on her husband. I don’t care how you torture
me. Nothing could be worse than what you’re asking of us.”
A loud, unamused scoff jolts me. “This? This is the worst I could ask of
you? This is your only hope for the possibility of survival. Do as I say. That’s
your only rule. Do you want to see the light of day again? Do you want to see
your spouses?”
Our heavy silence pulls an acerbic laugh from him. “The act of your
infidelity is worse than any other form of torture I could ever do to either of
you, but they never have to know. Are you willing to risk the possibility of
life for the sake of principle?”
Deranged, sadistic psychopath. I’m done. Take me out back and put me
out of my misery. Anything is better than our lives on strings in his hands.
“You’re so quick to use this on us?” Ledger takes a calculating step
forward. “Then nothing beyond this point will have the effect you want.
Nothing will surpass my being unfaithful to my wife.”
“Forever the negotiator. I see you’ve learned a thing or two from your
father.”
Fed up, Ledger yells, “Who the hell are you?”
“No one you know. That’s the beauty of all of this, Abbott. No matter how
hard you try to figure out who I am, you’ll never guess.”
If we’re all strangers, then how does he know so much about us? It’s not
just simple details of someone who looked us up on the internet. The fact that
he knows intimate details about family relations raises a frighteningly giant
red flag. Was he hired? Did he stalk us? And for how long? What else does
he know?
Ledger forms fists at his sides. “I won’t disrespect Becca, and I won’t
disrespect Maeve. No matter how brutal the consequences are. You will not
force me to rape a woman. I will never.”
“Oh. It’s only rape if she doesn’t enjoy it, and something tells me she’d
ask for more.”
“You’re disgusting,” I bite.
“See? She didn’t deny it.”
“It’s not happening,” Ledger says.
 The puppeteer’s words are clipped. “Then I’ll give Doc the same treatment
she got last time and make you watch. And if you still refuse, I’ll put a bullet
in her head. How’s that for bargaining?”
Ledger shakes with suppressed fury, rolling his shoulders back. “You’re
not bargaining. You’re manipulating. Huge difference. As if you’ll let us go,
and we’ll see our families again. How dumb do you think we are? That was
never an option.”
“Maybe, but at least without a bullet in her head or yours, you still have a
fraction of hope.”
Hope? I ran out of hope weeks ago, but Ledger hasn’t. I see the spark in
his eyes every day, even in his silence. A determination to survive. It’s what
keeps me going, feeding off of him.
But this is beyond the realm of justifiable. There are a lot of things Ashton
could forgive in the name of survival, but would this be one of them? It’s not
a choice, it’s coercion. It’s not betrayal, it’s desperation.
In the end, does that matter? Could I forgive Ashton? Would it pain him or
would he find pleasure in it?
If it meant him coming out of this alive… I’d like to believe I would
forgive him. Would I hate the image of his infidelity? Of course. But it’d be
easier to overcome than his death.
The real question is, would I rather die than sleep with Ledger? Because
it’s not just sex, is it? It’s giving the puppeteer what he wants, it’s giving him
some gross, perverse show. It’s allowing him to win again. And again.
“Freedom.” His raised baritone voice rebounds from the speaker.
Ledger shuts his mouth, and I freeze.
“That got your attention, didn’t it?” The puppeteer snickers. “What if I
promise you I’ll let you go? Your freedom if you screw the doctor.”
My gaze whips to Ledger. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do that. Like a
defective balloon, his chest inflates and deflates. Is he contemplating this?
Ledger wouldn’t betray me like that, leave me all alone that way.
Would he?
Glancing briefly at me, Ledger takes a combative step toward the speaker.
“Even if that was a viable offer, I don’t believe a single word that comes out
of your mouth. Why would you let me go? Why would you risk me being
able to go to the police and come back to rescue Maeve?”
His heartless amusement continues. “You think I haven’t covered my
tracks well enough? You honestly believe I’d be stupid enough to allow you a
way to find your way back here? That I don’t have a plan in place to remove
you from the premises without you seeing a thing? How do you think you got
here? I’m giving you a way out, Abbott, free and clear.”
His head shakes. “Why me? Why not Maeve?”
“I didn’t offer freedom to Doc. I’m offering it to you.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, but even still. I wouldn’t trust you with
your own life, much less you in here with Maeve without me.”
“You hear that, Doc? He’d rather you die than have sex with you. I’ll get
my gun.”
“Wait!” When Ledger charges the metal box as if the puppeteer were
present, I latch onto his arm, cutting off his protests. “Ledger. It’s either I get
a bullet in the head or you get your freedom. What’s it going to be?”
Ledger spins, grabbing my shoulders and hisses, “He’s bluffing, Maeve. If
he wanted us dead, we’d be dead. And if he was ever going to let me go, he’d
have done it already. It’s not going to happen over our refusal to have sex.”
“You don’t know that.” My voice cracks.
Maybe I have hope after all because I’m not willing to die over this. We
could still be found if we just do as we’re told. Even if it means Ledger
walking through that door and leaving me here. That’s more of a chance of
rescue with him on the other side than him in here with me. What the hell am
I even thinking?
“I do.” His tone lowers. “He plays like he loves our oblivion, but he wants
us to figure out why we’re here and who he is. No matter what I do, he’s not
going to let me go. He wants me to know what I’ve done to deserve this. It’s
half of his fun. And we’re nowhere near understanding why he chose us. He’s
not done with us yet.”
Instant dread and contemplation interweave. If he’s not done with us, that
means more time to live, but it also means more days of unpredictable mind
games and torment.
“Don’t give in. I know you don’t want to betray Ashton this way. We
don’t have to do this. Trust me, Maeve. Just trust me.”
Swallowing a lump, I nod. I do. I trust Ledger.
With a united front, we face the metal box.
“That’s your answer then,” the puppeteer says.
We don’t say more, and neither does he. Maybe I signed my death
certificate by giving in to Ledger. Or maybe I bought us more time.
Short minutes later, the door to our prison blows open, banging into the
wall. I stumble away as the puppeteer strides toward us and Ledger steps in
front of me, arms back, shielding me.
“Maybe I won’t put a bullet in her head, but you won’t get away
unscathed.”
Ledger swings and connects with the puppeteer’s face, but it hardly makes
a difference.
“That was a free shot.” The puppeteer doesn’t use a syringe to knock
Ledger out or drag him away this time. He doles out his punishment in front
of me, with one punch sending Ledger to the ground.
Maybe if Ledger had his full strength, was in the shape of a man who had
three full meals a day and was able to keep up his gym regimen, he’d be able
to take on our captor. Instead, the moment he tries to fight back, attempts
standing to charge or take a swing, the puppeteer is faster. Another blow to
the face or gut and Ledger falls down.
My eyes dart to the open doorway. Another chance for escape. I push
aside my fears and make a run for it, but I don’t make it. Feet away, my head
whips to the side, the puppeteer back handing me, sending me to the ground.
“Try again, Doc, and that bullet I talked about will wind up in your skull,”
he seethes, returning to Ledger with a fierce vengeance.
I scream for him to stop. I scream so violently my vocal chords scrape like
they’re going through a shredder. But the puppeteer is ruthless. Do hours
pass? Days?
Unable to stop myself I try to intervene, but he shoves me away, hurling
me against the wall. My head hits with a thwack, eyes blurred with tears.
Placing my fingers on the back of my skull, I notice they come away clean.
While I’m not bleeding, my head throbs like it cracked open.
After the puppeteer gets his fill, he lifts Ledger by the torn collar of his
shirt. “Let’s try this again.” He puts them nose-to-nose. “Screw the doctor.”
Ledger coughs up blood, spitting it onto the floor. “You might not
understand honor or decency, but I do. Beat me within an inch of my life, you
can’t make me disrespect Maeve.”
“My knuckles are a bit sore, but my boots are raring to go.” He hurls
Ledger down, bringing his boot back.
“Please! Please!” I throw myself between the two of them. “He can’t take
it anymore. Take me! I’ll take his place.”
“The only way you’re putting a halt to his punishment is if he’s between
your legs. Get out of the way.” The puppeteer picks me up by the hair and
thrusts me aside.
“No! Maeve—” Ledger shouts, but is cut off by another kick to his
stomach.
“Please, Ledger,” I cry. I can’t bear to watch another second.
But he doesn’t give in. Ledger holds firm to his vows as the puppeteer
treats him like nothing more than a rag doll.
I sob and scream until my lungs give out, and then I watch with tears
streaking my cheeks because if Ledger has to suffer, the least I can do is
suffer with him.

Ledger is out cold on his side of the cell. The puppeteer left once he
passed out from the pain. An outcry pours from his silent battered body to my
bleeding heart. I already checked over his injuries. I’m pretty sure he has a
broken rib. It’s very possible he has internal bleeding, and there’s nothing I
can do about it. I can’t even clean the visible cuts. All I can do is pray his
injuries aren’t life-threatening.
Unable to deny the pull, I crawl across the space and situate myself at his
head, hoisting his upper body onto my lap so his head has a soft place to rest
for a night. My fingers move on their own accord through his matted hair.
And as I stroke, I hum an out-of-tune melody my mom used to sing to me
when I was a little girl.
 THIRTEEN

maeve

“Maeve?”
Silence.
“Maeve?”
I blink away from staring into space and return my attention to Dr.
Jorgensen.
“Sorry.” I focus on the wrinkles lining her forehead with sympathy.
Sympathy. I receive so much of that these days. “It’s hard to pull myself out
of the memories sometimes…”
With understanding, she nods and offers a sensitive smile. “That must
have been extremely difficult witnessing Ledger’s punishment.”
Difficult? “It was horrifying. I truly thought I might die that day. But it
was better being with him than having him removed from the room like
always. Those instances were so much worse.”
“How so?”
Is it not obvious? “Because I never knew if he would come back, if that
was the day I’d lose him.”
“Understandably so. There was a great deal to endure.” Dr. Jorgensen
glances at the notepad on her crossed legs, before lifting her gaze above her
red-rimmed reading glasses. “We’ve talked a little about the bond you two
formed. How did it make you feel when he chose the penalty instead of you?
He put your life on the line that day.”
“I didn’t see it that way. In the end, he let it be my choice. He gave up the
possibility of freedom for me. But it wasn’t about me, not really. It was about
Ledger, and his relationship with his wife. It was about choice, and refusing
to let the puppeteer take away our agency again.
“And if I hadn’t agreed with Ledger to take the risk, I whole-heartedly
believe he’d have done what I asked. Though, honestly, if we had been
wrong in rebelling, I might have willingly taken the bullet. At that point, I
didn’t know what I was capable of enduring.”
She nods. “It can be traumatic to witness someone assaulted, especially
under the circumstances. Do you think this was a turning point in your
relationship?”
My stare drifts over her shoulder, landing on a pot of succulents. I’d have
given anything to have a piece of life in that cement room with us. Granted,
I’ve bought a few house plants, trying to breathe life back into me, and I
haven’t been able to keep any of them alive.
“I’m not sure turning point is the right term, but it was a reality check.”
“Oh?”
“I knew at that moment, no matter what we did, obeyed the puppeteer or
disobeyed him, he’d find a way to make us suffer. He’d come up with tasks
he knew we’d refuse or couldn’t follow through with, to justify hurting us.
And Ledger would do everything in his power to protect me.”
 FOURTEEN

ledger
Things are different after Maeve and I refuse to sleep together. I don’t know
what I would have done if I’d been wrong, if he barged in and put a gun to
Maeve’s head. I can’t even entertain the thought of giving in. There would’ve
been no going back. And everything would’ve shifted between us. It’s hard
enough being held captive in this room with her, add in sex under duress?
Talk about complicating an already convoluted situation.
Like the caregiver she is, Maeve can’t stop catering to me, using more
than just the considerate hand of a doctor. He didn’t leave much of my body
unscathed this last time. And my ribs and muscles are paying for it. With
every breath I take, it’s like a blade pressing on my lungs.
Every day Maeve offers portions of her food and water—which I decline.
She tends to my wounds the best she can without supplies, checking my cuts
around the clock for infection. When we bathe, she takes care to sanitize and
use soft strokes around my bruises. Each expression is vigilant and smeared
with a sympathetic pain.
Maybe it’s guilt. Not the same guilt as before, when bathing a naked man
who isn’t your husband. Even though it was a joint decision to refuse and
nothing she said could’ve changed my mind, I’m the one with the physical
injuries. Though she tried to take my place—even if he let her, I’d have
stepped in—for the most part, Maeve is unharmed.
I can’t remember the last time someone tended to me like this. Becca isn’t
much of a nurturer, which is okay. I knew that when I married her—having
grown up in foster care, she has her own set of issues. I’m a grown man. I can
take care of myself when I’m sick, but it’s nice not to have to.
Maeve no longer sleeps on the opposite side of the cell. There’s no
snuggling or sleeping too close, but she lies beside me, in the fetal position—
the position she sleeps in nearly every night. I never turn my back to the door,
but I began situating her against the wall with me on her other side, so she’s
farther away when she’s most vulnerable.
Somehow, even though I’m aware I’m not alone, having her nearer makes
me feel less lonely. Her quiet, even breaths soothe me in a way I didn’t
realize I needed. They speak to the restless, fearful part of my heart. Exhaling
calm, inhaling my worry.
She’s here.
And so am I.

Sometimes Becca comes to me in my dreams. She reassures me it’ll be

okay and hugs me, kisses me. Other times it’s as if none of this has happened
and we’re cuddling on the couch watching a movie like it’s a regular
Thursday night.
Tonight the conversation is too ordinary, too familiar. Her voice is too
real, too close. Rousing from a deep sleep, Becca’s voice pulls me out and
my eyes fly open. The bugle horn is not our wake-up call this morning.
“Becca.” I jolt up, instant agony shooting through my side, but I glance
around, ignoring the pain. She’s not here. No, he’s lulling us into a false
sense of security.
Maeve is already awake, back to the wall, arms looped around her middle.
“I’ve been listening to conversations Ashton and I had for the last hour.”
Slow blink. “He put something in our homes. He’d been listening to us for
weeks, maybe months.”
This guy was in our houses. How did he get into our houses without us
knowing? How long was he listening to us? Did he install cameras there, too?
Was he watching us even then? Is that how he knows so much?
 Flowing through the prison, Becca’s voice pierces and soothes. “If we pull
out the carpet in the living room, we could replace it with those gray wood
floors we saw the other day. They were so pretty, don’t you think?”
My brain rewinds to a conversation we had almost two months ago about
finally updating our house. It’s not an old house, but there are things we want
to change, things that are a little outdated. The color of the cabinets, the
flooring, repainting some of the rooms. Small things here and there to make it
our own, our taste. She’s been begging me for over a year, but I’ve been so
busy with work, I haven’t had the time. And I don’t want to hire someone.
It’s what my dad would do, but I’d rather do it myself. I have the skills.
There’s no reason I can’t use them. It’d mean more renovating with my own
two hands. I should’ve just done it when I had the chance, taken the time to
do as she asked.
I swear if we ever—when—when we get out of here, that’s the first thing
I’m going to do. Whatever Becca wants in that house, I’ll fix it up.
“I’m not sure what’s worse.” Maeve stares beyond me, her expression
limp. “Hearing his voice, not knowing if I’ll ever hear him in person again.
Or never hearing his voice at all.”

For hours, the mundane, everyday conversations switch between Becca

and me, and Maeve and Ashton. And Maeve nailed the dilemma on the head.
Hearing Becca’s voice is both an infection and a cure. It throbs and festers,
but soothes and heals. Only to circle back and start all over again. An
excruciating cycle.
I miss her so damn much.
When Maeve can’t take it anymore, she strides to the speaker and yells,
“You can toy with us all you want, but we’re being searched for. My husband
won’t stop until he finds me. We’re going to escape you, and you’ll pay for
what you’ve done.”
Crackle. “Ashton?” The mildest snort trickles through. “Oh, Doc. After
our last scuffle, it’s time I come clean with you.”
He stalls. Like every other sick form of torture, he makes her wait, draws
out the miserable anticipation of the end.
“He’s not coming for you.”
She tenses, hands fisting. “Yes, he is.”
“No.” A low, threatening chuckle echoes in the cell. “He isn’t. He’s dead.
The very same day you came to live with me, he lost his life. Such a shame.”
Cold and detached, his voice pings off the cement walls.
“No!” She surges forward, quivering. “No. I don’t believe you. Ashton is
alive, and he won’t stop until he’s found me.”
The silence is booming, one blaring second after the other. “See for
yourself.”
Maeve whirls around, meeting my stare—is she looking for denial?
Confirmation? “It’s not true. Ashton is alive.”
What am I supposed to say? He’s good at deceiving us. This could be
another stunt, or he could be telling her the truth. I can’t give her false hope,
no matter how hard it is not to. All I can do is offer her a sympathetic frown
and a one-shoulder shrug.
Within minutes the sliding metal door opens and two photos slip under the
hatch, before it slams in place, pausing Maeve’s pacing. She gets there before
I do and drops to her knees, snatching up a photo. A strangled gasp sucks all
the air from the cell.
From over her shoulder on a flimsy vivid print, I see a man lying in a
puddle of blood, a deep gash in the side of his head. His eyes closed, his
mouth is parted.
“No.” Maeve curls forward, clutching the image so tight her knuckles turn
white. Her shoulders shake, cries rattling her body as her fingertips brush the
photo. “No. He’s not dead. This isn’t real.”
Crackle. “He was so determined to save you from me,” he taunts. “I
couldn’t let him live.”
One step, two, I edge closer. On the floor in front of Maeve’s bent knees is
a picture of a brunette tied to a chair in the middle of our kitchen. Blood
pools beneath the wooden legs on the mosaic blue tile, tile she asked me to
replace with light hardwood. Like she’s fallen asleep on the couch, her head
flops to the side, only instead of her eyes closed, they’re void of life, staring
at the floor.
Becca.
Not sleeping. Lifeless.
No. That can’t be her. The image is photoshopped. That’s not my Becca. I
refuse to believe it.
“Would you like more proof?” Through the relic speaker, his callous yet
indifferent voice filters through.
No. Please no. But he doesn’t hear my internal plea. An ear-piercing wail
blares through the speaker, and my whole body stills. I don’t need to hear
more than a second to know. My wife. It’s my wife in pain. In excruciating
pain.
I spin around. “Stop! Stop it!”
Her shrieking dies down, but then her fragile voice flows around me.
“Please, please, please,” Becca sobs. “Please, stop.”
The sound cuts off, my heart at odds, thundering with the familiarity of her
voice and the reason for her pleas.
“In case you’re wondering…” He pauses. “I didn’t stop.”
I break.
Penetrating cries reverberate off the walls, and I clap my hands over my
ears. There isn’t enough strength, enough pressure, enough noise to drown
out the sound of her agony. Her pleas continue on repeat. Over and over, the
puppeteer replays her cries for help, for an end.
“Ledger. Ledger!”
I whip around and come face to face with Maeve, shattered eyes brimming
with tears, her hand rests on my bicep. “It’s over,” she says.
It isn’t until I’m met by silence that I realize Becca’s screams are gone,
and I replaced them.
“It’s over,” she whispers.
I don’t know how long Becca’s cries lasted or when mine began, but my
lungs burn and my muscles throb. And his voice is absent.
“Why not just kill me?” I yell at the corner. “Why hurt her? She’s never
done anything deserving of that! You didn’t have to hurt her!”
Silence.
Emptiness.
Numb.
“This right here, Ledger.” So matter of fact, lacking human emotion.
“Your pain is my victory. She was just a stop along the way.”
“I’ll find you. When I get out of here, I will find you and end you! Your
life is over.”
“You’ll never get the chance.”
I rage at the speaker, but it does no good. I drop to my knees in defeat,
Maeve’s arms encircling my shoulders, bringing my head to her chest as I
crumble.
We crumble.
 FIFTEEN

maeve

A year before Ashton and I got married, he took me to this little bed and
breakfast in Vermont. We spent the majority of the weekend in the room, but
not for the reason you’d assume. The first day we were there we went
horseback riding, and I pulled my groin when my horse got spooked and took
off. I used every one of my muscles to cling to that animal, and could hardly
walk. When I did, I waddled.
The next morning, I tried hiding it. I didn’t want to ruin the getaway he’d
spent weeks planning. But even as I stood in the bathroom getting ready, with
every tense or flinch, Ashton could see my soreness, so he scooped me up
and said, “Vermont is overrated anyway. I’d much rather lie in bed all day.”
Not because he was expecting to get lucky, though he was rewarded. We
watched movies and played games. Ashton didn’t care what we did as long as
we did it together.
That kindness was one of the reasons I married him. When you find that
one person, with whom you have a good time no matter what you’re doing
together, you latch onto them and cling with all your might. Finding a
kindred spirit is a rare thing in life.
Through the years, we’ve reminisced about that weekend more than any of
our other extravagant vacations. We always said we’d return and redo the
getaway, but we never made it happen. There was always something. Life
was too busy. Work never stopped. We thought we had more time.
Knowing Ashton, he’d wish himself into this situation with me if he were
still alive. He’d take every beating Ledger has had to be by my side. To
always be by my side.
But now he’s gone.
My life is gone.

I haven’t spoken a word in days. And neither has Ledger. We lie side by
side, never moving, not even looking at each other. No. We grieve and we
endure the chasm fracturing our hearts. Though I’m not exactly sure what the
point is anymore. Why go on? What is there to live for? More suffering?
More of this hell?
We make it out of here, and I go back to what, exactly? Hours upon hours
at the hospital and my office, only to go home to an empty house, filled with
memories of Ashton, dreams we envisioned that’ll never come true. Every
inch of that home is saturated in our life. It’s the only home we’ve owned
together.
We’re somewhere past a month. I can’t believe we’ve made it this long.
It’s been about a week since I found out my world is gone. Forty days of
Ashton missing from this earth, thirty of those I had no clue.
Thirty days of blissful ignorance. Thirty days I didn’t give his death the
respect it deserves. Thirty days I should’ve been in mourning that I’ll never
get back.
Ledger and I mostly communicate through sobs. When his are quiet and
muffled, I make myself as small and invisible as possible. He wants space,
for me to not be in the cell while he grieves such private emotions. When the
sobs aren’t hidden but still reserved, he’s saying to hell with it. I miss my
wife. And when his sobbing is loud and uncontrollable, that’s the moment
after waking, when he remembers she’s gone. And the pain is so unbearable
there’s nothing left but to scream.
I understand because those are the degrees of my sobs. Only I have a silent
sob as well. The one where my mouth opens, but agony snatches the sound
before it leaves my lungs. And I shake, and I rock, and I shrivel.
 We might’ve lost spouses in the same way, but our mourning is so
individual. Our relationships were different, we’re different. Maybe I
understand on some level what Ledger is feeling, but ultimately, I didn’t lose
Becca, and he didn’t lose Ashton. I lost him.
And I can’t breathe.
The puppeteer hasn’t spoken much either. I mean, what could he possibly
do that’d be worse than this purgatory, than the fierce pangs pumping through
our veins? This is our psychological warfare for the week. He waited for the
perfect time to incinerate what hope we had left. He’s reveling in our misery.

“What’s your favorite thing about Ashton?”

The quiet question comes days later. Ledger’s voice is like a chain
smoker’s—raspy and low, having only been used for crying and shouting for
the last however many days. The food comes and we eat, but I taste nothing. I
feel nothing. How many meals have we had? Numbers don’t exist. Days
don’t matter. Nothing does as I stare, freezing and hollow, at a concrete
ceiling.
What’s my favorite thing about Ashton?
I appreciate that Ledger isn’t referring to him in past tense. Even with him
gone, I haven’t stopped loving him, having favorite things about him. My
love for him will always be present, never past.
Just one. If I have to choose. My job is unpredictable, the hours are long
and change monthly. I rarely return home when I say I will. Dates could
never be spontaneous. Forget about surprises. We had to plan everything if
we wanted it to happen. But no matter what I did, or how long he had to wait
on me, his irritation never showed. Only love. Always love. And pride—he
was so proud of his wife who helped bring life into this world. His words, not
mine.
“Ashton has the patience of a saint. It doesn’t matter the issue, he never
resorts to anger. We always rationally talk it out.” I run my finger under my
nose. “That’s not to say he never gets angry, but he’s always quick to put
himself in check or give me the benefit of the doubt.”
I didn’t deserve him.
My eyes growing hazy, I blink away tears. “Why do you ask?”
 In true Ledger form, he doesn’t respond immediately. He answers when he
wants, a minute later. “Just thought, I’d like to know him through your eyes.
To better understand your grief. This isn’t how people normally spend the
days following a death. There are family and friends and people constantly
checking in, sending condolences and support, endless meals and calls. While
we’re locked in a cement box, and we know next to nothing about each
other’s lives.
“And that’s not to say you need to do the same for Becca,” he says.
“That’s not why I asked. Just for me, I want to know how to be here for you,
to know who you’re mourning.”
Tears leak down my temples, dampening the strands at my hairline. Who
says stuff like that? I hate everything about this situation. Everything but
Ledger.
“You talk like you’ve been through this before.”
“I have. My mom. And my br—” Choked up, he clears his throat. “When I
was fourteen. She passed away from breast cancer.”
I suck in a breath and turn my head his way. “I’m so sorry, Ledger. That
must’ve been so difficult for you at that age.” It doesn’t go unnoticed that he
was going to say someone else. His brother? But I don’t push. He’ll tell me
when he’s ready.
With his eyes on the ceiling, his bearded jaw clenches. “I made it through.
The rest of my family…” He shrugs, avoiding my eyes.
All this time and we still know so little about one another. What was his
childhood like? His dad? After losing a mother, that creates such a different
dynamic in the home. Did he remarry? Did his dad step up or turn inward?
“Tell me about Becca. What’s your favorite thing about her?”
His head rolls to the side, meeting my gaze with his bloodshot stare. “You
don’t need to ask because I did.”
“I’m not. I want to know.” I offer a softening tilt of my mouth. “Let me
understand how best to comfort you.”
He doesn’t steer his attention away as moisture glistens his desolate, green
eyes. “She’s a yes girl, a good time girl, always up for adventure. If I say,
let’s pack a bag and go to Europe tomorrow, she’d have a suitcase packed
within the hour. No questions asked. In all honesty, it’s rare for her to ever
say no.” A humorless snort escapes him. “And that kind of drives me crazy
because she runs herself ragged telling everyone yes.”
I nod, understanding the contradiction. “Ashton’s patience is frustrating a
lot of the time. I want him to rage at me, just once. No one is that patient. It’s
bottled up somewhere. I keep waiting for the day he’ll finally lose his cool.”
With a light chuckle, Ledger says, “Isn’t that always how it is? The thing
you love most about someone is also the thing that drives you to drink.”
The corner of my mouth tugs up. A smile? Are my lips attempting to
smile?
“Okay, then along those lines. What’s something you love about her, but
can’t stand at the same time?”
His tragic gaze slides above me, the cracking paint his only view. “Becca
has one of the greatest laughs, so contagious, but also obnoxiously loud at
times, like ear piercing. She’d be watching shows downstairs late at night
while I was sleeping because I had to work early in the morning, and without
fail she’d wake me up with her eruption of laughter by accident.”
If I close my eyes this almost seems like a normal conversation, like we
aren’t trapped, and we haven’t lost everything.
“What about you?”
The side of my lips twitch again. “Ashton’s super clean, which is a dream
because the house is always spotless. I never have to harp on him to pick up
his dirty socks or wipe down the toilet seat. But I’m not the neatest of people.
Not dirty, but I don’t often see clutter or fold and hang up my clothes. If
Ashton didn’t come through our house every day, you’d see dishes piled high
and laundry unfolded. Dust settled in windowsills and floors in need of
mopping or sweeping or vacuuming.
“And while it’s nice having a helpful husband, I always feel like such a
slob. Never even seeing the mess he does. Makes a woman feel a little
inadequate as a wife, like I’m not upholding my end of the deal. Like every
time he cleaned, while I was in the middle of something else, it felt like he
was stewing in his anger watching me not help him. But he’d never say a
thing, so it was probably all in my head, my own guilt projecting.”
“If you walked into my house, you’d definitely see my dirty socks on the
floor and dishes in the sink.” A trace of a smirk splinters Ledger’s mouth.
“Probably even the toilet paper rolled the wrong way.”
“It’s a good thing there’s nothing in here for us to dirty except for
ourselves.”
We both laugh at my dark joke until real tears appear in our eyes. When
my eyes close, a hand tugs on my arm. On instinct, I roll into Ledger’s side,
and he wraps me in his arms as we cry ourselves to sleep.
 SIXTEEN

ledger

Each day we survive, I’m left wondering if today will be the day he kills us.
And flimsy faith continues to replace my train of thought with, maybe this
will be the day we’re found. But one after the other, hours, days, and weeks
come and go with no follow through for either. I’m not even sure what I hope
for anymore. Death or rescue.
Until my eyes lock with Maeve, and I can’t imagine watching her die.
Losing Becca is enough. If Maeve goes too, I’m done. Our lives are
inescapably entwined now. And I’m not ready to lose her, too.
When I think about how long it’s been, I can’t believe we’ve survived as
many weeks as we have. But I also feel like we’ve been here for years. The
days drag like nails on a chalkboard, they can’t end fast enough.
Maeve doesn’t move much from her spot against the wall, lying on the
hard ground in her fetal position. It might be rare to die from a broken heart,
but she’s close. Sometimes tears stream down her face, and I don’t think she
even knows she’s crying. Eyes vacant, lips parted, limbs like a statue,
motionless. If it weren’t for the subtle rise and fall of her chest, I’d think I
already lost her.
Maeve’s fair golden hair splays around the gray floor, a blank stare
flowing right past me. Even with our grim circumstances, Maeve always had
a glimmer in her eyes, a flicker of courage and life, ready to endure no matter
the price. But since hearing the news about Ashton, that light fades more and
more each day. Today, I don’t see it at all.
I’m not sure what prompts me to open my mouth and ask, “Should we
play Two Truths and a Lie?”
Blink. Blink.
I might as well be talking to the brick wall. In the beginning, I’d have
preferred that to her incessant questions, but Maeve’s ability to take my mind
off of everything for a while was a superpower. Her light was the only thing
keeping the dark from swallowing me whole.
“I’ll go first if you want.”
Blink.
“Nothing? Not a hint of acknowledgment?” Please, Maeve. I need you.
I’ve never needed any other woman in my life. But here and now, without the
woman who is buried beneath her grief, I’m screwed. I’ve lost too much to
survive Becca’s death without Maeve.
“C’mon, Goldie.” I reach for her dulled yellow strands. “Shine for me
again.”
With the pace of molasses, her gaze slithers to me. “It hurts too much.”
“I know.” My throat closes, her heartbreak deepening mine. “And there’s
nothing I can say to make it better. This pain will fester until the day we die.
But you know that, too. Each day we’ll learn how to function better while we
ache. You just have to live one second at a time.”
I’ve lived through enough tragedies, and I’m still standing.
One second.
Then another.
I’m still here.
“I don’t want to ache. I want to end.”
Her hair drops from my fingertips. I didn’t even realize I was still fiddling
with it. “What about Eden and Elva? Those are their names, right? Your
sisters. Don’t you want to see them again? Your parents? Or what about
having the opportunity to help bring more life into this world?”
“What kind of a world am I bringing them into? If this is the kind of evil
and suffering that awaits them, those babies are better off.”
I don’t point out the obvious, that babies will be born whether she delivers
them or not. “Then focus on your family, your sisters. This world isn’t better
off without you, without us.”
 Even if I have my days of self-loathing and pain so crippling I wonder if
it’ll kill me, ending it isn’t the answer. It can’t be. Otherwise, what’s the point
of this life? I’ve lost everything, everything most important to me. What am I
living for? My eyes land on Maeve. Possibility of a future? Of a better life? Is
there even a possibility?
The clink of the hatch interrupts me as our food tray slides through. The
same two glasses of water and the same two frozen dinners. Another day,
another chicken fried steak.
Carrying it to Maeve, I hand her one of the plastic dishes and help her sit
up. If I don’t make her eat, she won’t. Yesterday I was this close to force
feeding her with my fingers just to get some kind of nourishment inside her,
but the threat of my dirty fingers in her mouth snapped Maeve out of her
refusal. The risk of me trying again convinces her to eat without my coaxing
this time, and we finish the food in silence.
He hasn’t said a word to us today, which is becoming the norm, aside from
taunting us with his obnoxious bugle wake-up call and promises of future
misery. It’s been a small reprieve, but even without him doling out torture,
we’re obviously still tormented. Murdering our spouses was a well-played
punishment that will never end. Between all the abuse, we continue to suffer.
Oh, Becs. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
And then she’s there. She’s beside me, her dark hair curling around her
shoulders.
“Becca?”
One side of her mouth rises. “Yeah.”
“Wha— wha—” I scoot closer, taking her face in my hands as my eyes
rove over her features. The freckle below her left eye, the faint scar on her
upper lip, the ombre of her brown eyes fading closer to the iris. “How—” I
press my lips to hers over and over. Pliant, full, they mold to mine with a
familiarity I’ve missed more than words could describe. “How are you here?”
She pulls back, her head tilting. “What are you talking about, baby? I’ve
been here the whole time.”
A solid bag of bricks knocks the wind from me. “No, no you haven’t.
Maeve has.” I scan the empty cell. Where is Maeve? Panic consumes my
insides. “Where is she? Where’s Maeve? She was just here. Did he take her?”
“Who’s Maeve?” Becca glances around the barren room with a pinched
brow. “You’re scaring me. No one has been here but us.”
I blink. I whirl around. There’s no one but the two of us. Where’s Maeve?
We were just eating together. What is happening? I’ve lost it, officially.
“But, wait… He said you died. You’re dead. I saw pictures. I heard your
screams. They raid my dreams every night.”
Her hand cups the side of my quivering jaw. “I’m not dead, Ledger. I’m
right here. I’m okay.”
“You are.” I cry, the warmth of her palm so real. The curve of her smile
allows me to breathe for the first time. “You’re here. You’re alive.”
“Of course I’m alive.” Becca’s head cocks to the right with a light
chuckle. “What is going on with you?”
Was Maeve a figment of my imagination? Someone to help me through
the trauma of being kidnapped? Have I been on drugs this entire time? But
then where has Becca been?
Why am I questioning it? She’s here now. She’s here, and alive, and that’s
all that matters. Curling her into my arms, I brace us against the wall,
breathing in her familiar ginger and citrus perfume.
“This is your fault, you know.”
Like a slap across the face, I rear back from her abrupt, apathetic words.
Becca’s deep brown eyes remain tender, like she’s telling me how much
she loves me. “If you were a better husband, we wouldn’t be here.”
Another blow to the face, I grip my chest, unwinding my other arm from
around her. “I’ve done my best, Becca. What more do you want from me?”
“All I’ve ever wanted. For you to be better.”
I grip the roots of my hair, shooting up and away from her. “Why are you
saying this? What is the point? Are you trying to make me feel worse about
this situation?”
“No. Of course not.” She rushes to me, gripping my shoulders in a
sympathetic hold. “You should already feel this way. I’m simply stating
facts.”
A fist wraps around my heart. When I didn’t think the pain could get any
worse, Becca proves me wrong. I stumble back. “I’m sorry. I don’t
understand. I don’t know why we’re here. I wish I could get us out of this.
Every day, my brain circles possibilities, but nothing is feasible. He’s too
clever, too prepared.”
“And that’s your problem, isn’t it? You’ve never been able to live up to
your father’s expectations. And here we are, all of your faults manifesting. If
only you were more adept we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess in the first
place.”
 “Stop.” I drop to my knees, burying my face in my hands. “Becca, why?
Why are you doing this?”
“Because I love you, and you need to hear the truth. We’ll never get out of
here because of you.”
I curl forward and rock. “Stop. Please, stop. I’ll be better. I’ll get us out of
here.”
Hands cradle my jaw, and my eyes open. “Please don’t say that. You love
me. You do.”
Squinting, I close my eyes and reopen. Blurred blonde hair and blue eyes
fill my vision. “Maeve?”
Tears pour down her red cheeks from puffy bloodshot eyes. “Don’t leave
me, Ash. I love you. I love you so much.”
“Maeve, it’s me. I’m Ledger.” I clutch her thin biceps, locking our stares.
“You don’t mean that.” Her head shakes in a frenzy. “We’re made for
each other. You said that, remember? When we first met in that cute diner,
you told me it was like someone wrote the perfect woman for you into your
life. No one else can be who you need but me.”
My hand travels up, holding her cheek. “Snap out of it, Goldie. Wake up.
He’s not here. This isn’t real.” Becca wasn’t here. My eyes close, swallowing
a sob. Emotion leaks down my face, dampening my beard.
She wasn’t real.
Maeve cries harder, grasping my face. “Ashton. Please, please. I love you.
You can’t leave me.”
Opening my eyes, I brush the wetness from Maeve’s cheeks, and her stare
punctures mine, her fracturing anguish too palpable. I wish I could break her
from this nightmarish spell, that my words could be Ashton’s and erase
everything she’s imagining. That she could hear me and not this hallucination
before her.
“I always knew this day would come.” And then she collapses into my
chest. Deadweight in my arms.
“Maeve?” Fear and desperation descend, churning and tangling my
insides. I reach for the pulse at the base of her neck. Seconds pass with
nothing. And then… beating. She’s still with me. I finally take a deep breath.
Toppling back with the weight of all that transpired, I hold her against my
chest, focusing on her soft, steady inhales and exhales. She’s real. This is
what’s real. Maeve. She didn’t vanish. She’s here. We’re here.
What the hell. That was messed up.
 Maeve stirs in my arms, and in my groggy haze, I loosen my hold. I listen
to the scrape of her jeans scooting across the cement as she shifts away.
I have no idea how long we hallucinated for or when I finally fell asleep.
Whatever dosage Maeve had must’ve been stronger than mine. She didn’t
budge a muscle all night. I woke several times and checked to make sure she
was still breathing. And each time, I heaved a sigh of relief before falling
back asleep.
Sitting up, I rub the sleep from my eyes and roll my neck from side-to-
side. If only Maeve were a chiropractor or a physical therapist. That’d come
in really handy after sleeping on these rock-hard floors night after night.
“Ashton.” Her raspy voice cuts through my morning fog, and I glance at
her propped against the wall as she stares at the ground. “Ashton was here. I
mean, not actually here, but I thought he was.”
“I know.”
Her haunted eyes lift to mine. “How?”
“You kept calling me by his name, talking to me as if I was responding to
you.”
As if pieces from last night are rising to the surface, a glimmer of
remembrance sparks in her gaze. “You called me Becca, too.”
I nod and slide down beside her, my knees bending to rest my forearms on.
“And then you kissed me. When you pulled away, suddenly you were
Ashton.”
I wince. That’s exactly what Maeve needs in her fragile state. Her cellmate
coming on to her. “I’m sorry. In my head you were Becca. It was the most
realistic apparition. I never would’ve tried anything like that if—”
“I know. It’s okay.” She flicks the air before pinching the bridge of her
slender nose. “You had no control. Whatever was in our food did a number
on us.”
It did more than a number on me. It tore me apart and then disintegrated
my ripped pieces into ash.
“Was seeing Becca hard for you…?” Even if she wasn’t real—it’s what
she wants to tack on in the loaded space between us, but Maeve stops herself.
“Not at first.” My tongue rolls around inside my mouth as Becca’s words
ping around inside my skull. “The night before I was taken, Becca and I’d
gotten into it. We’ve had some big fights before, but this one topped the rest.”
The shattering glass dish echoes inside my skull.
“You’re never here. I wake in the morning and you’re gone. I make dinner
and eat alone. I go to bed and you’re still not here.”
“How many times are we going to have this fight? You know I have to put
in the hours now to have the freedom later, in our future. I’m doing this for
us. Have you met Victor Abbott? Even if I wanted it, my father would never
give me preferential treatment. I have to work twice as hard as everyone else
to prove I deserve to be the CFO. Guys my age would kill for that position.
Hell, veterans there would kill and hide the body for it.”
“So that means you can say you’ll be home when I make dinner and then
not call, not show? Just letting it get cold?”
“Not that it’d be edible anyway,” I mumbled.
“What did you say?”
My head shook. Why did I say that? It didn’t matter that it was true. It was
below the belt. Did I want to be thrown out of the house?
“I’m sorry, Becs. I didn’t mean it. I’m just so stressed.”
On instinct, I stepped toward her. Before I could get close, Becca threw
the baking dish of lasagna on the floor, tears pooling in her eyes.
That’s the last image I have of her. Glossy, wounded eyes, mascara
streaks, and flushed cheeks. I held her in bed that night, and ran my nose
through her hair. She curled into me, a silent exchange of apologies, but
when I woke the next morning she’d already left for her early yoga class. I
never even got the chance to kiss her goodbye.
“After our argument, I promised Becca I’d be home early the next night so
we could have dinner at a decent hour and spend time together before bed.
And I had every intention to, but I got caught up in another project and lost
track of time. The last thing I remember is rushing through the parking
garage to my car.”
What would’ve happened if I’d left when I said I would? There would’ve
been too many people in the parking garage to snatch me unnoticed. Would it
only have been a matter of days before he tried again? Or is the parking
garage just the last thing I remember? And he actually drugged and
kidnapped me at home, the same day he…he…ended Becca’s life.
He got me and Maeve on the same day. Strategic planning had to come
into play in order to make that work. I doubt there’s anything I could’ve done
to escape him.
I run my palm down my face, over my thickening beard. “When I was
imagining Becca, she kept telling me I was the reason we were trapped here
because I wasn’t a better husband.”
“Is that what you believe? That you were a bad husband?”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t perfect, but I think that was my own
insecurities coming through in a hallucination.”
Maeve picks at her short nails. Something I’ve noticed she does when
she’s lost in thought. “Ashton told me as soon as we got out of here he was
leaving me, that he didn’t love me anymore.”
I cringe with her admission. “Is that something he’s ever said to you? That
he’d leave you?”
One of her shoulders lifts in a shrug, but there’s a small shake of her head.
“I’ve never felt like I deserve Ashton. He’s too good to me, always serving
and taking care of me. It’s how he shows his love. How he needs to feel
loved in return. And I was terrible at it. Deep down, I always worried he’d
find that love somewhere else while I was too busy taking care of pregnant
women and delivering babies instead of taking care of him. But he’s never
made me feel less than or given me the impression he’d consider leaving
me.”
Whatever our abductor gave us, he knew what he was doing. I sigh. “Our
worst fears emerging through a hallucinogenic drug.”
“Cruel joke, Puppeteer.”
“Who?”
Maeve points to the metal box in the corner. “That’s what I call him in my
head since we don’t know his name.”
Accurate. He the master, and we his puppets. Though there’s no way he
could’ve known what our brains would conjure up, another point is added to
the scoreboard.
Puppeteer: Five-hundred-thousand.
Maeve and Ledger: Zero.
Honestly, we’re probably in the negatives at this point.
The raucous horn blares through the speaker, startling us. We woke before
the bugle. That’s a first.
“How was your little cocktail last night? Did you get a bit of a break from
your current reality? No? Shame.” He laughs, not a hint of apology. “I
thought you’d be thanking me today for such a considerate gift.”
 Maeve and I stare at the box but say nothing in return.
“So, no tropical islands or European vacations, I take it.”
He knows exactly what he’s doing. I guarantee he watched us after the
drug kicked in, listened to everything Maeve and I confessed to each other.
His timing with the alarm bugle is too perfect.
“Well, maybe a little more reminiscing the good old days will help.”
Within the first two notes, my eardrums shrivel. He raises the volume
several decibels above last time. And my body prickles with dread. Not
again.
Please not again.
 SEVENTEEN

Maeve

Such a simple form of psychological damage. Minimal effort, maximum

torture.
The damn carousel music hasn’t shut off, and each day the puppeteer
raises the volume higher and higher. For five days straight. At least I think
it’s been five days. We’ve had five meals, and we’ve never had more than
one in a day. I’m skin and bones. And the hardest part of all, I haven’t heard
Ledger’s voice in five days. It’s impossible to talk over the music, not to
mention it’s exhausting just to raise my voice. And we’ve had little to no
sleep. We’re zombies with half-beating hearts.
Having not heard from the puppeteer, I bet he doesn’t even stay in the
building while he plays the music. He feeds us, gives us our crap bucket and
takes off. At this point, a swift punch to the face would be a welcome gesture.
Even with the lingering pain, at least the torment wouldn’t last. One and
done. This. This might never end.
And we’ll finally lose our minds.
After all the time that’s passed since I found out Ashton died, I somehow
still have a sane brain. My heart is hardly functioning, my lungs only working
because my brain reminds me to breathe. But this music? It’s bound to drive
me to the brink of insanity. Tinkering, tankering, mayhem.
 I can’t take it.
I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!

“Maeve.” Ledger’s voice is a reverberation. “Maeve.” It amplifies in-and-

out like a bullet ricocheting through a tunnel, vibrating, echoing. A rough
hand curls around my arm, shaking me. “C’mon, Maeve. Wake up for me.
Please wake up.”
My eyelids flutter before heaving open. The familiar fluctuation of the
fluorescent light hinders me from seeing Ledger’s face, only a silhouette of
his profile against the amber beam.
His head bows as he breathes a sigh. “Thank God. There you are. You all
right?” Helping me sit up, he falls back on his rear as if all his energy is
exerted. “I’ve been trying to wake you for the last five minutes. You
might’ve been breathing, but I was sure I was seconds away from losing
you.”
With my palm to my temple, I massage the pounding. “I’m sorry. I don’t
know what happened. Where’s the music?”
“Some time in the night it must’ve shut off, and our bodies took advantage
of the silence. I don’t know how long we’ve been out, but the food is cold
and dry.”
Food. I spot the plastic tray at the base of the hatch. My stomach churns at
the thought of eating even a crumb of that slop.
“I’m not hungry.” The lack of sleep nearly did me in. If I swallow a bite,
it’ll come right back up.
“No, you have to eat something, Maeve.” Ledger slides the tray between
us, shuffling on his knees. “I will use my own two fingers to spoon feed you.
Don’t think that’s an empty threat. Your body needs some kind of nutrition.”
“What’s the point, Ledger?” I search his determined eyes. “So I can have
another day of that creepy circus music blasting in my ears? Another day of
freezing my butt off? Another day of holding my bodily functions until a
filthy bucket is shoved through that freaking door? Another day of a whore’s
bath? Another day of aching for Ashton? Please tell me what about all of that
is worth living for?”
Ledger’s throat bobs with a heavy swallow. “For me. If not for you, do it
for me. I mean… I’m not ready to give up, but I will without you.”
My heart constricts. For him? Is Ledger enough of a reason to withstand it
all? To be his partner in misery? His plea speaks to a visceral part of me. I
want to tell him I’ll endure this for him, but do I have it in me?
“I just want this to be over. With Ashton gone, I might as well be gone.”
“No. Don’t talk like that. Never talk like that.” He shifts closer to me, his
knees nudging my thigh with a ferocity in his eyes I’ve never seen. “We’re
making it out of here alive. We’ve made it this long. We’re not giving up
now. Giving up is for cowards. We’re not cowards, Goldie.”
Goldie. There it is again. I’ve never had a nickname like that before. My
dad calls me Maevey. And my sisters call me Eve. Pet names like love and
babe were more Ashton’s style. But Goldie? It does something to my heart I
can’t explain.
“I’m so tired.” Tears spill down my cheeks. For how often I cry, they
might as well be permanent stains. “Aren’t you tired?”
“All the time, but I’m not leaving you and you’re not leaving me. You got
that? We’re going to continue to fight. We’re going to be found and we’re
going to live.”
I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to live.
The moisture trickling down my face turns to full on hysterics. A sob
slashes through my lungs, an uncontrollable wail of pain. Grief is an
unpredictable bastard. He’s always there, but occasionally he’ll punch you in
the heart just to see if it’s still beating. And then he’ll follow up with a punt
to the lungs to make sure you’re still breathing. Making sure you’re still
giving him life.
Ledger takes my face in his hands, but my eyes stay closed, flooding with
tears. “You’re strong, Maeve Campbell. I’ve seen it. Every day you survive.
You can and will stand on your own. This feels unbearable. I get it. I’m here
with you. I understand, but we are more than this. He can break a lot of
things, but he will not break us. We’re not brittle. He cannot take our
resilience.”
When I pry my eyes open, there’s a sheen of something new in his amber
green eyes. A trace of tenderness my heart both latches on to and can’t bear.
It’s enough to keep holding on and make me collapse into his arms, clinging
to his optimism.
He will not break us.
 Ledger still spends his days pacing and doing slow, altered push-ups. I
have no idea where he gets the energy or the muscle strength, especially with
his broken rib, even if it is healing. Even with continuing to exercise, he
doesn’t get enough nutrition to build muscle. Several days have come and
gone since he shut off the eerie music, and still, all I want is to curl into a ball
and sleep, never to wake again. But for Ledger, I hold on.
As he stands, dusting off his hands, we’re blanketed in black. Pure, pitch
black.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Ledger says. “Maybe he’ll come tell us.”
He never does. Hours and hours pass without so much as a crackle while
we talk ourselves through it.
I lift my hand in front of my face, but there isn’t even a silhouette or curve.
My hand is less than three inches from my eyes, and all I see is darkness.
“Do you think he did this on purpose? Or is it a power outage? I mean, this
building is like a hundred years old.”
“If he did it, he’d say something, wouldn’t he? He takes pleasure in
introducing his next form of warfare.”
True, but there’s a first time for everything. “If the lights are off, do you
think the camera is off?”
“Maybe, but if it’s not a power outage, and this is just another way to
torture us, he’s watching every second. Let’s look for the red light.”
Taking cautious steps, I feel along the wall, head tilted up.
“It’s there.” Ledger’s voice comes from the opposite wall. “I’m against the
door. It’s not easy to see through the speaker, but it’s there.”
“Why isn’t he saying anything? It’s been days since he’s said a word.”
“It’s not the first time he’s gone quiet. Maybe there’s something in his
personal life keeping him away, but I guarantee he monitors us on his phone
when he isn’t here.”
“This is bad. As if our serotonin levels weren’t messed up enough. Light
deprivation is going to spiral us down a whole new road of mental games.”
“All right, Doctor.” Curiosity laces Ledger’s voice. “What can you tell me
about light deprivation?”
He’s trying to get my mind off of the dark. And I latch on to the
distraction.
“Without natural light we’re more prone to depression.”
Ledger snorts. “Yeah, as if we’re not already there.”
 “Vitamin D deficiencies, higher risk of stroke and heart attack, mood
swings, oversleeping—”
“Oversleeping? Too far, Goldie. Too far.”
I chuckle. “We’re already experiencing most of these, but in complete
darkness? We’re bound to inch closer and closer to insanity.”
“Then we fight against it.”
He’s so confident that’s the answer, but my medical knowledge knows
better. We’ve been broken down little by little. Even if we tell ourselves to
remain sane, to hope, there’s only so much our brains can process.

Hours later, the clank of the hatch startles me, but not a single sliver of
light leaks in.
“Hey!” I hold out my hands, waiting to hit a wall. Once my hands make
contact, I feel along the concrete until my fingers brush the cold steel, then I
bang. “Hey! What’s going on? We need light!”
My foot connects with the tray, and the clatter of plastic echoes as water
splashes against my feet.
“Damn it.” I bend down, searching blindly for the tipped glass. “I’m sorry,
Ledger. I spilled one of the glasses. You can have the water today.”
“It’s fine, Maeve. We’ll share.”
“No, I was careless. You shouldn’t have to suffer because of it.”
“We’re sharing.” The firmness in his tone shuts me up.
The rough denim of his jeans rubs against my arm as he squats down. Our
hands graze as we hunt for the frozen dinners. Like the blind leading the
blind, we struggle to find our individual dishes while trying to avoid spilling
the second glass of water.
“Here,” Ledger says, “take this.”
I reach out, sloppily taking one of the microwave plates. “Did you get
one?”
“Yeah.”
“Just when I think we can’t reach a new level of low, he strikes.”
An amused grunt rumbles in the back of Ledger’s throat. “I’m not sure
rock bottom exists in this hell hole. The day we hit it is the day—” He cuts
himself off. We die. Ledger’s normally better about keeping any pessimism to
himself. I’ve had enough for the both of us lately. But dark humor is our new
form of entertainment.
 We shout for answers intermittently, trying to get a reaction out of the
puppeteer, but we’re left with his continued silence.
With nothing to do but close my eyes, I settle against a wall. What if the
worst thing isn’t him coming back? It’s being left here forever with the
absence of light, forgotten, abandoned to wither away. My chest tightens, my
breathing picking up. This could be it. This is his last parting gift.
“Ledger?”
“Yeah.”
“Will you hold my hand?” My words wobble.
Since I’m unable to see his face, his pause elongates. “Okay, I’m coming
to you. Are you sitting down?”
“Yes.” I try to keep the crack out of my voice.
“Say something else so I can follow your voice.”
“Umm…” Taking a deep breath, I calm my tone. “My knees are bent,
tucked against my chest. My arms are folded because somehow the lack of
light is making me colder.”
The ruffle of his clothes gives away his advancing footsteps until he’s at
my side, sliding down the wall. His fingers graze my knee first until I reach
out and find his searching hand. He squeezes before interlocking our fingers.
With one deep exhale, I realize his physical touch helps me breathe easier.
I’m not alone. He’s here. I have Ledger.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
One brush of his thumb against the back of my hand, and then another. A
new tingle jolts my veins. “Anytime, Goldie.”
It’s even colder in the dark, like that flickering light somehow emitted
enough heat, but now it’s like we’re in a dark, cold, dank cave. That slow
drip, drip, drip our only soundtrack.
“Can I sleep closer to you?” We’ve been sleeping close, but rarely
touching. I’m not sure I can take much more of the chill in the air. I shiver.
“For body heat.”
Ledger doesn’t answer fast enough and I almost backtrack when he says,
“Yeah, sure.” A beat of silence. “Are you tired now?”
“I’m always tired.”
He snorts in agreement. “Well, we can lay down if you want.”
We might as well sleep. It’ll be the first and maybe only time we’ll get to
sleep without that erratic ceiling fixture. “Okay.”
 Our bodies shifting to lower to the ground, our heads knock together, and
Ledger grunts. “Oh, sorry. Are you okay?” I rub the back of my head.
“I’m fine.”
Ledger lies on his side and I do the same. Propping my head on my folded
arm, I scoot back until my back is to his chest. Body heat has never felt so
good. His arm brushes mine, then disappears, then nudges my back, before
resting on top of my hip. “Is this okay?”
I nod. Right next to bathing him, it’s the most intimate I’ve been with a
man who isn’t my husband, but the more parts of contact, the warmer I get.
We should’ve been doing this all along. I might have had less miserable
nights.
Like fading embers, his warm breath fans my neck. “Should’ve thought of
this sooner, doctor.”
I chuckle. “I thought of it before. I just didn’t know if I wanted to be this
close to you.”
“This close to me?” He laughs, low. “Should’ve thought of that before you
got stuck in a concrete room with me.”
Choking on a laugh, I say, “You’re right. I should’ve.”

Days—I don’t know how many—pass stripped of light before the

puppeteer breaks his silence. The hatch opens and closes for the third time in
a day, which only means one thing.
Crackle. “Bathe.”
“Welcome back,” Ledger mumbles.
“Bathe.” His tone is clipped, any hint of sick pleasure nonexistent. The
puppeteer isn’t up for games today; he’s on a rampage.
For some reason that doesn’t stop me from sassing. “We can hardly see to
eat or drink or go to the bathroom without making a mess, and you expect us
to bathe each other?”
“I’m in no mood for your insolence, Doc. Question me again. You’ll
experience my fists again. Please test me.”
“I’m not letting him touch you again, Maeve. We’ll figure it out. Follow
my voice.” I spin toward the sound of Ledger. “Just put one foot in front of
the other and hold out your hands. I’m not far, just a few more steps.”
 When I’m close, my foot kicks the bucket, sloshing water over the side
onto my bare feet before Ledger reaches out, gripping my waist. I suck in a
breath. His intimate touch isn’t intentional. He’s trying to show me where he
is and keep me from knocking the metal bucket over entirely. But a fluttering
sensation surges through me all the same.
Drifting up my side and along my arm, he finds my hand and gives me the
cold, wet washcloth. “Just give me a second to remove my clothes. I’m going
to take my pants off at the same time, give us less of a chance to get them wet
without light.”
Even his voice is more intimate with my sense of sight cut off, quieter. I
nod like he can see me.
“You with me, Maeve?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, yes.”
Reaching for one another, our hands collide. “Maybe if we kneel, it’ll be
easier.” My lack of protest is answer enough, and we sink to the ground,
grabbing each other’s hands to remain steady.
Lowering his voice, he murmurs, “It’s okay, Goldie. It’s just like every
other time. If you happen to cop a feel, I won’t blame you.”
I choke on a laugh. “Right,” I rasp.
Using my free hand, I hold onto his bicep and scrub with my other.
Relying on memory and the contours I’ve learned in our time together, I
move along his muscles, leaner than they once were. I’ve learned the shape of
Ledger’s body. Guilt spreads. I’ve only known one other man’s body. Now I
know two.
Ledger remains still, hardly a breath passing his lips. With the dark, his
breathing is something I’ve been focusing on a lot since this blackout began,
the one thing that gives me confirmation he’s with me. He’s alive.
Now his breathing is shallow, husky.
Ledger never sneaks a peek or fondles me too long. Not that I expect him
to, especially with the look in his eyes as he has to wash me, like he can’t
bare one more second of this torture, but it’s not often a man is as respectful
as him. Espoused doesn’t always mean fidelity.
All I have to do is think of him as one of my patients, and we’re good to
go. Though I don’t handle male anatomy anymore—and it’s not easy to
separate us as doctor and patient when we’re trapped in this room day in and
day out—if I focus on being professional rather than the contours of his tan
muscles and the dark hair scattered along his chest and abs, I can make it
work.
Every time we re-dress after bathing, I can’t help rolling my eyes. What’s
the point of bathing if we’ve been in the same pair of clothing since we woke
up here? They’re torn and stained and so baggy they hang from our bodies.
Removing the grease and dirt from our skin doesn’t change the way our
clothing smells.
Granted, at this point, we’ve grown used to it. The same way you get used
to any scent the longer you remain surrounded by it. And don’t even get me
started on my hair. It’s seen better days. Soap cleans it, but it doesn’t leave it
silky smooth. The strands are waxy and dry. I want to be able to put it up, to
get the knotted locks off of my neck. If I were to look in a mirror, there’s no
doubt I’d confuse myself with a cavewoman.
I’ve come to the conclusion it’s not about cleanliness. The puppeteer
doesn’t give us the bucket for our benefit. If he did, it’d be warm and he
wouldn’t make us bathe each other. It’s just another form of control, of
torture. He basks in our discomfort.
The back of my hand bumps his tented boxer briefs, and I flinch away.
“Shoot. Sorry. I’m so sorry, Ledger.”
“Me, too.”
Why is he apologizing? I’m the one who just violated him. It was an
accident, but a violation nonetheless. He joked about me copping a feel, but I
didn’t think I was actually in danger of doing it. And then it dawns. Tented. I
thought my hand was far enough away, and normally it might’ve been if…he
wasn’t…
Without drawing any more attention to his reaction, I continue down his
legs to his feet. When Ledger began washing my feet, it became my favorite
part of bathing. His thumbs dig in and massage as he cleans, so I do the same.
Not having shoes has torn up our poor feet, but the miniature foot rub has
been heaven sent.
When I’m finished and we move on to my turn, Ledger whispers, “Give
me a minute.”
“Yeah. No problem.” He needs to get dressed, and I need to undress. We
have time. Following his lead, I strip to spare my jeans from possible water
splashes. It’s cold enough without wet clothing.
When Ledger doesn’t make a move, I ask, “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” He clears his throat. “Are you ready?”
I nod before I remember. “Yeah.”
 Ledger’s movements are slower, more careful in his lathering to avoid my
chest and between my legs. He uses one hand on my bicep the way I did to
monitor the proximity of other body parts.
The tips of his fingers graze the underside of my breasts, and he startles.
“Sorry.”
I swallow, tensing. “It’s okay.” My arms can only cover so much area. In
all honesty, I’m not bothered. Maybe I should be, but my body begs for more.
Without light or our ability to see each other’s facial expressions, the
washing shifts from civil to something else entirely.
Before, it never felt like I was cheating on Ashton. Everything that’s
happened between Ledger and me has been for survival. But this…it’s like a
layer of our walls of protection have fractured. One might think the loss of
light would’ve helped, that without seeing each other we’d be more relaxed,
but it’s the opposite. His hands are all over my naked body in the dark, and
every nerve ending stands at attention.
Focus. Focus on anything else.
“It’s still just me, Maeve. I respect you.”
That’s what he thinks I’m worried about? If I trust any man aside from
Ashton to respect me, it’s Ledger. No, my problem is with myself. I’ve barely
learned of my husband’s death, and I’m struggling to keep my hormones in
check with another man. What the hell is wrong with me?
It’s only because I haven’t felt this kind of touch in so long. My body
craves the connection, thrives on it. And this time I don’t have to see him
scowl and flinch. My mind can create its own narrative. This reaction is not
because of Ledger. It’s the act of touch in and of itself from another human
being. It’s all the oxytocin my body is releasing. Purely biological.
When Ledger moves to my back, with one hand he sweeps my long,
tangled hair over one of my shoulders. Every time he’s done that before, it
was for convenience purposes. But this time, my senses focus on the soft
graze of his cool fingertips as they brush across my bare skin and the warm
breath on my wet flesh. Goosebumps unfurl across my body.
We don’t say a word. Just as we avoided my accidental crotch graze, we
pretend everything is normal. Just another sponge bath.
As I’m dressing, the puppeteer breathes heavily through the speaker.
“You’re normally better at shielding her, Abbott. Thanks for the show.”
“You bastard.” I can’t see what Ledger is doing, but the rustle of denim
draws my attention to my left where the puppeteer’s voice came from.
 “What are you going to do? Come after me?” His gruff cackle lingers long
after he’s gone.
Slowly, the violation sinks in. How much did the puppeteer see? I wasn’t
even really careful about covering up as I undressed, not until Ledger began
washing me. I didn’t think.
“I’m sorry, Maeve. I should’ve realized the camera had night vision,
because why wouldn’t it?”
Wrapping my arms around my middle, my skin crawling. “It’s fine,
Ledger. It’s not your fault. I was just as senseless.”
I doubt he got much of a show anyway. My curves are non-existent.
Breasts? I’ve gone down a couple cup sizes. Not to mention, he doesn’t give
us razors. How’s that bush looking, puppeteer?
Sick creep.
“We’ll be more conscious next time.”
Next time. Because we know there will be a next time.

Every time I wake, I circle through a slew of questions. Is it the next day?
Is it the middle of the night? How many hours have passed? Ten? Twenty?
Was it a nap or did I sleep the day away?
I once read about a study where volunteers went into isolation with no
light. One of them slept for thirty hours straight and thought it was a nap. We
still get meals, but there’s no telling when he actually brings them. Is it the
same time every day or is he dropping them off whenever he feels like it, just
to mess with us?
There’s no bugle, no communication. After he forced us to bathe in the
dark, he’s given us more silence and darkness, and somehow that’s worse
than his previous morning routine. As if our sense of time wasn’t skewed
enough. I’m not even sure how many meals we’ve had. Has it been a week?
A month? I don’t have a single clue. We hear the hatch, but no light seeps in.
We eat and we sleep, but other than a few games of Would You Rather and
Two Truths and a Lie, there’s nothing to help us pass the time. Until one day
the macabre tune returns.
“No, no. No, no, no.”
“What? Maeve, what is it?”
 “No, no, no, no, no.” I rock back and forth, my knees bent to my chest,
bowing my head.
Ledger’s hand grazes my back. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Don’t you hear it? The music. The music is back.”
“I don’t hear anything. There’s no music, Maeve.”
“There is,” I cry, clasping my palms over my ears. “It’s there.” And it’s
stabbing my eardrums.
“Maeve, it’s all in your head. I promise there’s no music.” His hands
search in the dark, grazing my thigh and my ribs, until they take hold of my
arms and glide up to my shoulders, gripping me. “Focus on me. There’s no
music. Only silence, only my voice.”
I lower my hands from my ears, but the haunting tune remains.
“Sing a different song with me,” Ledger coaxes. “What’s your favorite
song? We can rap Eminem or Dr. Dre. Or what was that song you hummed
when you took care of me that first time he took me away?”
“Just something my mom used to sing to me. I can’t sing, Ledger.”
“Yes, you can. I’ll sing it with you. Just start it off for me.”
Pulling the lyrics from my memory, I let the words flow, my off-key tone
clashing with the jarring notes in my head. It’s a well-known song, and
Ledger soon catches on, singing along with me. His effortless voice
overpowers the discordant music, drawing my focus away from the ruckus
and to him.
It takes a few rounds before the music fades, and my tears calm as I take
several deep breaths. It was all in my head. I want Ledger’s soothing golden
emerald eyes, a confirmation of his presence. A confirmation I’m not crazy.
There’s nothing, not even a hint of his silhouette.
“I’m not going to make it out of this sane.” A choked whisper.
“You are because I’m here. I’m here. You have my voice.” His breath
washes across my skin. “My touch.” His hand brushes my arm, my neck,
before finding my jaw, cradling me. “My heartbeat.” Ledger locates my hand
and holds my palm over his chest. “You feel that? I’m alive. You’re alive.
We haven’t disappeared yet. Not even the darkness can take us.”
 EIGHTEEN

ledger

Has it been a week with no light? Has it been a month? Are we in June, or is
it July now? Maeve had her period again last week, so obviously it hasn’t
been an actual month, but it sure as hell feels like it.
But what I’m most sure of is that when I wake it’s because an ear splitting
horn blasts through the speaker. The bugle is back, and so are the fluorescent
bulbs above us. I’ve never been more grateful for a brass instrument and
faulty lighting in my life.
Maeve’s grim, dark-circled eyes dart to me as she blinks, brightening,
watering. She flings herself into my arms, an elated cry pulling from her
lungs.
And I exhale, the feel of her in my clutches, against my body, alleviates
the anvil weighing on my chest. Hearing her and feeling her in the dark was a
small comfort. But being able to see Maeve is a whole other level of
reassurance and solace. She’s not a figment of my imagination or a
hallucination.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep in the dark ever again.”
I snort. “Forget sleeping. Any darkness at all. Movie theater? Late night
walks? Caves? I will need a constant nightlight.”
Maeve’s shoulders shake as she chuckles. “Oh, Ledger Abbott. If I had to
be kidnapped and tortured with a stranger, I’m glad it’s you.”
You, too, Goldie.

I’m doing my daily altered push-ups on my knees, pushing through the

mending broken rib pain, when the speaker rattles to life. My weakened
muscles tense, and I lean back on my knees, anticipating.
“You two seemed to enjoy the bathing last week a little more than you let
on to one another. Maybe it’s time the two of you acted on all that sexual
tension. I’ll even lower the lighting again if that helps, turn on some mood
music.”
“No,” Maeve says, not even a breath of hesitation, almost frantic.
There’s been a lot exchanged between Maeve and me, but sexual tension is
not one. Was the bathing more intimate with the lights off? Yes, but only
because we had to move slower and weren’t able to avoid touching private
areas we normally left alone. If our bodies had natural reactions, it wasn’t our
fault.
It wasn’t. Though shame struck deep when Maeve noticed mine.
“I don’t think I heard you right, Doc. Did you just defy me?”
Maeve gets to her feet and marches to the corner. “We’re not some sex
dolls that can be used as you please for your enjoyment. We won’t feed into
your disgusting voyeuristic fantasies. It’s not happening.”
“Your spouses are dead.” Simultaneously, we flinch. “What’s holding you
back? You should be thanking me for allowing you to act on your carnal
desires. You’re both free to experience some form of pleasure without guilt.”
“Don’t try to manipulate us.” There’s a fire in Maeve that’s been missing
for weeks. “This isn’t about us. It’s about you and your sick, twisted head.
We cooperate and put up with a lot, but this isn’t one you can bully or punish
us into.”
“Is that your final answer, too, Abbott?”
“You heard the woman.” I give a one-shoulder shrug. Even if it means
another round of getting my ass kicked, I’ll endure it for Maeve. This is the
first time she’s stood up to him since before Ashton. I’m not about to
undermine her, to extinguish her spark. A spark means life.
The puppeteer doesn’t respond, but we both know it’s because he’s on his
way to us. Rolling my shoulders back, I try to mentally prepare for what’s to
come. While a lot of his mental games are random, his punishment for
defying him is predictable. I stopped fearing death when we were shrouded in
blackness. Maybe it’s in part to losing Becca, but also if he wanted us dead,
he’d have done it already. His plans are much more sinister.
With nothing to lose, I ready myself for his approach. Maybe if I catch
him by surprise, I can overpower him for once. I move behind the door.
When it swings open and he steps inside, I charge for his back and hook my
arms around his neck. Before I can choke him, he flings me to the ground,
my shoulder cracking into the concrete.
I’m not a small man, and had I tried something like this within the first
couple weeks, I might’ve had the upper hand, but I don’t have the strength I
once did. That hasn’t been more glaringly obvious until this moment.
And then the puppeteer advances on me, his black hood and neon skull
mask concealing his facial expression.
“No!” Maeve hurls herself in front of me. “He’s been through enough.
Take me. You know you want to.”
“Shut up, Maeve,” I hiss and try to maneuver around her, but she doesn’t
budge. For someone half my size with half the muscle mass she used to, she
stands surprisingly firm.
“I won’t let him take you again. This is just as much my decision as it is
yours.” She’s talking to me, but she’s facing him, her words meant for us
both.
“All right, Doc.” He takes hold of her wrist without hesitation. “If you’re
determined to share in the pain… You’ll share in the pain.”
“No! Wait!” But I can’t stop him in time. The puppeteer injects Maeve’s
neck, and she slumps to the ground. “You can’t take her. Leave her. Take
me.” I try to catch her, but he snatches her up, hauling her over his shoulder
like she’s a sack of bricks and not a human being.
“Wait, wait! Don’t touch her. Don’t you dare touch her!” The door slams
in my face, and I pound the metal, yelling through the barrier. “You’re a dead
man! I swear on my life, I will end you if you hurt her!”
And that’s the cold hard truth. I’m going to kill him.

I catch another glimpse of what Maeve goes through every time he takes
me and she’s left here alone. It’s the worst, stress-inducing anticipation I’ve
experienced. Does she worry I won’t make it back? That she’ll be stuck here
without me?
I’ve felt what she’s going through—every punch, every kick, every vicious
word. Lava pools inside me, ready to erupt and burn him alive. It should’ve
been me.
Another sinking revelation anchors in the pit of my stomach. What if he’s
not using the same methods for her? What if he… My teeth grind. He was so
determined to get us to sleep together, would he cross that line with Maeve?
Some killers can’t. Won’t. Would he?
She’s been gone for too long, longer than the last time he took her. Am I
gone this long every time? It’s difficult to gauge time when you’re drugged.
Time slows down being in this concrete hell, but with Maeve gone, eternities
inch past. I’m wearing a trench in the cement, the roots of my hair trapped in
my fists, when the lock schlinks and the heavy door screeches open.
With the same care he took while hauling her out of here, the puppeteer
drops Maeve on the ground with a thud before slipping out and locking us
inside.
“Maeve. What the hell.” A breathless whisper leaks out as I take in her
bloodied skin, racing toward her. “Maeve. What happened?”
Kneeling by her, her head lolls to the side. Dead? I frantically search for a
pulse on her neck. Pump, pump, pump. It’s subtle, but it’s there.
Unconscious. Has she been knocked out this whole time?
With gentle movements, I lift her into my arms and carry her to our wall,
sliding down with her in my lap.
“What did he do to you?” I stare at the metal box and scream, “What did
you do to her?!”
Her arms are covered in thin cuts, the material of her shirt marred in slices
of red. Fearing what I’ll find, I edge the hem up, and the same marks on her
arms spread across her stomach. That bastard took a knife to her. The only
silver lining is they appear to be surface wounds, not too deep, but would still
hurt like a mother.
Out of respect, I don’t raise it higher, but if her stained shirt is any
indication, her whole torso is cut up. I tug at the denim around her ankle,
patches of blood up and down her jeans. Please let that be from the marks
I’ve already seen. Slices wind around her ankles, and I peek cuts at the
bottom of her calves.
That piece of rotting scum. He took off her clothes. How much more of
her did he harm?
 Why? Why did he do this to you?
Tears gloss over my eyes as I stroke her hair and rock her and whisper,
“Please wake up. Please don’t leave me.”

The weight in my lap shifts, and my eyes dart open. I must have drifted
off.
“Maeve,” I breathe.
She winces, a tear escaping her closed eye.
“Don’t move. I’ve got you.”
“It hurts. Everywhere.”
My blood runs cold. Everywhere? “Do you know if he… Did he?” I can’t
even say the words. But I have to know. The thought kept me awake for half
the night. “I mean, did he violate you?”
Shaking her head, another tear falls. “I don’t think so.”
I swear if he did… I can’t be held accountable for the things I’d put that
man through. Far worse things than he’s done to us, that’s for sure. He’d beg
for death.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve had better days.”
Stupid question. I swallow hard. “What happened? How did he do this?”
She extends her arms, assessing the damage. “He had a small pocket knife.
I wasn’t awake for most of it. Even when I started to come to while he was
slicing me, he injected me again.”
What? Why? To keep her from screaming? To do things he couldn’t bring
himself to look her in the eye while he did them?
He always waits until I regain consciousness before he beats the crap out
of me. He wants me to feel the blows as they come. He wants me to witness
the rage behind the mask. Is it because the process was so lengthy? He
couldn’t restrain her to keep her still enough from fighting back? Does he feel
guilty causing her physical pain by his hand?
“I’m so sorry, Maeve.” I gingerly take one of her arms, giving myself a
better look at how deep, how long, how many. “Did he say anything to you?”
She shakes her head. “The one time I gained consciousness, he was talking
to himself, mumbling under his breath, asking me what I think it feels like to
die.”
A shudder courses down my spine. “Sick piece of— I should’ve tried
harder to stop you, to stop him. This should’ve been me.”
 She tugs her arm from my gentle grasp, cradling it against her chest. “No,
it shouldn’t have. You don’t have to be a martyr. You’ve endured enough for
me. For as long as we’ve been here, it’s a wonder he hasn’t punished me
more.”
“Doesn’t make it okay. Next time don’t try to be so self-sacrificing or a
hero. This isn’t okay. You weren’t supposed to be taken by him again. I
swore to you. Promise you’ll let me go next time.”
I don’t miss that she doesn’t promise me, but in her state I don’t push.
Watching Maeve’s suffering hurts more than my own. What kind of man can
do this to a woman?
“One thing I don’t understand.” She closes her eyes, a crease forming
between her dark brows as she grimaces. “Why didn’t he hurt me the same
way as before?”
“I wondered the same thing. Maybe he didn’t think your body could
withstand another beating. You’re a lot smaller.” One boot to the back could
break her spine, especially in the physical state she’s in.
“Maybe.” Lifting the hem of her bloodied shirt, Maeve winces when it
sticks to the cuts on her skin. “He seems to have a rhyme or reason for
everything he does. There was an undercurrent of bitterness to his murmured
questioning.”
What does that mean? Was he abused this way as a child? Is Maeve a
surrogate for who he really wants to punish?
Untangling herself from me, she slides off my lap, but I don’t want to let
her go.
We’re no longer strangers. More than cellmates, but “friends” seems such
a strange term for what we’re enduring together. Allies? Partners?
Companions? They all sound so insignificant. Less than.
Every day without Becca, my heart struggles for beats. But somehow,
when I wake and remember she’s gone, the sight of Maeve keeps blood
pumping through my veins.
Maeve is my life support.
And when she bleeds, so do I.
 NINETEEN

ledger

When the bugle sounds, my eyes open to Maeve sleeping beside me, but
something is off. She doesn’t stir. Normally she jerks awake at the sudden
burst of noise. Seconds pass like hours when I reach to check her pulse and
notice sweat glistening on her face, her skin sallow, but I’m the opposite.
This is still a frozen hell. I press the back of my hand to her forehead, and
heat warms my skin. But even with my touch, she doesn’t move a muscle. I
might not be a doctor, but I can diagnose this.
“Maeve.” I stroke her shoulder and squeeze.
“Hmm.”
“You’re burning up.”
All she does is nod, not even a twitch of her eyelids.
“You probably have an infection from all of your cuts.” It was bound to
happen, but it’s been a couple days. I’d hoped we’d missed the window, that
she was in the clear. What am I supposed to do?
Standing, I walk toward the corner. “Hello?” A few seconds pass with no
reply, and I’m not satisfied with that. “Hey! Answer me! I know you can hear
me.”
Silence. Freaking douchebag. I get down by Maeve. Leaning back against
the wall, I lift her head into my lap, and brush away her damp hair.
 “Don’t pretend like you can’t hear me, that you aren’t watching us,” I
mutter. “I didn’t take you for a man who’s too ashamed to face his victims.”
It takes a minute, but finally… Crackle. Though he says nothing.
“That’s fine. I know you’re there. You can remain quiet, but you’re going
to listen to me. Maeve is sick. She needs medicine, an antibiotic or
something.”
“There you go with those demands again. If you want something, I’m
gonna need you to beg.”
As much as it pains me to obey, I don’t hesitate. “Please. She needs help. I
don’t know what kind of medication, but her fever is high. She’s not well.”
“And what are you willing to pay for that?”
“Me? You want to keep us alive so badly, why don’t you just give her
what she needs to fix this.”
“That’s not how this works, Abbott. You want something? I need
something in return.”
“What? What do you want?”
“Well, I can’t tell you that.” As if pleased with his evasion, he chuckles
under his breath. “You’ll have to wait and see. But first, I need your consent.
If you don’t follow through with your task, there will be no antibiotic, and
you can say goodbye to Doc.”
My task? Not another beating? “Fine.” I say fine, but what I mean is
anything. I’ll do anything for her.
And then he goes radio silent. Not even a confirmation that we have a
deal. We don’t hear from him for hours. I keep shouting at the speaker, but he
ignores me. Shivers take over Maeve and they don’t stop. Her eyelids heavy,
they remain closed for the most part. Every time she responds to my
questions, her speech slurs.
I keep a hold on my tears, my biggest fear suppressed. He will not see
what this is doing to me. I can’t think about losing her. It’s not an option.
Maeve will get the antibiotic, and she’ll live.
I can pretend my desperation to keep her alive is so I won’t be alone, but
it’s more than that. So much more.
“Hang in there, Goldie. We’re going to get you that medicine.”
In a rasp, she opens her mouth. “My…heart.”
“What about your heart?”
She doesn’t respond, so I press my hand against her chest. Like a
jackhammer, her heart beats on double-time.
 What does that mean? “Why is it so fast?”
“Infection…”
“Yeah, I know that, Maeve.”
“Blood,” she whispers.
Blood… “A blood infection?”
Taking a few breaths, she finds the strength. “Poisoning.”
Blood poisoning? That doesn’t sound good. That doesn’t sound good at
all. Is she saying she has blood poisoning or she’s in danger of getting it?
I yell at the speaker for his help, but he doesn’t give me anything. I’m
useless. A powerless man in need of a miracle. On the outside I stay
composed, my jaw clenched with tears in my eyes, but inside I scream. I
scream and I trash. Fists fly, chairs crash, tables flip, glasses smash. My head
is a riot cage.
Save her. If I can never ask for another miracle again, this is the one I
want, the one I need.

After what stretches for like an entire day—Maeve in and out of

consciousness—faint footfalls finally drift outside our cell before the schlink
of the lock, and the steel swings open.
Neon mask, black garb, he strides inside. “Get up. We’re gonna take a
walk.”
“I don’t want to leave her.”
“Fine.” He turns for the door. “You can stay and watch her die instead.
Doesn’t matter to me either way.”
“No, wait.” Carefully, I move from beneath Maeve, resting her head down
gently.
“I’ll be back.” I press my lips to her oven forehead and whisper, “Hold on
for me. Hold on, Goldie.”
After being blindfolded and led above ground with my wrists cuffed, we
stop when my foot connects with something solid and echoes like an empty
wooden box.
Removing my blindfold, he shines a flashlight at the ground, patches of
grass beneath my feet. “Get in.”
“What?”
“In the casket. Get in.”
This is a living horror movie, and terror surges through my bloodstream.
There are two things in this life I’m afraid of. Snakes and confined spaces.
Two of the most common phobias, so it wasn’t hard for him to choose the
right one. This is pure torture.
When I don’t budge, he says, “What’s the matter?”
My teeth grind. “Nothing.” I’m claustrophobic, and the man wants me to
crawl inside a two by six box. It’s like he built it specifically for me. And he
probably did. It’s why he took so long to come get me for his task.
“How long?”
“If you can last the night, I’ll get Doc what she needs tomorrow morning.”
My spine lengthens into a metal rod, sludge consuming my windpipe.
“Tomorrow morning? She needs something now. She could be dead by
morning.”
“Then I guess you should get in because the longer you take, the longer
she waits.”
I can’t. Fear petrifies me in place. Why? Why did it have to be a casket?
“Tick, tock, Abbott. The more time you waste, the less time she has.”
My wrists rattle as a tremble possesses my limbs. “Will you at least take
the handcuffs off?” If I have to be placed in an enclosed space, I need my
hands free. Double confinement is too much.
“What kind of moron do you take me for? Leave you uncuffed so you can
find a way to escape? Sorry. Either it’s in the casket with cuffs or Maeve
succumbs to the infection and dies.”
Fear isn’t real. It’s a state of mind. I just need to breathe and not think
about where I am. I’m invincible, a shatterproof statue.
Before I can second guess myself, one foot steps in and then the other as I
lower inside. All I have to do is pretend I’m outside in the dark. There’s
nothing around me but air. I’m camping. Yeah, camping. There are crickets
and the occasional hoot of an owl. I’m one with freaking nature.
“Lie down.”
For Maeve, I do as he says. Fear isn’t real.
This isn’t real.

I’m not sure how, but after hours upon hours of holding in a vocal cord-
shredding scream, sleep eventually saved me. Or more like I passed out from
overworking my vital organs. So, when a scrape across the wooden lid
echoes around me, I startle awake. With each lengthy scratch, more light
seeps through the edges.
Daylight.
It’s morning.
As a man who grew up in a house with a father who believed crying meant
weakness, I’ve released a lot of weakness since being taken captive, but
releasing this sob is the most cathartic.
When the covering slides off, sunlight and specs of soil blind me. I blink,
swiping at my eyes. He throws a blindfold on my chest. “Put it on.”
Whatever he wants. I’d let a snake slither and wrap around my neck to get
out of this torture chamber. After tying the blindfold in front and spinning the
knot to the back, covering my eyes, the puppeteer hauls me out of the casket.
I drop to my knees, hands grasping the earth at my fingertips. Solid ground.
I’m alive.
“Get up.” He yanks me by the arm, and I stumble toward the opening of
our dungeon.
Once underground, I ask, “How’s Maeve?”
“Alive.”
“Will you give her the antibiotic now?”
He shoves me down the hall. “Just shut up and move.”
With every shove, more resentment builds inside of me. If only I could
snap without his harsher retaliation.
When the puppeteer frees me of the handcuffs and blindfold in our cell,
Maeve is propped against the wall. The door slams shut behind me, but I
can’t move. With her fresh cuts marring her arms, her eyes open, and the
elephant that’s been sitting on my chest since I woke up next to her yesterday
morning stands. I can breathe.
She offers a lethargic smile, but makes no effort to get up.
I skim my sore wrists, fighting the urge to dart across the room and haul
her into my arms. “You’re okay. Did he already give you the medicine?”
With a wobbly sigh, she nods. “He gave it to me a while ago. I still don’t
feel well, but I think I’m out of the woods.”
A while? He left me in that death chest even though he helped her? I’d be
more pissed, but it doesn’t matter. Maeve’s okay, and that’s what does.
I settle beside her, my head falling against the cool concrete. I never
thought I’d miss this place, but if I never see another casket again it’ll be too
soon.
 What did Becca’s casket look like? What kind of flowers were chosen?
There should’ve been white lilies. She loved those. But no one would’ve
known to use those. Sure, we have friends, but none of them would know
those kind of details. Becca and I hadn’t made plans for the end of our lives
yet. Why would we?
Did my father make any decisions? What am I saying? He probably threw
some money at the funeral home and left it up to the director to organize. He
might’ve had her cremated for all I know, not wanting to deal with an actual
burial and service.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
I exhale. “Nothing.”
“Something obviously did.” Her hand ruffles my hair, dirt tumbling onto
my shirt and pants. “You’ve been gone all night, and you’re covered in dirt. I
might’ve been out of it yesterday, but I heard enough. He wanted something
in return for the medicine. What was it?”
I don’t want her to know. She’ll carry that guilt, and she’s carried enough.
“Just a friendly game of hide and seek.”
“Ledger.” My name is a chastisement.
“I’m alive, all right? You’re alive. Let’s just leave it alone.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No,” I breathe, closing my eyes.
“You’re sure?”
“Maeve.”
“Okay.” Her head nestles onto my shoulder. “Well, whatever it was.
Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
And really, I never want it mentioned again.
 TWENTY

ledger

“Have you ever thought about your own death?”

Her blue eyes narrow as she waits for me to expand on my question.
“I had plenty of time to do that while trapped in that concrete hellhole.”
My knee bounces as she blinks at me. “No, I suppose it’s not something
normal people do, huh?”
Dr. Jorgensen remains quiet, assessing me. I imagine she hasn’t had many
patients who’ve been buried alive. I think I stunned her into silence. Even if I
wasn’t literally buried alive. With the casket being above ground, now I
realize he shoveled a few scoops of dirt on top to heighten my fear. It’s what
the puppeteer does best.
“I don’t think anything you experienced could be categorized as normal,
Ledger. So, any questions you’ve had whether normal or not are still valid
and something we can work through.”
I grunt and roll my eyes. I freaking hate this place.
She rubs her red lips together with a weighted exhale. “That was quite the
act of bravery you showed for Maeve, though. An unimaginable, traumatic
experience for you.”
“She wasn’t going to live without the antibiotics.” I shrug. What kind of
man does she take me for? “He didn’t leave me much of a choice.”
 Her head tilts as she uncrosses and recrosses her legs. “You’ve refused the
puppeteer before. Have dealt with his consequences on numerous occasions.
Why not this time, do you think? Why not when you were about to face one
of your greatest fears? You had no idea if you were even going to make it
through the night.”
How could I not? “He was unpredictable. Would refusing mean another
regular beating or would it mean letting Maeve die?”
“And you weren’t willing to take that risk.”
Not a question, but I can’t stop from answering anyway. “Not in a million
years.”
Dr. Jorgensen’s lips pinch in a contemplative pout. “Why didn’t you want
her to know what you’d done? Why let Maeve believe your deal with the
devil wasn’t a huge sacrifice on your part?”
“What purpose would that have served? I didn’t do it for recognition or
her gratitude. I stepped into that box for her as much as I did for myself. I
wasn’t about to live without her in that prison. It was insufferable enough as
it was.”
“And is that when you knew you loved Maeve?” The way she draws out
loved, like it’s an inaccurate term for what I felt claws at my heart.
Did I know I was in love with Maeve? No. Was I? Probably.
I shake my head. “That came much later.”
 TWENTY
ONE

maeve

My cuts have closed, the infection gone, but every move I make reopens a
different one. There’s more material on my body soaked in blood than not.
I’m in a constant state of stinging and aching. The only parts of my body he
left undamaged are where my bra touches, as well as my hands, face, and
feet. I’m not sure why. If he has no intention of letting us go, it can’t be
because he cares if others will see my scars. He’s not giving me an option to
keep them hidden. There’s no one to hide them from.
Every time we bathe, Ledger takes extra precautions, but after I rebuked
him for being too gentle, he still makes sure my wounds are cleaned to
prevent another infection. With the number of open wounds we’ve gotten, the
fact that I’m the only one that’s contracted something is nothing short of a
miracle. This room isn’t exactly germ-free.
“We’ve been here for somewhere around seventy-five days.” Ledger rolls
onto his back after finishing his last push-up he’s resorted to doing from his
knees. “Or at least, per our rough count.” He taps the tally on his wall. After
peeling paint back, he found a section of cracked concrete with a piece he
was able to pull from the wall.
 I twitch, thinking about how little we know of our timetable. You never
really know how important the awareness of time is until you live without it.
Our bodies don’t know how to function. When the dopamine should kick in,
or our serotonin, or every other hormone we need. It seems such an
insignificant thing in comparison to what we’re going through, and yet,
maybe if our bodies were operating properly, we’d be in higher spirits. We’d
have more determination to keep going. We’d be able to figure out why
we’re here or how to get out.
My period hasn’t come yet, and I’ve always been regular. With how my
body is functioning, at this point, I don’t expect it to come. It’s a saving grace
in and of itself, but it only confirms we’re malnourished. And as inconvenient
as my period is, it’d at least help us to keep a better idea of time.
“So, do you think it’s been more or less time?” he asks.
“I hope less, but it’s probably more.” My concern is—how much more?
Have we lost Weeks? Or just days?
“Where do you think he goes?”
“Going home to his wife and kids, living a normal life like he isn’t a
psychopath.”
“You really think he has a family?”
“He disappears for too many long periods of time to live a solitary life,
don’t you think?” Unless he’s trying to keep his trail cold and covered,
spacing out the time to seem less predictable or untraceable.
“Yeah. He probably lives with his mom who thinks he’s an angel and
doesn’t understand why some lucky woman hasn’t snatched him up yet.”
I chuckle.
Ledger runs a hand over his thick beard as he gets to his feet. He looks
even more handsome with a beard, which is truly unfair. His facial hair
conceals his bony cheeks, while all I have is grease coating my face and
thinning hair.
Stroking his bristly jawline, Ledger glances at me. “Why do you think
some days we just get a bucket and water and food and never hear much else
from him?”
“Maybe he only has so much time to leave before his wife starts
demanding why he’s not home yet.”
Ledger snorts. “Probably.”
Crackle. “Close. It’s my dad, actually.”
My heart stops, startled by his voice.
 “Just because the puppeteer doesn’t speak doesn’t mean he’s not here.”
Our shared widened eyes give away our shock. He’s giving us personal
information? Is he trying to humanize himself for us? Prove he’s more than a
man behind a mask. “Yeah, I know what you call me. The puppeteer. It has a
nice ring to it. Do you think that’s what they’ll call me when your bodies are
found?”
Ice runs through my veins.
“Or maybe they’ll never find you. I could do this forever. You two bring
me a lot of pleasure, twisted and sick as you believe it may be. This is my
justice. You’ve lasted months. Think you could last years?”
“How many months has it been?” I dare ask.
“Nah. I don’t think I’ll tell you. It’s much more fun watching you grapple
with the loss of time.”
This is the first time he’s given us a peek behind the curtain, shown any
sort of vulnerability. If I give him sympathy about his father, would he
confess more?
“Control? Is that what you need? Has it been taken away from you?”
When he stays silent, I swallow, gaining the courage to continue. “I’d get it if
your world is restricted. We give you the ability to calm the chaos. Who
could blame you?”
“Nice try, Doc. It’s a good thing you didn’t go into psychology. Your
psychoanalysis is off-base. I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again. You’ll
never figure my motives out because you’re so cemented in your innocence,
you don’t see how guilty you truly are.”
“Of what?” I shout, throwing my arms in the air. “What are we guilty of?
Isn’t it about time we understand why you’ve held us here?”
With the calmness of a monk, he says, “Maybe someday I’ll tell you, but
today is not that day.”
“It’s because he’s made this all up in his head. He’s made it all up to
justify his actions. We’re innocent. He’s the guilty one.” Ledger’s trying to
rile him up, but the puppeteer doesn’t say a word. He’s gone.
Ledger’s eyes drift to my arms. “Hell, Maeve. You’re bleeding.”
“It’s fine.” I swat the air. What’s a little more blood loss in the grand
scheme of things?
“No, you’re really bleeding.”
Looking down, I notice my wrist drips. Not a dangerous amount, but more
than it should. Several cuts must’ve burst open during my tirade.
 Stepping close, Ledger tears off the cleanest edge of his shirt and ties it
around my wrist. His shirt is torn at the shoulder and under his armpit. He has
slits on his torso and around his collar from everyday wear and all the
beatings he’s taken.
“You can’t really afford to ruin more of your clothing.”
“Does it look like I care?” His lips purse, unruffled, as he makes sure the
fabric is secure.
“No, but you should. We’re not exactly basking in the Sahara Desert.”
“If you think this flimsy material is going to be the difference between
survival and hypothermia, you’re not as smart as you look.” Ledger smirks,
taking hold of my fingers.
“Oh, shut it.” I chuckle.
Maybe it’s an unconscious move, but he strokes my knuckles, never
breaking our stare. “I’m pretty sure my body has adapted to the low
temperature. I don’t even feel the cold anymore.”
With his tender touch, I don’t either. “Be careful what you say. Tomorrow
he’ll start blasting an industrial fan or turn that space heater on again.” I say it
tongue-in-cheek, but it’s true. And I probably just gave the puppeteer more
ammunition.
When Ledger doesn’t let go of my fingers, I can’t help flashing back to the
moment I first opened my eyes and he was there. “Why were you such a jerk
when we first woke up?”
He lets my hand fall from his grasp, and in an instant, a crater inside me
opens. I’m incomplete, like an ocean without the shore. Which doesn’t make
sense. I internally slap my heart. Ledger doesn’t complete me. Ashton did.
I’m already incomplete. They aren’t interchangeable. Just because he’s here
with me doesn’t mean he makes up my other half. I’ll always be half of a
whole without my husband.
Ledger laughs through his nose, jolting me back to the present. “I had just
been kidnapped, and with someone I didn’t know. I didn’t know what was
going to happen. Was I supposed to hold your hand and tell you everything
was going to be all right?”
“It would’ve been nice.”
“Sorry.” Ledger slides down the wall, sitting with his knees bent. “I’m not
what they call the chivalrous type.”
“Tearing the last of your shirt says otherwise.”
His eyes roll before lifting to the hook in the corner of the room,
contemplative. “I just wasn’t sure getting close to you was a smart idea. I
knew nothing about you. If you were in on it or if you’d turn against me
given the opportunity.”
I can’t stop the tilt of my lips. “I had a few of the same thoughts about
you.”
“And it didn’t help that I was imprisoned with a beautiful woman.” His
mesmeric gaze descends from the ceiling, landing on me. “I’m…I was a
married man, but I’m still a man with eyes. I was doing what I could to keep
my emotions in check. I was looking out for you just as much as I was
myself.”
I swallow.
The last thing he says dangles between us. I’m not sure what to say, so I
nod and resume my stroll around the room. His words shouldn’t affect me the
way they do. There shouldn’t be a flicker in my breathing or butterflies
releasing from their cage.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I murmur.
“Making you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t.” I’m the one who should be sorry. He lost his spouse, too.
The last thing he needs is the woman he’s trapped with looking at him in a
different light. This is a response to our trauma. My mind can’t navigate the
onslaught of life-altering trials. That’s all this is.
“I was just surprised.” I stop walking and face him. “You stunned me into
silence.”
The way his eyes watch me gives me the feeling he hasn’t taken his gaze
from me once. “Surprised about which part, exactly?”
“All of it. You’re not a very easy person to read. Looking back now, I see
it. I know you, but at the time I would have pegged you for being annoyed
with me, wishing I wasn’t here.”
Softening at the edges, his stare remains unshakable. “I could never be
annoyed by you, Goldie. And if you weren’t with me, I’d surrender to death.”
The earnest gleam in his eyes travels to my core, stirring a sordid burn, his
words implying a meaning I can’t allow myself to explore. I shut down any
further nonsensical thoughts and turn my head to blink away tears.
“I made it worse, didn’t I?”
I shake my head, worried if I speak I’ll give myself away.
Too late. The scrape of his jeans and shuffle of his bare feet drift closer
and closer. “It’s okay, Maeve. I miss Becca, too.”
He gets it, but he doesn’t.
Before I can protest, Ledger curls me into his arms and lets me cry against
his chest, resting his chin atop my head.

“What do you say? Two Truths and a Lie?” Ledger asks after we finish
eating our ten millionth microwavable dinner. We’ve lost another couple
weeks, Ledger tallying with the piece of concrete. We’re nearing three
months if our original count isn’t too far off. He may follow through on his
threat to keep us for years.
My hell. Three months. Somehow it feels like years and days all at once.
Minutes are long, but the days are short. And they’re adding up.
It’s all relative, right? A month in the real world can feel like days, time
rushing by, while a month in here feels like years, eternities. If he kept us for
years, I don’t want to know what amount of time that’d seem like.
We haven’t said much to one another today, lost in our heads. My focus
has been on Ashton. The ache of his loss never goes away—two months later,
or three including the one I had no idea he was gone—but when he’s the
focal point of my thoughts, my heart threatens to stop from the pain, and my
lungs twist and strangle. Nothing the puppeteer puts us through could match
the combined loss of my husband and son.
If Ashton were still alive, we’d have been found by now. He’d have
figured out how to track us or hounded the cops so relentlessly, they’d want
to find me just to get him off their backs.
Have they connected our kidnappings yet? Were there enough similarities
in how we were taken and how our spouses died to tie us together? And if so,
have they figured out if there’s a reason we were taken together? Or are we
simply two strangers with nothing in common but a psychopath who preyed
on them?
“You don’t have to keep suggesting games for my benefit, Ledger.”
“I’m not a selfless person, Maeve. I suggest these games for myself as
much as I do for you. I won’t take no for an answer.”
Shrugging, I snort and settle beside him. “Fine. Time to see if we’re any
better at reading each other by now.”
 We’ve played the game several times since the first, but we haven’t
always been the best at picking out the lie. I kind of love and hate how
unpredictable Ledger is. I want to win, but I love that he’s not who I expect
him to be. He’s an enigma.
“I’ll go first.” Ledger clasps his hands around his bent knees. “I wanted to
major in creative writing, but ended up majoring in finance. I hate when
people don’t go at least five over the speed limit. And I’ve never broken a
bone.”
I tap my chin, chewing on my lower lip. “While I think you wanted to
major in something other than finance, I don’t think it was creative writing.”
“I did, actually.” His mouth twitches with a smirk. Dang it. “But I come
from a family with high expectations. If I wasn’t going to be some sort of
doctor or lawyer or dentist, I had to take over the family business.”
“You didn’t get a say?”
His gaze darts away. “It was easier not to fight it.”
There’s a lot Ledger says and doesn’t say during our chats. He gives me
just enough to want to pry, but I respect his decision to cut himself off or
conceal more of the story.
“So, why creative writing?”
“I wanted to be a novelist. I’ve had stories swirling in my head for as long
as I can remember. I used to write stories in spiral notebooks. When my dad
found my stash under my bed and threw them all out, he thought he’d killed
my obsession with fiction. I simply learned how to hide them better.”
“He threw away all your stories? All of that hard work and creativity.” My
shoulders slump. “That must’ve been devastating to a young child.”
He nods. “They weren’t any good anyway, so I doubt anything would’ve
come from them. Once I started working for my dad, I didn’t have time to
continue my hobby.”
“If we ever get out of here, you should write that novel, Ledger.”
“Yeah,” he says, melancholy. “Maybe.”
“I’m not a reader, but I’d read your books.”
Another twist of his lips brightens his sad eyes. “Thanks, Goldie.”
“So, what’s the lie?”
“I broke my hand while I was rough housing with— when I was twelve.
Your turn.”
I’ve stolen your privacy, so keep your secrets, Ledger. I’ll let you.
“All right.” I pause to gather my options. “I didn’t lose my virginity until I
was twenty-four. I wasn’t captain of the swim team in high school. And I
didn’t want kids until I met Ashton.”
“Oh, we’re going deep. Okay, okay.”
I laugh through my nose. “You kind of opened that door with the story of
your dad.”
“Yeah.” He smirks. “Umm…okay. You were captain of the swim team.”
“Ding ding ding.”
He pumps his fist. “That’s the first one I’ve gotten right in a while.”
“Gold star for you.” I pretend to press one to the shoulder of his shirt.
“You didn’t want kids before, but you wanted to become an OBGYN?”
Turning his head toward me, he leans away to meet my eyes.
The corner of my mouth tugs up. “I was too career-oriented, baby doctor
or not, I didn’t see children in the cards for me. But then I met Ashton on a
blind date set up by my sister Elva—she knew him through a coworker—and
by the second date I was imagining what our babies would look like and what
we would name them.”
“How old were you when you met Ashton?”
“Twenty-three.”
Nodding, Ledger’s eyes stir with contemplation. “So…” He clears his
throat. “Ashton is the only man you’ve ever been with?”
A wistful smile touches my lips. “The one and only.”
“I bet Becca wishes she could say the same about me.”
I shrug and shake my head. “I didn’t do it on purpose. There weren’t any
offers in my younger years, and then when I was propositioned, none of them
interested me. After as long as I’d gone, I didn’t want to be flippant with sex
just to let some random guy get off. And I cared more about schooling and
getting into medical school before I was twenty-one to be distracted with
those kinds of entanglements. I didn’t want to be in school for the entire span
of my twenties.”
“And did you manage to hit your goal?”
“Got my MD at twenty-six, baby.” I raise my fist in the air.
Ledger grins. “That’s impressive.”
“Or nuts.” I chuckle, reminded of those exhausting, overloaded years. And
I guess they really didn’t change once I graduated. “I had no time for
anything but school and my residency and Ashton.”
“When I graduated, my dad didn’t leave much room for anything but
throwing me into the deep end. He’s bound and determined to make me CFO
before I turn thirty.” Ledger rubs his hand down his face, his eyes losing their
levity. “Luckily, I already had Becca when I began working for him, and she
stuck by my side through the long hours and broken promises. Otherwise, I’d
never have found a woman who’d put up with me.”
The room quiets. Nothing but the sluggish drip, drip, drip in the back right
corner. We had patient, steadfast spouses, and now…
“They’re really gone.”
I feel more than see Ledger nod.
Taking a breath, I swallow rising emotions. “Every day that passes I sense
a part of myself vanish. Who knows how much longer we have, but by the
end, I’ll be nothing but a void.”
“It’s impossible for you to be a void, Maeve. There’s too much fight in
you.”
I snort. “You say that, but between the two of us, I’m the pessimist, and
you can’t deny it.”
“You only feel that way because I hold back. This place scares the tar out
of me, but he doesn’t deserve to feed off my fear.” His confession is quiet,
almost angry that he said it out loud. “Maeve, you’ve spent a hundred days in
captivity and you’ve survived some of the most torturous physical and mental
games. And still, when you look at me, there’s a flicker of light. I see you,
Goldie.”
A mirthless laugh slips out. “It’s funny. I was going to say the same about
you.”
Our eyes hook, stillness between us. There’s an affectionate shift in his
eyes, and it matches mine. Something invisible chains me to Ledger, a taut
cord. Does he feel the pull? He has to. And it tugs us closer and closer. For so
many months we’ve kept boundaries, prevented our hearts and minds from
entering a vortex of emotions and thoughts we can’t return from. But this
moment is different from the rest. Heavier.
The squeak of the hatch startles us apart, our second bathroom bucket of
the day kicked inside. Darting glances at each other, I clear my throat.
“Go ahead.” Following our routine, Ledger turns his back, plugs his ears,
and hums for me.
 TWENTY
TWO

Ledger

When I rouse from sleep, something’s different. The surface I wake on is

hard and cold, but it’s too smooth, too even. And my feet. I can’t move my
feet apart. Tugging them, I sit up to see a thick piece of rope tying them
together, a metal anchor attached. What the hell? And then I take in my
surroundings. Four walls of glass. A glass floor and a glass ceiling, only
dimmed concrete beyond. I’m trapped inside a giant tank, wider than it is tall.
“Maeve!” Swinging my head around, I find her unconscious on the other
side, her ankles tied. On her back, her long hair is strewn across her face, her
limbs limp.
I army crawl as far as the anchor will allow and clutch her outstretched
wrist. She doesn’t acknowledge me, not a single budge. Combing the hair
from her face, I brush my thumb across her cheek. “Maeve, hey. Wake up.
Wake up, Maeve. Please.”
Her eyelids don’t so much as flutter.
No. Not today. I’m not losing her today. I press two fingers to the pulse
point of her neck. Slow, but steady. I exhale in relief.
“C’mon.” I jostle her shoulder. “Open your eyes. Open your eyes, Maeve.”
 “I’m not sure she’ll wake up in time. I think I slipped too much of the
sedative in her food.” From the shadows of the unfamiliar dim room, the
masked puppeteer emerges, his deep voice amplified by some sort of device.
“Which is too bad, I was hoping she’d come to for the big reveal. Guess
she’ll just have to wake during the show.”
I get to my knees and level him with a glare. “What is this?”
“Impressive, isn’t it?” He rounds the side and taps the glass with his
gloved knuckle. “It took me a while to get my hands on this baby, and it cost
a pretty penny, if I’m being honest. But what’s the point of money if you
don’t spend it? You get it, rich boy.”
A dark hole in the bottom of the wall snags my attention. What the—? My
eyes strain to comprehend what I’m seeing until they move along the large
tube on the outside connected to the wall. A thick metal pipe.
Tank. Pipe. Restraints. Anchor. Every piece comes together. This is the
finale. He’s going to drown us.
I drop down, jostling Maeve’s shoulder again. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.
“Maeve. Hey. Don’t do this now. You have to wake up. C’mon, Goldie,” I
whisper her name. “Please.”
“What exactly do you think you’ll accomplish by waking her? More time
to panic? More time to let the knowledge of her death sink in?” He chuckles,
gruff. “Good idea, but she received a pretty hefty dose of ketamine. Couldn’t
have you two waking before I had this all set up. A little shake of the
shoulder isn’t going to wake her.”
How do we get out of this?
My hands are free. He didn’t bind our wrists. I work the knots around my
ankles.
“Oh. Yeah. Good thought. Once you’re free, you can untie Doc. Just one
minute problem.” The puppeteer taps the top of the tank, drawing my eyes. A
black metal object clanks against the glass. “It’s locked. That’d be an
extraordinary thing to see you get yourself out of. Like watching a real
Houdini.”
“You sick son of—”
“Now, now. No need for name calling. You should save your breath.
You’re gonna need it.”
I don’t let him deter me as I work the knots, summoning all the strength
my fingers possess. Maybe it’s locked, but this is one less obstacle I can
move past. One step closer to saving us.
 The puppeteer disappears into the shadows again, and I put him out of my
mind. A shrill turn of metal pierces my ears as water pours into the tank. And
it’s not the pace of a faucet, more like the pace of a fire hose. It gushes like
it’s trying to put out flames.
My attention darts to Maeve on the opposite side, water rushing toward
her. The first inch soaks her hair. Only a few more inches and she’ll drown
before she wakes. Or worse, wake while she’s drowning.
“Maeve!” I shout above the surging water and work faster on the knots.
“Wake up, Maeve! You have to wake up!”
The tough twine rubs my skin raw as I pry and yank. I can’t keep my feet
out of the rising water, the anchor too heavy. How did he get these knots so
secure?
My eyes swing to Maeve. The water rises past her ears. Another inch and
her mouth will be covered. A minute. I have less than a minute.
“Damn it!” My fingers burn, the soaking rope making it harder to untie the
knots.
And then a strand loosens. I jerk and tear the loops, slipping my ankles
free. Whether the puppeteer has anything to say, I hear nothing as I turn my
attention to Maeve. Water splashes around me like little tidal waves as I
trudge through and lift her up, the water nearly reaching her lips. With her
anchor, I remain on my knees, unable to boost her any higher.
Now that I have her in my arms, how do I hold her and undo the rope? I
might be able to do it one-handed, but it’ll take me twice as long. I don’t
know if I have that kind of time.
I tap her cheek, rocking her in my arms. “We’re running out of time,
Maeve. Wake up. C’mon. Wake up. I’m begging you, if you do nothing else
for me as long as we live, open your eyes.”
Like the storm clouds finally disperse, her eyelids flicker.
“Maeve,” I say, out of breath.
Blinking her eyes open, her gaze darts around the tank as she flails in my
arms. “Where are we? What’s happening?”
“Hey, hey.” I gentle my rushed tone. “It’s okay.”
“Welcome to the world of the living, Doc. You’ve made it just in time.”
The puppeteer emerges from the darkness.
I hold Maeve steady, keeping her close to my chest. “Don’t struggle,” I
murmur in her ear. “Save your strength.”
“What?” she hisses, fear saturating her tone.
 “I was beginning to lose hope.” He flattens his palms against the glass like
we’re in an aquarium exhibit.
I ignore him and use one of my hands to start loosening her knots as I
carry her on my knees away from him. “We have to get these ropes off you.”
“How?”
“I’m gonna prop you against the glass, okay? Keep your arms around my
neck and grip tight. I’ll help hold your legs up. I need the rope out of the
water.”
“It’s not gonna work.”
“It is gonna work. Just remain calm. Stay with me.”
The blue skull mask appears in front of Maeve, and she jolts. “It won’t
matter either way, Doc. Abbott, here, is getting your hopes up.” His shouts
above the water wear on my patience.
“Don’t listen to him. Look at me, Goldie. Look at me. I got you. It’s gonna
be okay.”
“He’s full of empty promises, Doc. You should know this by now. He can
get himself out of a lot of things with his privilege, but not this. Definitely not
this.”
I don’t have time for his stupid riddles and charades today. I have my life
support to save.
Maeve, on the other hand, can’t let it go. “Why are you doing this?” she
screams, taking a hand from my neck and tugging on the knot with me.
He presses closer to the glass. “Because I want you to know what it feels
like knowing your life is in my hands and there’s nothing you can do about
it.” Water fills a couple feet of the tank. It’s rising fast, too fast. “I have the
power to let you live or die. Hmm… What will it be today?”
He has no intention of letting us live. This is what he does. His sick game
of survival roulette, except he’s not going to let up this time. He couldn’t
possibly just shoot us in the head and be done. There has to be theatrics and
fear-induced anxiety.
“Ledger.” Maeve’s voice quivers, her eyes frantically searching my face,
her hand paused by mine.
“It’s all right, Maeve.” I press her tighter to my body as I work the rope
around her ankles. It’s so much more challenging without both hands, but I
don’t think I could get her free if the rope was fully submerged. “It’s going to
be all right.”
She shakes her head, breathless, her eyes saying it’s not before closing.
“Ledger.”
“Just look at me.” I nudge her nose with mine, locking our eyes, even as
my fingers tug blindly. “Breathe in and out. In. And out. I’m right here.
We’re in this together. No matter what. I’m here with you. I’m with you,
Goldie.”
The water reaches my hips as I remain kneeling. It’s freaking freezing, my
jeans sopping wet.
Her fingers bump into mine as she picks at the gnarled rope again. “I can’t
keep my feet above the water for much longer. The anchor is too heavy.”
“You’re not giving up now. Just try. I’m so close.”
Her legs tremble in my arm. “And then what? How do we get out of this?”
“Don’t worry about that yet. Stay with me. Focus on me. There’s nothing
else but us. It’s you and me. Always you and me.”
“It’s a sweet sentiment, Abbott,” he shouts. “Truly. But you really have to
stop lying to her. I hold the power. You don’t. If you live, it’s because I allow
it. It’s because I’m not finished with you. But go ahead. Loosen her rope.
Give her false hope of survival. If that’s what you need to give you peace
before you give up the ghost.”
Keeping my eyes on Maeve, I say, “He’s not here. You hear me? He’s
nothing. It’s just you and me. Okay? You. And me.” And then there’s a gap
between the knots. Veering my attention, I hone my stare in on enough space
between the twine to yank her free. Maeve kicks away the restraints, lowering
her feet into the water.
Rising from my knees, I notice that the water level grazes my thighs now.
With shaking arms, I hoist my anchor from the water and swing the metal
against the glass. It doesn’t make a splinter, not so much as a chip. My feeble
strength hurls it at the side again. Nothing. And again.
“It’s tempered glass, mate. Unless you’ve got more oomph than that, it’s
not breaking.”
“Let me try.” Maeve steps up, taking a different approach. She tries
hoisting the anchor above her head, but she’s not strong enough. Using what
little momentum she has, she bangs the metal against the glass. Bouncing off,
the anchor drops into the water.
“A for effort.” A biting laugh bounces off our barricade.
The water climbs higher than Maeve’s waist, her height putting her at a
disadvantage. The tank is probably a little above seven feet. She’ll have to
swim a lot longer than I’ll have to. Captain of the swim team or not, the
conditions we’ve been living in make that talent irrelevant.
“We have to get rid of our jeans,” she says. “They’re only weighing us
down.”
We work the buttons and zippers under the water, both losing our balance
and dipping under. Gasping as we resurface, our jeans drift to the bottom.
Maeve’s teeth chatter, her arm circling around her body.
“C’mere. Let me hold you. Save your strength. Just hook your legs around
me. I’ll keep my hands above your waist and let you know when I don’t have
enough strength.”
Before she can protest, I slip my arm around her torso as Maeve wraps
herself around me, cheek to cheek, chest to chest. Like a security blanket, her
body pressed to mine brings an innate sense of peace. Cinching my arms, I
take a deep breath of her. Because it might be my last.
“We’re gonna die,” she whimpers.
The same thought has traveled through my head more times than I can
count since we woke up as strangers, but never did my brain believe it until
this moment.
I’m not ready to die. I still have more life to live, so many things I want to
accomplish. I— I—
Pulling back, I cradle Maeve’s jawline, moisture speckling her cheeks.
Could be tears, could be splashes of water. Her ocean eyes burrow beneath
my flesh, sinking into my heart, flooding my veins. I don’t know when it
happened, day by day, minute by minute. When she became such an integral
part of me. It makes no sense after what we’ve been through, but I want to
know what a life with Maeve would be like. A life outside of these walls. We
didn’t come this far to end here. This is not how we die.
“Not today.” Even if it’s a lie, it’s a lie I need to hear. “Hold on, Goldie.
We’re survivors. This isn’t the end.” In fact… “Stand for a minute for me.”
I loosen my hold on her. Ducking beneath the water, I locate one of the
anchors and round up my remaining strength. Maybe if we chip at the inside,
near the lock, we can break the metal rim.
Resurfacing, I say, “Grab one side.”
The water is above Maeve’s chest, but she manages to wade toward me
and hoist up the heavy metal.
“Let’s try it together. I want to hit right here.” I point to the top center
latch.
“I can’t reach as high as you.”
 “Look at you two,” he scoffs. “Such teamwork.”
We ignore his presence. “No, but you’re taking some of the weight as we
lift. Maybe if you’re bearing some of the weight of the anchor, I’ll have more
strength to throw it against the latch. It’s worth a shot.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but I’m willing to try anything at this point.
We’ve not made it a hundred and fifteen days just to give up and drown. A
hundred and fifteen freaking days. Almost four months. No, we’re going to
live.
Like a wrecking ball, we swing back and forward, back and forward with
our momentum. My arms burn, my shoulders aching from their lack of
movement. It dents the metal, but that’s all the progress we make before all
our strength is gone, and the anchor sinks to the bottom of the tank.
We face each other with similar tinges of defeat. The water rises above
Maeve’s neck as her head tilts back. “At least we tried.”
The droplets on her face remain, her eyes red-rimmed.
“Let me hold you.” I tow her against my chest, forming her frail body
around me. I need this, I need her. If this is where we die, I want her in my
arms for our last remaining breaths. “Rest. I’ve got you.”
I know he’s still here, somewhere in the shadows, but I push him from my
mind and hone in on Maeve and only Maeve.
Her head falls to my shoulder, face burying in my neck, trembling.
“There’s not much time left, and I have to say this.” Before I can object, she
cuts me off. “If this is the end, I’m grateful it was you with me and not
someone else. It could’ve been anyone else, but it was you, Ledger. It was
you. And that’s the one beautiful thing in this endless nightmare.”
I choke on a sob, the water level scaling my chest, creeping closer to my
neck. “Maeve, I…” I what? Love her? I can’t love her. She’s not my wife.
She’s a woman I’ve been held captive with for a half a year.
And have learned every detail about, whom I’ve watched crumble and
fight and dim and shine. Who’s taken care of me and sacrificed her body for
me. Whom I’d die or kill for if it came down to it.
My fingers graze across the raised, thin scars she gained on her back and
thighs. I’ve done all I could to protect her, and she suffered when I should
have.
I press my forehead against hers, my hand rising from the small of her
back to the nape of her neck. “I wouldn’t have wanted it to be anyone else but
you.”
 The water rises, causing me to dip. I tread to hover us above the surface,
but when we drop again, Maeve unhooks her arms and legs. “I’ve got it. I can
do this on my own. I’m not going to let you suffer for the both of us
anymore.”
It only takes minutes before neither of us can touch the bottom. We
struggle to stay above the water level. Our limbs kick and paddle as our faces
press closer and closer to the glass ceiling.
“I tried. I’m sorry.” I sputter water. “I’m sorry I failed you, Goldie.”
“Don’t. You didn’t.” She coughs, a cry breaking free. “There’s nothing
more you could have done. Your determination is what’s kept me alive.
Thank you for keeping me alive, Ledger.”
We glance at one another one last time above the surface, despair and
tenderness mingling, so many words left unsaid, before we take one last
breath and the tank fills to the brim.
Needing to see her, I open my eyes. Bleary, my stare connects with the
fear in Maeve’s blues as air bubbles drift from her nose. At least my favorite
color is the last thing I’ll see. Reaching out, I grip her hand, desperate for her
touch. My lungs burn the longer I quell their functioning. Our limbs thrash,
struggling against suffocation.
Like she can’t hold on any longer, Maeve’s mouth opens, searching for air
but only floods. My body jerks, a compulsion to do the same. Find air. I
strain to hold out.
Seconds before I give in, her eyes shut. Maeve stops fighting.
I lose her.
I open my mouth, but water chokes her name from me.
 TWENTY
THREE

ledger

I’ve never drowned before, so when my brain wakes, everything is

disorienting. Is this what death is like? No tranquility. No angels with
trumpets or pillows of white. I’m frozen. I can’t breathe. Maybe I’m in hell.
My chest is being pressed on, my back pounded. I cough and choke and puke
up water. Rolling to my side, I lie in the warm wetness. It’s the only form of
heat. The water expelled from my body. Every other part of me is frigid.
And then the clang of metal slamming shut jolts me. Probably the gates of
hell. But with no strength or energy to open my eyes, I black out again.

A cold, solid surface greets me when I regain consciousness, my cheek all

too familiar with the harsh concrete.
I rise to my hands and knees, hacking up more water. I wish it would stop.
Was hot lava poured down my throat? Down my lungs, into my stomach,
everything burns. When I catch my breath, memories of the tank and being
tied up storm through the recesses of my mind.
In a frenzy, my eyes dart around the cell until I find her. Maeve lies on her
stomach in a pool of water, her shirt still soaked, but there’s no way all of
that water is from the thin material.
“Maeve!” I shout—I try to shout—though nothing but a wheezing gasp
squeezes out.
Crackle. “Relax. Her heart’s still beating. I checked. She coughed up a
gallon more than you, and then passed out. Hasn’t woken up since.”
I use my arms to drag myself across the space and lie beside her. The
straw blonde strands of her hair are wet and icy. Looking closer, her lips are a
light shade of blue. Though my hands are no better than icicles, I rub up and
down her arm, trying to generate some heat.
“Hey. Come on. You with me, Goldie?”
At the sounds of my voice, her eyes flutter open and her head slowly twists
in my direction. A strained exhale leaves her before she coughs and wretches,
turning away from me.
“Get it all out,” I whisper and rub her back.
After catching her breath, she rolls back, eyes crazed and watering. “How
are we alive?”
“I pulled you out.” His voice booms. “I believe a thank you is in order.”
Thank you for what? A near death experience?
Maeve sits up, tucking her bare legs close to her chest as she shivers,
almost convulsing.
I swivel to the speaker. “Where are our jeans?”
“You really want sopping wet denim? Think that’ll help warm you up?” It
was so Maeve could cover up, but of course our jeans are unwearable.
They’re probably still in that tank. That damn tank. “I’m doing you a favor
by holding on to those.”
“Why?” Maeve rubs her goosebump-covered arms, her eyes inflamed in
red and panic.
“Why is that a favor?” His condescending voice rattles. “Do I need to spell
it out for you?”
“Why did you pull us out? Why didn’t you let us die?” she screeches.
“Oh, right. That part.” He grunts a low laugh. “You two displayed quite
the powerful show. Your determination to live? And your precious
declarations at the end. Oh, that was too good. You didn’t think after all that,
I’d be able to let you go. You merely proved how much more fun we can
have together. I was beginning to think we were over, but you two still have a
spirit for me to break. And I can’t move forward knowing I haven’t shattered
your will to live.”
When Maeve nearly convulses with shivers, I draw her against my side,
running my hands along her arms.
“You won’t break us,” I say.
“And your conviction fuels my desire to try. Thank you, puppets. Get a
good night’s rest. You won’t get a break for long.”
Maeve’s teeth chatter, her legs bouncing, anything to create heat and
friction. “We’re really going to catch hypothermia. It’ll be unavoidable at this
point.”
When I glance around for the splinter-tainted blanket, it’s gone and so are
the socks. Of course.
“Here.” I lift my shirt over my head, ringing out the residual water. “Use
this to cover up.”
“My modesty is the last thing on my mind right now. And you can’t afford
to lose all your clothes.”
“Then do it for me.” Because we might’ve almost just died, and I might
have self-control, but I’m no less male.
Caving, she takes my shirt and wraps it around her lower half.
“All right.” Now I’m freezing my nuts off in only my boxer briefs. “Let’s
use our resources, our body heat. It’s all we have. I promise to keep my hands
to myself.”
She snorts as we lean against the wall. “A handsy cellmate is the least of
my problems.”
“Is that all I am to you?” I tease and tug her into my lap. “A cellmate?”
Burrowing into my chest, she tucks her arms against herself, and I gather
her in mine, resting my head to the crown of hers.
When all is quiet, Maeve whispers, “You know you’re more.”

I wake to numb legs. With Maeve still on my lap, I can’t feel them, but
strangely enough I’m well rested. And warm.
My eyes hone in on the source. The hatch is propped up and a heater is
braced against the open space from the outside, warming our cell. My fingers
and toes have thawed, my underwear mostly dry. Drifting my attention to the
right, I see something—stacked against the wall is a pile of clothing. To make
sure I’m not hallucinating, I rub my eyes. But sure enough, when I refocus,
they’re still there.
I tap Maeve, rousing her. “We have new clothes.”
In less than a second, she blinks awake. “What?”
I lift her and gently set her beside me. Walking over, I gather them and
bring the new wardrobe to her.
“Is this a trick?” she asks as we sort through whose is whose. “Will we
find fiberglass in the material or something?”
“I don’t think so. At least mine feel okay. Nothing appears out of the
ordinary.” My breath hitches. These are my clothes. My winter thermal and
gray joggers. And even a pair of socks tucked into the pocket. Has he had
these this whole time?
“Are those your clothes?” Maeve asks.
I nod.
She holds a sweatshirt to her nose and inhales. “Mine, too.” When she dips
her hands into the pocket of her black lounge pants, she produces a pair of
socks for herself, and tears fall. “Do you think he got them before? Or
recently?”
Socks. And warm clothes. Not more jeans and T-shirts. “Recently. He got
us things based on what we’ve been vocal about since the beginning, what we
were in severe need of after the tank.”
What’s the catch? Simply to keep us alive longer? If we put these on, will
we somehow be punished?
Maeve’s body shudders as she turns her back and slips her damp shirt over
her head. She stopped wearing a bra months ago. Said it wasn’t holding
anything up anymore anyway, and it was too uncomfortable.
Do you know what’s really difficult? Avoiding eye contact with the chest
of a woman in a thin T-shirt—lacking in size or not—in a room with a
temperature of the Arctic.
As she hunches forward, replacing her top with the sweatshirt, her spine
and ribs outline beneath her creamy skin. I help her bathe every week, but I
do everything in my power not to focus on her body. Is it any wonder she’s
freezing when there’s nothing on her bones to keep her warm?
“Why?” She spins back, pulling her hair from the collar. “Why give us
new clothes now? Are we supposed to thank him?”
When I don’t respond right away, she tilts her head. I blink and yank my
gaze from her body toward my clothes, tugging on my joggers. “The same
reason he pulled us out of the tank and gave us the heater. He can’t have us
dying on him now. Not after he still believes he can break us.”
“The funny thing is, I’ve had this sweatshirt and these comfy pants on for
less than a minute and I already feel like a new woman. Just give me
shampoo and conditioner, and I’ll take on the world.”
I crack a smile, admiring the one on Maeve’s bony face. A smile I’ve
never seen before. It’s beautiful, wreathing her face in a refreshing glow.
The curves of my mouth fall. It’s like he knew fresh clothes would
rejuvenate us. That we’d need our mental and physical strength for what’s to
come.
I turn and face the black metal box.
Game on, puppeteer.
 TWENTY
FOUR

maeve

There’s a lot that’s unpredictable in this hell hole, but there are a few things
that remain consistent.
The flicker of the fluorescent bulbs. It should’ve burned out months ago,
and yet it keeps up its unsteady, twitch-inducing glow. Knowing the
puppeteer, he probably loosened the bulb just enough to keep it from shining
normally.
Our meals and buckets. Whether they come at the same time every day or
not, they come. Same meal. Same buckets.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
And that damn drip. A slow leak. The back right corner is always wet. Not
enough to seep too far across the ground, but enough that there’s always a
small puddle. It might not be Chinese water torture, but it’s damn near close.
Is it a broken pipe? Ground water draining through the concrete? Whatever it
is, it’s advancing me toward the insanity level of the creepy carousel music.
With the puppeteer forcing Ledger to empty our bucket a few more times,
the weather is our only indication of what month we could be in by now.
With the continual warm breeze, July is our best guess this week.
We’ve gone in circles debating what this place is. If we’re in an old
military bunker, we might be able to narrow down where we are, but if it’s
just someone’s forgotten Doom’s Day bunker, we could be anywhere.
Knowing where we are is purely for our sanity. It won’t help us break out.
Narrowing it down hasn’t helped us identify the puppeteer. If it’s an old
military bunker, is he ex-military? The next question is—how would he have
access to the kind of sedatives he’s given us? Only a doctor or veterinarian
would have that kind of legal access. But we’ve established he’s not morally
sound, so he probably bought some in a shady deal.
And still we struggle to understand why we’re here. What he believes
we’ve done to deserve this kind of barbaric punishment. We haven’t stopped
trying to find a connection, or diving into our pasts to grapple for individual
explanations. With infinite time, my mind continues rotating a dark,
bottomless drain, filtering possibilities. It’s maddening not grasping, not
seeing the answer. We can assume he’s just a delusional psychopath, but
what if there is more?
“Growing up, we lived down the street from this family. The Tompkins.”
Sitting close, Ledger rolls his head against the wall, the side of my face
warming from his stare as I fixate on the rock floor.
“They had a boy and a girl close to my age. The girl was a year younger
than me, the boy a year older. He’d sometimes play with us, but Mika, that
was her name, Mika and I mainly hung out together, rode bikes around the
neighborhood or played in the grove of trees up the hill.
“There was one day Mika and I were in her bedroom when her older
brother Jeff got home from a baseball game. His team must’ve lost because
the next thing I knew, their dad was storming past Mika’s bedroom to Jeff’s.
The moment I heard shouts and a belt against skin, I dove behind her bed.
And couldn’t do anything but bury my head and listen while Jeff cried that he
was sorry. Their dad didn’t even bother to close the door, like it was a regular
Tuesday afternoon, whipping his kid around for losing a baseball game.”
Ledger clears his throat. “How old were you?”
“I don’t remember. Ten or eleven, maybe?”
“What did your friend do?”
“Mika hid with me, and begged me not to say anything to anyone, that it’d
only make things worse. So I never said a word. And I never went inside her
house again. If she wanted to get together, I invited her to my house or we
played outside.”
“You must’ve been terrified.”
“I was, but I felt worse for Jeff and Mika, to have a father like that. I’d
never seen him be anything but a nice guy.”
“What happened to them?”
I swallow, combing my snarled hair back. “A couple years later he went
too far and Jeff didn’t survive, and he was put behind bars. Their mom
eventually moved her and Mika away.”
“Hell, Maeve.”
Taking a deep breath, I look at Ledger. “I haven’t thought about them in
years, but I always wondered what happened to Mika. I kept my promise,
I’ve never told anyone until you.”
“Not even your sisters?”
“You’re the first.” I take Ledger’s hand and he interlocks our fingers,
curling his other hand over top. “Maybe if I’d gone to my parents, Jeff would
still be alive. Something could’ve been done sooner.”
His lips mash together before he tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear.
“That’s the thing about regrets. No matter how much we wish we could alter
the past, nothing changes. Their dad would’ve probably only gotten a slap on
the wrist, especially if the family wasn’t ready to testify against him. So
young, you could’ve only done so much.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, squeezing his hand. “Do you think it’s something like
that? The reason we’re here. A death we could’ve prevented? Or a life that
was impacted by some sort of domino effect we aren’t aware of?”
“Maybe.” A distant flicker veils Ledger’s gaze, veering beyond my
shoulder. “But if that’s it, why are we here together? What is our connection,
if not the crime?”

We’ve had another long stretch of silence from the puppeteer. A week,
maybe? We get the bugle and necessities, but nothing else. My insides still
burn from nearly drowning. It took me days before I could breathe normally.
Is he showing us mercy or attending to personal matters? Was he telling the
truth when he said he lives with his father? Or jabbing at us for talking about
him like he wasn’t there? If he’s married, does his partner know about his
dark side? His penchant for torture? Or is he a regular Ted Bundy?
Charismatic and a persuasive liar. Maybe she’s his accomplice, and helps
with our daily necessities like we suspected.
To drown the ever-present grief chasms in our hearts, Ledger and I still fill
our waking hours with mindless games, but we’ve also moved on to creating
bucket lists for if—when—we get out of here. Things we never planned on
doing before all of this, something new. We call them our survival reasons.
Ledger figures if we have something to look forward to, we’ll continue to
fight. And the concept struck something in me. All I’ve thought about since
losing Ashton is what I won’t have if we make it out alive. But now I’m
finding myself wondering what backpacking across Europe would be like.
How it feels to hike Mount Everest, and actually reach the top. If Yosemite is
worth it, or if the Cliffs of Moher would bring me to tears. Ledger gives me
reasons to carry on.
At the top of his list is traveling to the Maldives and staying in a bungalow
on the water while gorging himself on seafood. Not a bad gig.
“But only if you come with me.”
Something in my heart trembles, my stomach performing gymnastics.
“How could I say no to the Maldives?”
I reel in the romantic, replacing her with the realist. We can dream and kid
about the possibility, but the truth of the matter is, if we get out of here,
Ledger is not going to want to take me to the Maldives. Why would he? He’ll
want to move on, not hang on to a reminder of the most traumatizing event in
his life.
But I wouldn’t hesitate if he asked.
“I’d love to go to Scotland or Ireland and stay in a castle. I worked with an
attending two years ago that had an entire castle to himself with his wife for a
week. What a dream.”
“Am I invited?”
There it is again. My heart flutters, like it’s ready to float away.
“Obviously. I can’t stay in a castle alone.”
Ledger’s tongue swipes his bottom lip before shifting his gaze down. It’s
such an endearing, spine-tingling action I have to keep myself from blushing.
Yeah, freaking blushing. What is going on with me? We’re bareboned and
have skin the color of wax, but Ledger’s eyes are still reminiscent of life.
Ashton and I talked about vacations, but they were always attainable
places, except for when we went to Hawaii for our honeymoon. There were
talks of a beach vacation in Florida, a getaway to New York City, a trip to the
west coast because neither of us has traveled farther than Tennessee. But the
ideas were always state-side. I never fantasized bigger than that, my sole
focus on finishing my residency. And time after time we said we’d do
something next year. And when it didn’t happen, maybe the next year.
I’m so sorry, Ashton.
“What about those igloos in Finland? Have you heard of those?”
“No.” I crack a smile, clearing my throat of climbing emotions. “Can’t say
I’ve ever thought about traveling to Finland.”
Ledger shifts, angling his body toward me with excitement in his eyes
that’s hard not to soak up. How different the man next to me is from the
stranger I first met.
“There are these glass igloos where you can stay beneath the northern
lights in the snow. Some of them even have their own saunas. I read about
them online a while back.”
“Those are quite the contrasting destination vacations, Ledger Abbott.”
My head tilts to fully meet his gaze. “Tropical and snow.”
“If we’re building never before imagined experiences, no sense in sticking
to the same climates. That’s just boring, Maeve Campbell.”
I laugh softly at his return use of my full name.
Crackle. I tense, and Ledger’s eyes dart to the speaker over my shoulder.
“I love listening to your naïve optimism,” he says. “It’s precious, like
listening to children dream about meeting Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.”
When the puppeteer stays away, it’s easy to forget he’s always watching,
listening, waiting to pounce at the most opportune moments. When he’s
silent, it’s as if we have privacy, a false sense of security. And maybe that’s
why he does it. We have conversations we normally wouldn’t if we knew he
was right there. He likes making us believe we have a chance of freedom,
only to remind us he’s in control.
“Please. Don’t stop on my account. Maybe you’ll get to visit Oz or
Hogwarts afterward. I hear they’re nice this time of year.” He pauses before
exclaiming, “Oh, or Narnia or Wonderland. Where would you go first? I
think I’d go to Wonderland and get high with the Mad Hatter.”
Ledger’s stare drifts to me, and he shakes his head. “Don’t listen to him.
Look at me. We’re going to do these things together. We will.”
Swiftly nodding, I take a deep breath, and another, focusing on Ledger as
the puppeteer continues baiting us.
“Why is it that you want to leave, Doc? Nothing waits for you on the other
side. No house. Your husband is dead. By now they’ve given your position to
someone else. And weren’t those things your whole life? Isn’t that all you
had left?”
Ledger nudges my knee. “Eyes on me, Goldie,” he whispers. “It’s just you
and me.”
I nod. I am solid. I am concrete. I am these walls. I’m impenetrable.
“That, and your looks.” His words hammer deeper than they should. The
puppeteer is gunning for me today. “But those are long gone now. What a
shame. Before you might’ve been someone I’d have taken into a bar
bathroom, but now I wouldn’t even take you with your back to me and a
paper bag over your head.”
My jaw clenches. I’ve never been one to question my appearance or put
much stock into superficial things. Sure, I have the same insecurities any
other woman has, but I’m aware I’m not an unattractive person. Growing up,
my parents were determined to show me my worth in more than my looks.
But I’ve also never gone without food and water and proper medications. I’ve
never gone without decent hair products or makeup or showers. I’ve never
gone without being able to put myself together, to look in the mirror and see
my beauty. Inside these walls, I can’t take advantage of any of that. Does that
make me vain or privileged? Or just your average human being?
Ledger’s hand finds mine and he grips, tighter and tighter. “You’re alive,
Maeve. We’re alive.” I squeeze back and shut my eyes. Nothing the
puppeteer says matters. Vanity is a ridiculous thing to obsess over. I’m a
brilliant doctor, a loving wife, a loyal sister and daughter. I’m more than a
pretty face.
“Ledger gets it, don’t you, Abbott? He has to look at you every week as he
scrubs your revolting corpse of a body. Your matted, thinning hair. Your
gaunt, sallow face. That perfect skin of yours now tainted in scars and
bruises. Everywhere you walk, people would stare, they’d gawk at the
disfigurement, whispering about what happened to you.”
I swallow, tears glazing my eyes, and I blink them away. None of these
things are my fault. He’s done this to us. I am soli— I am— I—
Ledger hooks his finger under my chin and murmurs, “Don’t, Maeve.
Don’t listen. You’re a survivor. That’s beautiful.” His voice gets quieter and
quieter.
 The puppeteer’s voice roars inside my head, boomeranging. “If you make
it out of here, no one will want you. No one will need you. You’re
dispensable.”
My eyes close, and I crack.
I yank my hand from Ledger’s and stand, running the back of my hand
beneath my nose as I lift my chin to the ceiling, fixating on the random hook
in the corner. I want to rip it down. What the hell is it for anyway?
I breathe and I scrub at his words staining my mind, but they repeat. No
one will want you. No one will need you. Nothing waits for you on the other
side.
I want to scream, “My family is there. My sisters. They will want and need
me.” But everything else is gone. I don’t have anything else.
“C’mon, Maeve.” The heat of Ledger’s body hovers at my back. Close—
so close, his voice brushes the knotted hairs on the nape of my neck. “He’s
doing this on purpose. This is what he does. You can’t let this psychotic
jackass get to you.”
“He’s right, though.” I whirl around. “I’ll have nothing. And it’s all trivial.
So, it doesn’t matter.” It doesn’t matter. My voice shakes. I’m lying. “I’ve
never known what it’s like to not be desired. And that is what my reality will
be if I ever get out of here. How vain of me to have taken advantage of my
appearance all these years, because now they’re gone, just like everything
else.”
My hell, why am I doing this? Get a hold of yourself, Maeve. This is
ridiculous. I’m a survivor. I’m alive. I’m alive! Nothing else matters.
“Stop it. Don’t you dare talk like that. He’s feeding on your weak
moments, trying to get inside of your head, and you’re letting him. Be
stronger, Maeve. You are stronger.”
“It’s true though, isn’t it?” I bat at the wetness coating my cheeks. “You
won’t say it, but you’ll think it. I saw the look in your eyes when he gave us
new clothes and I was changing.” My hands latch on to the curve between my
shoulders and neck, massaging, fidgeting. “Not to mention every time you
have to touch me when we bathe, you cringe, like you’re revolted. Yes, my
body isn’t the one I once had, but even during the first few weeks when I
wasn’t emaciated and maimed, you always had this look of disgust.”
Shut up. Shut up, Maeve.
I shake my head and backhand the air, heat flushing my cheeks. “Don’t
listen to me. I don’t know what I’m saying.” I choke on a cry. Stop it. You’re
hysterical. This is mortifying. Even as I break down, the puppeteer is
probably leaning back, propping up his legs with a smirk on his face,
watching as I spiral. Just as he wanted. “It’s not like you should be ogling
me. I don’t want you to. I love that you’re respectful. Please just forget
everything I said.”
I turn away from Ledger, too embarrassed to look him in the eyes. This is
not the time for such an irrational breaking point. Ashton is dead. Ashton is
dead, and Ledger is not deserving of my misplaced desire to be wanted or
longed for or whatever it is I’m feeling.
“You think I’m disgusted by you and your body?”
My stomach drops. Why did I say all of those things out loud? “Ledger.
Just forget I said anything.” My palm kneads my forehead as I pace and avoid
his weighted stare. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty or responsible for
buoying up my confidence. It’s so much more than that. Ignore me. Please.
You’re right. I’m being ridiculous.”
I allowed that twisted psychopath into my head. He will not break me. He
will not break me. I will not be broken. I’m bulletproof.
Ledger inches closer. “Maeve.”
“Please don’t say anything.” My voice quivering, I try to catch my breath.
“Please just let my words be swallowed up by the hole in the earth waiting to
devour me, too.”
Before I can move out of his reach, he snatches my arm to keep me in
place. “Maeve. Look at me. Right now.” The cell is so quiet, his heavy
swallow echoes in my ears. “Please.”
Inhaling and exhaling, I meet his penetrative stare. I’m not so bulletproof
after all because those amber green eyes plunge into and seep through every
vessel in my body.
“Of course I wanted to respect Becca, to be a gentleman when you have so
little space for modesty and privacy, but you have to know, Maeve. I’m still a
man, who has a naked woman in front of him every week and is supposed to
touch her, scrub her, stroke her. I can’t control the natural responses of my
body. I hate myself for not being able to constrain the thoughts and feelings
coursing through my blood.”
I don’t breathe a single gulp of air.
“So, that look of revulsion you see is aimed at myself. Not you. Definitely
not you. And that week, when you were changing, yes, I noticed the changes
to your figure, and I’m concerned for your wellbeing, but that wasn’t what
had me staring.”
Ledger’s nostrils flare as he breathes, and he pauses as his stare punctures
mine. “When I had to touch you in the dark, when he took away our light, I
thought I was going to lose my mind. My wife’s body was barely cold, and I
was imagining all of the things I wanted to do to you.”
An uncontrollable shudder tears through me. Words traveling up my vocal
cords halt before passing through my lips. Speechless.
“So forgive me, Goldie, because since the moment I saw you I’ve had to
do everything in my power to ignore how beautiful you are. It’s half the
reason I was such a jerk. I was pissed you were so beautiful and there was
nothing I could do to get away from you.” The bob of his throat draws my
eyes. “I’m sorry I’m not a better man, a blind man. I’m human. Just… Even
in our current state, never doubt your beauty. Inside and out.”
The ventricles of my heart pump. In order for my body to function, of
course they do. But this is the only beat of my heart I’ve felt. It beats anew
for the first time.
For Ledger.
What’s happening?
What’s happening is he’s my only glimmer under this starless concrete
sky. And after everything, I don’t want to deny myself the last good thing in
my life.
From his full beard, my eyes glide to his mouth, up to his sincere eyes
which do not waver. The only movement is our chests, rising and falling until
his stare drops to my lips. Seconds pass. Maybe infinities. All I know is time
suspends. A million and one thoughts sail through my mind, but not one of
them lingers. There are fleeting blips of logic and sensibility, but nothing
connects.
Ledger’s teeth graze his bottom lip before his eyes lift back to mine,
wandering, exploring. Seeking. In reply, I take a step closer. I’m not sure
why this is happening, but it doesn’t feel wrong or treacherous. So I shut off
my brain and let my heart do all the work. Like he’s metal and I’m a magnet,
we gravitate toward each other. His forehead presses to mine, our noses
brushing. Ledger stops breathing. I stop.
With our lips a breath apart, his voice smashes through our unexplainable
moment. “Incredible performance, Mr. Abbott.” The puppeteer claps. Claps.
The smacking of flesh echoing, resounding. “I hope you believed him, Doc,
because he’ll be the last to tell you you’re beautiful.”
 The following day when the bugle blares, Ledger’s body heat is missing. I
bolt upright, and breathe a sigh of relief when I find him on the other side of
the room. He’s curled onto his side, facing the wall. Panic flares in my chest,
but once the bugle ends, he rolls to his back, flinging an arm over his eyes.
“Hey.”
“Morning,” he says without meeting my stare.
While Ledger isn’t particularly a morning person, he hasn’t been this
distant since the beginning.
“Everything okay?”
He clears the morning rasp from his voice. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”
Maybe because you’re on the opposite side of the cell and still have yet to
look at me.
“Find this side of the room too lumpy last night?” I joke.
“Just wanted to test out your side of the room.”
“You’re being weird. What’s going on?”
A few moments pass. Instead of facing me, he says to the ceiling, “I found
myself curled around you when I woke up. I didn’t want you to wake and be
uncomfortable.”
I wouldn’t have been. “You were probably seeking warmth. You could’ve
rolled away if it bothered you. You didn’t have to move to the other side of
the room.”
“It was easier.”
“Ledger, you’re being ridiculous. We’ve been sleeping side by side for
months. There’s very little you could do to make me uncomfortable. I trust
you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
I breathe a chuckle. What’s that supposed to mean? “What is up with
you?”
“We almost kissed yesterday, Maeve.”
Well, okay. I guess we’re not beating around the bush this morning. “But
we didn’t.”
Ledger sits, angling toward me with his legs steepled. “Well, I wanted to,
and I wanted to again when I woke before the bugle and my body was
already in a certain morning state. So, I had to get myself under control. I
assumed you wouldn’t want to be woken up that way.”
Oh. Oh.
What would I even have done? I mean…he’s a man. It’s a perfectly
normal morning reaction. But what is he implying? That he wanted to wake
me with a kiss?
Or more?
“While I appreciate your chivalry, I’m a thirty-year-old woman, Ledger.
I’m well aware of your anatomy and how the male body works.”
“Then you’re aware my anatomy doesn’t always just wake like that.
Sometimes it’s provoked.”
As the pieces come together, I try to keep my face neutral. Of course he
was provoked. The man has needs and he’s been stuck in this confined space
without a single release.
“You know what? It’s not important. I just… You were sleeping, Maeve.
I’d never want you to think I was taking advantage. These aren’t normal
circumstances. It’s not like you stayed the night at my house.”
“No, we’re two grieving spouses who have endured a traumatic experience
together. I wouldn’t have held it against you, Ledger. I know you have no
control over something like that.”
“Please don’t talk to me like I’m a patient.” His eyes focus on the floor at
his feet. “Let’s just drop it, all right?”
“I wasn’t trying to talk to you like a patient.” I curl my arms around my
bent knees, drawing them to my chest. “I just want you to know you wouldn’t
have been violating me or whatever it is you’re concerned about.”
Ledger’s gaze rises, fastening to mine. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Crackle. “Morning, puppets.”
Like aggressive roots, anxiety creeps through my veins and implants
beneath my skin. When the puppeteer speaks to us first thing in the morning,
it’s going to be a long day.
“What, I don’t get a special greeting in return?”
“Go to hell,” Ledger grumbles.
“I’ve been living there for a while, thanks.” He snickers. “Since last night
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. You two are a little too comfortable for my
liking. I’m thinking we need a change.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, but he doesn’t respond. “What
does that mean?” I raise my voice and stand, but still he stays silent. “What’s
he going to do?”
Ledger shakes his head. At the same moment, the distant heavy footfalls
drag our attention to the steel door. Ledger surges to his feet as the lock
cranks and the metal swings open. Black hoodie, neon blue lit skull mask,
leather gloves. This image haunts me every night.
The puppeteer stalks inside, heading straight for Ledger. “I think it’s time
you had some time apart.” Yanking Ledger’s arms behind his back, our
captor cuffs him.
“What does that mean?” He struggles against the puppeteer, but it’s no
use.
Mounting terror surges through me as I take a step toward them. “Wait.
No. Where are you taking him?”
I’m met with silence as he thrusts a thick, black sack over Ledger’s head
and jerks him forward by his slender bicep.
“No, no. Ledger!” I scramble for the open door and trip, falling to my
knees with a zing through my fragile bones.
“Maeve! Just do as he says.”
“Please don’t do this. Please don’t take him away.” I crawl, latching onto
the puppeteer’s denim pant legs. “Don’t separate us. I’m begging you. I’ll do
anything. Anything you ask. Don’t take him away from me!”
The puppeteer doesn’t stop, dragging me along as he walks out the only
exit, and then he kicks me away. “You’re proving my point, Doc. This is
pathetic. Get a hold of yourself.”
“It’s okay, Maeve.” Ledger’s voice is muffled by the material.
“Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Ledger! No! LEDGER! LEDGER!”
The door to our cell clangs shut, and I’m left with nothing but hysterical
panic and rampant thoughts.

One, two, three days pass.

I’m a wreck.
Four, then five. Maybe even six days.
I’ve barely slept. I pace and I curl into the fetal position. I scream and I
wail. I get nothing in response, not even the morning bugle. He leaves me in
complete and utter silence.
I bang on the door every time the food and buckets arrive, but other than
the echo of the hatch, there is no sound. No response.
I’m losing it. When he shut off our light, I worried I’d go crazy, but I still
had Ledger. His voice, his touch, his presence. With him there, I knew
everything would be all right. He wasn’t going to let me lose myself. He
wasn’t going to allow me to become a shell, giving in to every whim of the
puppeteer.
I might have light now, but without Ledger I’m a basket case.
Is he okay? What if the puppeteer is torturing him? Six days of relentless
beatings or worse. The knife as I got. A fist wraps around my heart and
squeezes. Please let him be experiencing only silence as I am.
What if Ledger never comes back and I’m trapped here alone? Solitary
forever. What if the puppeteer finally followed through and killed him? My
breathing accelerates, my lungs working overtime. Hyperventilating. I’m
hyperventilating. I can’t breathe.
Calm down, Maeve. You have to calm down. Breathe.
I can’t. Not without Ledger. Ledger. What would he say to me? How
would he try to comfort me? I imagine his hand circling my back in soothing
strokes, his soft yet gruff voice in my ear. His other hand linking with my
fingers, tugging me into the warmth of his side. The lack of human touch is
unhinging every organ. Heart racing, lungs accelerating, muscles tensing,
blood pressure skyrocketing. Anxiety is my new best friend.
I drop to my knees and curl forward, rocking back and forth. “Please bring
him back. Please bring him back to me.” Raising my head, I scream at the
black metal box. “Bring him back, you stupid bastard! Bring him back to
me!”
I roar. I rage. I revolt.
No.
This will not be what breaks me. I am in control of my body. We might be
his marionettes, but we’re made of vanishing strings. He will not have power
over us forever.
He will not have power over me forever.
Where are you, Ledger?
 TWENTY
FIVE

ledger

Is this what dying feels like?

I stopped counting meals and buckets. Nothing is worth counting without
her.
Captivity without Maeve. I thought the first few weeks in this prison with
her were brutal, but without her? Unbearable. And now I know with absolute
certainty, if I’d been kidnapped alone, I wouldn’t have survived on my own.
I’d have gone mad or given up, begged him to put me out of my misery.
The skin of my knuckles has split and bled so many times from my fists
pounding the cement walls of my new, more confined prison, I don’t know
how they aren’t broken. Or maybe they are. They’re swollen enough. Maeve
would know.
I need her.
He hasn’t spoken a single word to me. There is no speaker in the corner,
no bugle or berating and taunts. Clank, food, water, bucket, repeat. Has he
spoken to Maeve? Touched her? Hurt her? I’m one breath away from bashing
my head against the wall just to gain his undivided attention and release me
back to her.
 Hell, what if she’s not alive? What if she didn’t survive this separation? If
she’s gone, that’s it for me. I’m done. I can’t take anymore without Maeve.
Hardly able to pace in this room no bigger than the tank, I sleep more than
I’m awake, and those moments of consciousness only bring dizziness and
fatigue. My daily push-ups are impossible with the state of my muscles. I
don’t even feel hunger anymore. All I feel is loss. Hollow without Maeve.
This is lunacy. Circling this closet of a cement room with nothing but
silence and my own riotous thoughts. Humans are not meant to live in
solitary confinement. This isn’t natural. Of all the methods he’s used against
us, being apart from Maeve is the worst. Especially now. Maybe in the first
month as two people who didn’t know each other well, didn’t care for each
other, we’d have been fine, but now? The man will be lucky if I don’t beat
him into the ground if he doesn’t bring me to her when he returns. I might
break a bone or two in the process, but the pain would be worth it.
She has to be okay. What if she’s not okay?
My fist meets the wall. Again and again. The sting is the only thing
reminding me I’m alive. I need to keep my sanity. This is what he wants, to
break us down into nothing but compliant robots. He wants to destroy any
shred of determination and faith we have left.
If this lasts for much longer, he will succeed.

Clank. I’m prepared for the hatch to slide up. Instead, the door creaks open
and he stands on the other side with his shrouded face and concealed hands.
“Where’s Maeve? Is she okay?”
The puppeteer stalks forward, and I’m tempted to take a swing or bolt to
look for her, but I muzzle the urge even as he remains quiet.
“Did you hurt her? God help you if you did. I will bury you six feet
under.”
“Shut up.” He jerks me around, grabbing my wrists to cuff me. “You’ve
been moaning and groaning for weeks. I can’t listen to another word. She
didn’t die. All you had to do was go a few weeks alone. Stop being such a
pussy.”
She’s alive? After weeks of running at half-power, my lungs expand and
contract, but they won’t function fully until she’s in my arms.
 “Just tell me if you’re taking me to Maeve or not.”
“And what will you do if I’m not?”
“I’m not above begging at this point. I’ll give you the last sliver of my
dignity if that’s what it takes and get on my hands and knees. I’m not a
prideful man.” Not when it comes to women I care about. Maeve is worth it.
“Just let me see her. Let me see her so I know she’s okay.”
“Enough!” Rather than injecting me, he shoves the same black sack over
my head and kicks my ankle. “Walk before I change my mind and put a
bullet in your head just to shut you up.”
I do as he asks, one foot in front of the other, his tight grip on my arm
ushering me. Closing my eyes beneath the scratchy material, I focus on the
clomp of our feet, straining my ears for any other sounds. It’s as if the
building is soundproof. All I hear is his heavy breathing at my back as he
steers me down the hallway like cattle.
When we stop, there’s another familiar clank and my heart jumps to my
throat. As the puppeteer shoves me inside, he yanks the bag from my head
and proceeds to loosen my cuffs.
With her head bowed, Maeve sits in the corner, her thin arms circling her
bent knees. Like a washed-out golden curtain, her long hair veils her body as
her sunken gaze lifts to mine. It doesn’t take more than a second for her
ocean eyes to light with relief.
“Ledger!” Maeve scrambles to her feet as the door shuts behind me, and
her whole body slams into mine.
My second set of lungs, my second heart.
My life support.
Taking her waist in my arms, I hoist her up with every ounce of strength I
have left. I’ve never hugged a human being so tight, but she’s still not close
enough. Burying my face in the crook of her neck, I breathe her in. Cheap
soap and Maeve. With that one inhale, my chest swells with fresh oxygen.
I don’t know how long we stay standing, holding each other, chests
running in tandem. I’d stay this way forever, the ruckus inside me mollifying
when she’s this close.
“I didn’t think I was going to ever see you again,” she cries.
“I told you it was going to be okay, didn’t I?”
She nods even though we both know I can’t ensure promises like that. Her
hold loosens around me as tears rack her frail body. With superhuman
strength I thought gone, I lift her into my arms and carry her to the wall
before sliding down. I brush my hand over her hair, her face nestling into my
chest. This is all I need. Maeve in my arms, her warmth pressed against me.
“I thought for sure this was where we were going to end,” she whispers.
“Apart. I was so close to fading away.”
I take her slim cheek in my hand, leaning my forehead against hers.
“Don’t disappear on me now, Goldie. I need you.”
“I’m here. I’m still here.”
 TWENTY
SIX

maeve

“That must have been very difficult.”

I swallow back emotion, struck by life without Ledger again. Life
repeating itself. The days never get easier. “A bit, yes.”
“To be put in solitary confinement for so many weeks, it’s no wonder it
affected you the way it did. The codependency you two developed makes this
form of torture especially traumatizing.” Dr. Jorgensen nibbles the center of
her pen before placing the tip to her notepad. “How are you handling
moments alone these days?”
Handling them or surviving them? “It depends on the day or where I am,
who I’m with. When I’m at home, it’s particularly difficult being in the place
I was taken from. But I can be working in a hospital full of people and
experience the same panic. I’ve been practicing your breathing techniques,
and for the most part I can calm down on my own.”
“Good, good, but let’s circle back. You mentioned being in a hospital and
reverting to the same trauma. You metaphorically feel alone even surrounded
by people?”
Every day. “No one can relate to what I lived through. It’s very isolating.”
 “Sure, sure.” She pulls her glasses from the tip of her nose, dangling them
from the earpiece. “In those moments, you can always contact me. I’m here
for you at all hours, even if I haven’t gone through what you have. I can be a
listening ear or offer coping methods. This is what I’m here for.”
I nod. “I know.” But it doesn’t mean it helps. I can rely on her all I want,
but Dr. Jorgensen brings me zero comfort.
“Have you made contact with Ledger?”
I shake my head and fight off rising tears before they can surface. “I’m
trying not to. It hasn’t been easy.”
“It’s for the best, Maeve. Avoiding places and people that might revert you
back to the traumatic state you were first in is crucial at this stage. You
understand that, right? We’ve made so much progress. I’d hate to see you
regress.”
Swallowing, I force a smile. “Of course.”
“Very good. How about we move forward? What happened after those
weeks you spent alone?”
 TWENTY
SEVEN

maeve

Using the paltry piece of concrete, I carve a tally mark. “Should we hold a
celebration for our six-month mark?”
“Damn. Six months.” Ledger shakes his head, propping it against the wall.
It’s hard to remember what he looked like before. We’ve both lost so much
weight, our hair wispy, our skin dry, his face covered in a dense, wild beard.
Even if Ledger and I can hold out, our bodies can’t. I check our blood
pressure a couple times a week, and it’s low. Too low. Our kidneys are shot.
It’s time we face the inevitable.
We’re dying.
“Why does it feel like a year? Or more.”
I pause my snail-paced stroll around the room. “Because it probably has
been, but he’s made keeping track impossible.”
He lets out a quiet, mirthless chuckle. “Yeah. So let’s celebrate. How
about a chicken fried steak with a side of mashed potatoes and green beans?”
“You read my mind.”
A corner of his mouth curves, obscured by the beard, and he snorts.
“Okay. A day in the life of Maeve Campbell. What would your normal day
look like if you weren’t here?”
I shrug and imagine my days before this, a life that feels like another
lifetime. “It’d be rather boring. I’d wake up, grab a cup of coffee and a yogurt
to go. Then if I wasn’t on call at the hospital, I’d have a day of about twenty-
five female exams.” I pause to take a few breaths. “And if I was lucky, I’d
make it home in time for dinner. And then I’d do it all over again.”
“Sounds similar to mine. Just change out the coffee and yogurt for a
protein shake. And the female exams to meetings and spreadsheets and
emails and all kinds of other exciting things.”
There’s nothing unordinary about what my days used to be like. I was a
working woman, but being caged brings forth more moments of reflection
than a person wants.
“Do you think the puppeteer took us as punishment for working too much,
for not appreciating or nurturing our marriages and day-to-day lives more?”
Ledger’s eyes drift beyond my shoulder, a haunted glint present. “I’ve had
the thought, but I don’t think our lives or marriages were much different from
most couples who work full time. You just make it work and sometimes you
fall short, but he’s psychotic so who knows.”
And because he murdered our spouses, we’ll never get the opportunity to
make anything right. I take a moment to close my eyes and breathe through
the clamoring pain of loss.
“Let’s switch gears,” I murmur. “A round of Two Truths and a Lie? Seems
like the proper commemoration for our milestone.”
“You first or me?”
“I’ll go.” I lower in front of Ledger, crossing my weakened legs, blinking
away black spots in my vision. “Maybe I should move next to you. Have the
wall to support myself.”
“I told you that you should save your energy.”
“I’m fine.” My shoulder bumps his. “Just a little winded.”
“A little winded when you’re healthy is one thing.” Ledger’s fingers brush
the hair off my shoulder. “A little winded in our condition is worrisome.”
I haven’t told Ledger we’re dying, but he has to know. Based on my
medical knowledge, we have maybe a week left. If the puppeteer realizes
that, he’ll either finally pull the trigger or give us the food and medical
attention we need to last longer.
I pat Ledger’s thigh, his legs stretched out before him, but I don’t
acknowledge his concerns. “When I was sixteen, I got drunk and puked in the
back seat of my best friend’s mom’s car. I was president of the debate team
my junior year. And I crushed on the same guy from the time I was eight all
through my senior year.”
“There’s no way you were on the debate team. You’re a terrible
negotiator.”
I laugh, raspy and sluggish. “You got me. It was an elective, and I avoided
it like the plague.”
“So, you really threw up in your best friend’s mom’s car.”
“Yeah, and her mom was driving at the time.” I shake my head with
embarrassment. “I was so out of it, I tried quietly puking into my hands to
cover up the fact that I was sick because I didn’t want her to know, but the
smell gave me away.”
His nose wrinkles as light mirth passes his lips. “Gross. Was your best
friend drunk, too?”
“No, she’d only had like one beer and we needed a ride, so she thought we
were safe calling her mom. Let’s just say that was my first and last night to
get drunk in high school.” I shake my head. “Okay. Your turn.”
Ledger takes a minute to gather his choices before he ticks them off one by
one on his hand. “I’m allergic to shellfish. I fell off the roof of my house
when I was seven years old and my younger brother came over, looked at me
lying on my back, and walked away without calling for help.” He pauses
between each sentence to catch his breath. “And I once had a date in high
school who ordered one-hundred tacos from Taco Bell.”
“Wait. Before I give you my answer, I know this one isn’t the lie because
it’s too outrageous, but I have to know. You took a date to Taco Bell?”
“That’s the part that trips you up? Not the fact that she ordered a hundred
tacos?”
My head falls back with a panting laugh, tapping the wall. Yeah, okay.
That’s not normal.
“I was fifteen years old, cut a guy some slack.”
“Did she at least eat them all?”
“No, she ate like three and said she couldn’t eat another bite. Then
proceeded to gather every box and leave.”
My amusement curls me forward as I wipe tears from my eyes. “Did she
have a starving family at home or something?”
“No, her dad was the accountant for my dad’s company at the time. Her
family was loaded.”
 “Oh my gosh. That’s too good. Okay, so your lie. You’re not allergic to
shellfish. Just a couple months ago you said you wanted to gorge yourself on
seafood in the Maldives.”
“Exactly. I said seafood, not shellfish. People with shellfish allergies can
still have fish.” Though he laughs, it’s rough and barely audible. “But you’re
right. I’d live off crab legs if I could.”
I half-heartedly fist pump the air. It’s not the first time I’ve gotten one
right, but the victory is sweet all the same. Though, one thing he mentioned
trips me up.
“You’ve never talked about your little brother before. He didn’t even ask
if you were okay?” A light chuckle falls from my lips.
The newly returned spark in Ledger’s eyes dims. “Holden. Yeah. I mean,
he was pretty young at the time, maybe four or five years old. Probably saw
that I was still breathing and figured I was okay or didn’t really understand
what happened.” A quiet snort. That’s all that follows.
“How old is he now?”
“He umm…he died about nine years ago.”
My barely beating heart stalls.
His mom, his wife, and his little brother? Circling back to a conversation
we had, what feels like centuries ago, I recall wondering if that’s what Ledger
was going to say when he mentioned his mother’s breast cancer, but I never
pushed and he never clarified.
“That’s devastating.” I reach for his hand, twining my fingers with his and
squeeze. “I’m so sorry, Ledger. Why haven’t you talked about him before?”
Gnawing on his lower lip, Ledger sniffs. “I have a lot of regrets where he’s
concerned. And it’s too hard to talk about him sometimes, but if you’re the
last person I talk to, he deserves to be remembered one last time.”
Giving him the time he needs to collect his thoughts, I remain quiet as his
eyes drift to the ground. “He had a really hard time after our mom died. Went
to some heavy, dark places and never really recovered. He was only twelve
when we lost her. I tried doing what I could to be there for him, but I was a
kid myself. And some people are just born with more mental health
challenges than others, you know?” His free, boney hand swipes down his
weary face. “My dad didn’t help much. We were basically raised by nannies
because he worked all the time. I don’t think he ever wanted to be home,
never wanted the reminder of her. And our house was filled with memories of
my mom.”
 “Do you get along with your dad now? I mean…you work with him,
right?”
One of his shoulders lifts in a shrug. “We get along fine, but I wouldn’t
say we’re close. I love him because he’s my dad, but I’m not his biggest fan.
And I don’t think he’s mine either.”
A spouse dying is hard enough, but to then lose both of your children? I
can fathom the heartache to an extent, but I didn’t have years to get to know
my son, my Leo.
Is it any wonder his father threw himself into his company? At the expense
of his relationship with his sons, but goodness, I don’t know how else I’d
cope. If we were to get out of here, all I’d have is work.
“Do you mind me asking what happened to Holden?”
Ledger doesn’t respond right away, so I glance at him to see if he passed
out on me again. Sometimes that happens. Our bodies are in survival mode.
We can only stay awake for so long without running out of steam. But he’s
not asleep. His eyes are unblinking, his stare somehow tragic and hollow at
once as he focuses on the concrete beneath his feet.
“We got into a bad car accident during my junior year and someone died.
Changed us both. And then six months later he committed suicide.” One
choked word. That’s all it takes to siphon the air from my lungs. “I found him
in his closet with a belt around his neck.”
When I say Ledger’s name, it’s nothing but a muted gasp, a struggling
breath.
“The coroner said he’d been there for hours.” His thumb and index finger
press into his eyes, wiping away moisture. “After our mom died, I tried
giving Holden his space because he was never the type to want to talk. He
carried around so much anger, and we were two years apart. But maybe if I’d
been there for him more, checked on him sooner. If I’d…”
Oh, Ledger. “That’s a lot of guilt to carry around for something you
couldn’t have known was going to happen. If anyone should’ve been there
for him, it’s your dad. I’m sure you did what you could for Holden.” Not that
my words bring him any comfort. They’re mostly empty without
understanding the full situation, but I want to ease his pain.
Losing his mom and brother all within a span of four years? The tears are
inescapable, trickling down my cheeks. Then Becca? After all he’s been
through, how is Ledger the one between the two of us with more
determination to live?
 “How do you do it?” I whisper. “How do you find the will to live after
everything?”
Swiveling his head, he peers into my eyes. “I live for them, Maeve.
Because they can’t. I live for them.”
Ugh. This man. This beautiful-souled man. What will this world be like
without you?
Clearing his throat, Ledger says, “How about another round?”
Subject change. I can’t fault him. It’s depressing enough without dwelling
on more added loss, but I can’t bring myself to return to such a lighthearted
game.
A sympathetic smile curves the side of my mouth as I brush my wet face
with the back of my hand. Ledger knows we’re going to do another one, and
probably another one after that until sleep pulls us under. Anything to occupy
our minds with something other than our current reality.
I take a moment to think of my options for him. We’ve played this game
so many times, it’s difficult to come up with new stories, interests, or
dislikes. Instead, I steer us in a different direction.
Holding his stare, I say, “I grew up on Rosewood Lane. I love ’90s rap.
And if we happen to get out of here alive, I’ll be able to live without you.”
Ledger’s gaze deepens and flares.
Even though we’ve gone to hell and back together, he’s given me light
when there has been none. Functioning in the outside world without him
would be near impossible. Good thing we’ll never find out.
He licks his chapped lips, intense yet soft green eyes roaming my face.
“My name is Ledger Abbott. I’ve been held captive by a madman for what
feels like a lifetime. And I’m not in love with you.”
My breath catches, but he doesn’t take it back. His stare remains hooked
with mine, doubtless in his words.
Lips opening and closing, I keep my response to myself. Not because I
don’t feel the same. When I sift inside my head and heart, I don’t have to dig
very deep. I know I do—after all we’ve been through, all he’s done for me,
how could I not love him—but my vocal cords won’t release a single sound.
Instead, I lean in, and Ledger doesn’t make me wait. Eyes honed in on my
mouth, he gently takes my face in his left hand, his thumb gliding along my
lower lip.
“I should’ve done this a long time ago.” And then he kisses me.
The connection of our lips is unlike anything I’ve felt in a first kiss. It’s
not tentative or unsure, learning the feel of each other and how we mold
together. No. We just do. Like a lock and key—only one fits, and somehow
we found the match.
Ledger’s hand sinks into my unruly hair, cradling the base of my skull as
his other loosens from my hand and glides around my middle. I have no
curves for him to hold on to, no figure to trace, and still, he makes me feel
wanted. Tugging me in, we rise to our knees, our chests kissing. An instant
wave of blissful euphoria spreads. After experiencing so much affliction, so
much anguish, finally sharing in something beautiful, I can’t stop a tear from
falling.
As his tongue slips out, tracing my dry lips, he’s met by the salty drop.
“Goldie?” he whispers, inching away. His thumb strokes my cheek, wiping
away the moisture.
“It’s okay.” I smile and keep him close. “They’re good tears, happy tears.”
Slipping both hands behind his head, I lure him back to me. “Let’s get lost in
one untainted thing.”
Without hesitation, his head dips, taking my mouth, his tongue sweeping
inside. We aren’t frantic or rushed, but no less heated in our passion. This
moment is savored, stretched and lengthened to infuse every ticking minute.
Minutes that are numbered.
Our lips meld, our tongues twisting and tasting. We may not have the
energy to make out like teenagers, but that doesn’t keep us from exploring.
Hands wandering, fingers fisting, grips tightening.
We’ve been starved and deprived, beaten and cut, humiliated and
drowned. Yet somehow, with Ledger’s mouth against mine and his hands in
my hair and around my waist, all of that fades away. All of those things gave
me him. It’s not right. Our story is twisted and horrific, but we have a silver-
lining. These horrors gave me Ledger.
With my eyes shut so tight, Ashton appears on the backs of my lids. While
a pang of bereavement settles in my marrow, there is no shame, no self-
loathing. Like he’s talking to me from the other side, his mouth curves into
an understanding smile, and he winks as if to say, Accept this last good thing
before this life ends.
A realization punches me in the chest. Ledger is my new reason to live,
and I’m not ready for this to be one last good thing.
Ledger lowers back to the wall, drawing me down with him. Gliding his
hand down my thigh, he tugs it over his lap, settling me against him. The
intimate connection pulls a whimper from my lips as I chase his tongue, and
the fist in my hair cinches.
His rogue hand slips beneath my tattered sweatshirt, roaming, kneading.
Knowing all he can feel are the protruding contours of my ribs and the
knobby ripples of my spine, I push the negativity away and remain riveted on
us. A man and a woman forced together by evil, but bound together by
mutual determination and love. Two people who found one good reason to
survive in this sea of torment.
When his hungry lips travel up my jaw, nibbling on my earlobe, and edge
down the arch of my neck, Ledger clutches the hem of my shirt and inches it
higher and higher. I almost lift my arms, instinct to be closer to his touch, but
my brain fog clears.
“Wait, wait. Ledger.” My grip strangles the long, knotted hair at his nape,
grasping for self-control. “We need to think for a minute.”
Ledger keeps his face buried in my neck, volcanic lips pressed against my
sensitive skin, his worked-up breathing bathing my overstimulated senses.
“Maybe it’s the obstetrician in me, but I doubt either of us have the
strength, the capability…” Though, it would be near impossible for my body
to get pregnant in this starved state, we have to be smart.
He exhales, heavy, pulling back with a low, defeated chuckle. “Yes.
You’re right. I wasn’t thinking. I got carried away.”
I take both sides of his bushy jaw in my hands. “I want to. Don’t think I
don’t, but even if our bodies were capable…” My eyes wander to the
invasive camera. If no other reason than to stick it to the puppeteer. We can’t.
Ledger follows my line of sight as he nods. “I’m sorry. My head got away
from me. I just wanted us to experience something pure and true, to feel you
once before…”
We die. We’ve avoided the inevitable for so long, but we have to be
realistic now. It’s time we accept our fate and cherish what life we have left
together.
“I know. Me, too. Maybe in another life.”
He wets his lips, looking into my eyes with residual heat. “In another life.”
Our mouths meet once again as Ledger lowers us to our sides on the
ground, pulling me close with one last peck before tucking my head beneath
his. If we don’t wake up in the morning, at least his arms will be the last thing
I’ll feel.
He whispers into the void. “I still love you in this life, Goldie.”
 TWENTY
EIGHT

ledger

Startled awake by the screech of the metal door, my embrace tightens around
Maeve. She flinches, but relaxes against my chest until the sound of the door
registers and she pulls away, eyes gradually finding mine. I don’t have the
energy to deal with him today, but we sit up and face the entrance,
interlocking our fingers. The last line of defense, our solidarity.
The puppeteer enters, dragging a wooden chair inside, and drops a black
canvas duffle by the door propping it open. Jutting his chin toward me, he
demands, “Get up and come here.”
I don’t question it. I’m too tired, so I stand. When I get to him, he yanks
both of my hands forward, and cold metal cinches around my wrists. Then he
does the same with my ankles—the way he does when he forces me to bury
the contents of our bathroom bucket.
“Now you. Stand up, Doc.”
Maeve does as she’s told without protest, and he locks her wrists in a
second set of cuffs, as well as her ankles. Maybe this is defeat. Have we lost
our fight?
“Time for a field trip. Move. Out the door.”
 I pause. “You’re not going to blindfold us?”
“No longer necessary.”
I don’t have the will to question why. I already know. We don’t have
much more time.
We walk the short hallway, and I scan the steel doors. What’s behind
them? Before I can stop to peer in one, he shoves me forward, bumping into
Maeve. “Sorry.” I skim her twig waist, and her icicle fingers brush mine,
gripping before letting go.
Up the ladder and stairs we climb until he moves us aside and opens the
last steel door. It’s pitch black out. Nothing to light the land except the moon
and stars.
There’s a quiet intake of breath beside me, Maeve’s chained hands cup her
mouth as she stares at the sea of stars. The sky. It still exists. I’ve second-
guessed it since I last saw it from within a casket.
And then an orange glow illuminates our surroundings—a camping lantern
the puppeteer powers on at the base of a tree trunk—lighting bare trees, the
bones of brush, and more bald trees, but the lantern doesn’t reach far. If
there’s anything beyond the landscape, I can’t see. We have to be off in our
tally count. September wouldn’t have fallen leaves yet, yellow and orange
changing maybe, but not gone.
“Dig.”
“Dig what?” I ask.
Picking up two shovels from the dirt, he thrusts them at us. “Dig until I tell
you to stop.”
Maeve murmurs, an eerie sense of knowing in her tone, “But what are we
digging?”
“Your graves.”
My frozen dinner churns, preparing to make a reappearance. The day has
finally come. Of all the twisted, chilling mind games. Making us dig our own
graves might top the rest.
“Ledger already spent time in his casket. It’s almost time for you too,
Doc.”
I still, tension curling my spine as his words bring me back.
“What?” Maeve asks. “What is he talking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh. He never told you?” The puppeteer’s eyes almost smile. “Your
knight in shining armor spent an evening in his casket in exchange for your
antibiotics.” Behind his hand, he whisper-shouts, “In case you weren’t aware,
he’s claustrophobic.”
“Ledger,” she breathes.
“It’s nothing, Maeve. You needed them. Just dig.”
Tears well up in her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t need to know.” I shift, taking the shovel from the puppeteer.
“You needed the antibiotics. I got them for you.”
“This is precious. You two. Maybe instead of the puppeteer they’ll call me
the matchmaker.”
If I had the energy or the tolerance for his imminent retaliation, I’d clock
him.
In muffled gasps, Maeve cries at my side, but she pokes her shovel into the
ground and tosses a handful of dirt to the side, shivering in the brisk night air.
I always imagined I’d be buried next to my family, the same plot as my
mom and Holden, but it makes sense to rest beside Maeve. Beside each other
through the most unbearable of times and in death.
Hours pass with him berating our lack of speed and strength. If he wanted
us to dig these in a timely fashion, he should’ve thought of that before nearly
starving us to death. When Maeve’s legs give out, I toss my shovel to check
on her crumbled form on the dirt.
“Don’t move, Abbott,” he barks. “Get up, Doc. You’re not finished.”
She doesn’t move.
While I stay in place, I ignore him. “Maeve?”
“I’m fine, Ledger.” Using the shovel to stand, she leans against it to
remain upright, but makes no effort to continue.
We haven’t dug more than three feet, but he says, “This will have to be
deep enough. You’re taking too long, I’m ready for the main event of our
evening.”
Depleted, the puppeteer forces us back underground, shuffling on sluggish
legs. Once inside our cell, he releases Maeve and she sits back against the
wall with a fragmented sigh, but he doesn’t unchain me. Keeping me cuffed,
he shoves me to the floor next to Maeve.
“I’m leaving this door open or you’ll be trapped inside with me.” He
grunts a low snicker. “Though, wouldn’t that be a fun game? You try and
make a run for it, I’ll shoot.” Lifting the edge of his black sweatshirt, he
flashes the grip of a handgun tucked into the waistband of his jeans.
Even if my ankles weren’t cuffed, I wouldn’t risk escaping and leaving
Maeve behind. I trust nothing about this madman.
“Did you ever play baseball, Abbott?” Our captor rotates and bends,
digging in the bag he dropped off earlier, pulling out a long coil of rope. “Or
were you more of a football kind of guy?”
Licking my lips, I clear my throat. “Lacrosse and golf, actually. I’m
surprised you didn’t know this already.” I hardly recognize the voice that
leaves me. If I looked in a mirror, would I even recognize myself?
A humorless laugh splinters the air. “Lacrosse and golf. Some spoiled rich
kid sports. Why does that not surprise me? Well, let’s hope you’re good at
baseball because we’re gonna play today.” The puppeteer pulls the chair he
brought into the corner with the random hook in the ceiling. “You know the
rules? Three strikes and you’re out. Except Maeve will pay the consequence
if you lose.”
Trepidation splinters me from the inside out. I focus on the looped rope in
his hands as he unwinds the thick strand. “What are you doing?”
He’s never stayed in the cell with us before. In and out, taking one of us
with him or beating the tar out of me, but never remaining for any other
reason. Like a serpent waiting to attack, dread edges closer and closer.
“Preparing.” He begins folding one end of the rope.
Maeve and I look at one another. A streak of panic slices through her eyes,
and I want out of these handcuffs so I can hold her against me. Transport us
back to last night when we finally dropped the pretenses and allowed
ourselves a semblance of happiness.
But what I want more than anything is to protect Maeve from this
demented monster and what’s to come. No matter how useless I am in my
feeble state.
“It’s gonna be okay,” I whisper.
With a hesitant nod, she quivers on her next breath.
Pulling my attention to the puppeteer, I watch as he holds a loop and
wraps the rope around itself. Again and again he wraps. Is that a…is that a
noose?
Maeve’s delicate hand curves around my thigh, squeezing, when she
notices the same thing. If he thinks that’s for her, he’s out of his damn mind.
Her long, brittle nails curl into me the tighter she clings.
Facing us, he crooks a finger in Maeve’s direction. She tenses, leaning
further into my side, like she wants to be invisible.
Me too, Goldie.
 When she doesn’t obey, he snaps. “That wasn’t a request, Doc.” Stalking
forward, he snatches her arm. I shoot to my knees like I can do something
with my hands and ankles cuffed, but he whips the gun from his waistband
and aims it at my head. “I’d stay seated if I were you, Abbott. We’ve had a
good amount of fun up to this point, but after all your moaning and groaning
in solitary, not to mention how weak you two were up there, I’m officially
bored. I won’t think twice before putting a bullet between your eyes.”
My chest heaves as I lower on my haunches, holding Maeve’s stare with
promise. If he hurts her, I will kill him. I don’t know how, I don’t know
when, but I will.
The puppeteer shoves Maeve into the chair and rounds it, settling his
hands on her shoulders. From the curl of his knuckles, his grip isn’t light. My
hands coil into fists, imaging them around his neck.
“How about we start with a couple control questions. What’s your full
name?”
Control questions? What the hell is this? Instead of goading him, I say,
“Ledger Emerson Abbott.”
“Good, good. And how old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Right again. Now for the real questions. Would you say you’re an honest
man, Ledger Abbott?”
I expel air through my nose, already over this game. “Yes.”
He tuts. “Lying to me already. Strike one.” The puppeteer hooks the noose
around Maeve’s neck and her eyes flash with fear, a tear streaming down her
dirt-dusted cheek.
“Wait, no. What are you doing? Why was that a strike?”
“Because I know for a fact that you’re not.”
“It’s a subjective question, don’t you think? I might believe one thing,
while you believe another. Haven’t you ever heard there’s three sides to
every story? Who’s to say who is correct?”
“Haven’t you learned by now? I am.”
“Take the rope off of her neck.” My jaw clenches, my molars grinding,
nostrils flaring as I breathe to keep my composure. “Leave Maeve alone. Do
what you want to me. Just don’t touch her.”
His head dips to the side. “The thing is, we’ve spent quite a bit of time
together, and I’ve come to understand, the best way to get to you is to go
through her. And in case you haven’t been paying attention, you’re not the
only one I want to suffer.”
“Just tell me.” Maeve’s drained voice shakes, more tears trickling down
her face. “What did I do? Let me fix it. Whatever it is. I can make it right.”
His voice drops to a glacial timbre. “You’ll never be able to make it right.”
Finding my eyes, Maeve can’t hold back her whimpering emotion. “Why
are you doing this to us? Why? Why? Please just tell us.”
“By the end, you’ll know.”
Lifting to my knees again, I plead. “I’ll answer whatever questions you
want. Torture me however you see fit. I won’t fight you. Just don’t hurt
Maeve.”
He scoffs. “You act very noble, Ledger, but we both know that’s a lie.”
I rear back, brow ruffling. Where does he get all of this loathing? This
phony knowledge about me?
“Which brings me to question number two.” Like a disturbed clown, his
head cocks. “You have innocent blood on your hands. True or false?”
What? My knee jerk reaction is to say no, but he’s not wrong. He knows
how my brother died, what I told Maeve. “Why are you asking me this?
Whose blood is on my hands?”
“Avoiding the question? Don’t play dumb, Abbott. It’s useless at this
point. You’ve taken a life. It’s time you own up to it.”
Maeve’s eyes dip and rumple, crestfallen.
My head shakes as I split my attention between them. “What? No, I
haven’t. I’m not a murderer.” I didn’t kill Holden.
“Is this strike two? Are you calling me a liar?”
I can’t say yes. I can’t tell him what he wants to hear. It’s not true. “I’ve
never killed anyone!”
“Wrong answer.” The puppeteer threads the rope through the hook in the
ceiling and tightens the noose around Maeve’s neck. “That makes it strike
two. Stand up on the chair, Doc.”
Her blue eyes double in size as she gasps for a breath, shaking her head.
“No, please. Please, I’m begging you.”
“Now.”
“Wait! Stop!” Grasping at straws, I ask, “Is this… Is this about the car
accident I was in? When I was in high school? Because there’s nothing I
could’ve done. That wasn’t my fault!”
“Nothing ever is.” He snatches Maeve’s arm, yanking her up.
“No! Stop it!” Clawing turmoil tears at my chest. The handcuffs rattle
around my wrists as I strain to break free. “Put the noose around my neck.
Don’t hurt her. Hurt me. Hurt me!”
“You keep forgetting, and I’m growing extremely tired of your insolence.
That’s not how this works.” His neon mask inches behind her ear. “I won’t
ask again, Doc.”
Maeve climbs onto the chair and tugs at the rope around her neck, choking
out, “Just tell us why you’re doing this. Please. We deserve that much at least
before we die.”
“Don’t act so innocent yourself. You have more blood on your hands than
he does.”
Color drains from her face as she rasps, “I’ve never killed anyone.”
He murmurs to her hovering above him. “That’s where you’re wrong, and
deep down I think you know that.”
There’s a subtle shake of her head, but words don’t fall past her lips.
“So, is that what this is about?” I ask. “You believe we’ve murdered
people, so you’re tormenting us to pay for our sins?”
“I don’t believe, I know.”
“And what if you’re wrong? What if you have the wrong people? Have
you ever considered that?”
Rocking back on his heels, the puppeteer shakes his head. “I don’t make
mistakes.” His masked face angles toward Maeve. “You two are exactly who
deserve to be here.”
My stare locks on her, but she’s at a loss. Maeve’s eyes are just as
confused as mine. She gasps for air, and he jerks on his end of the rope,
cinching the noose.
“I… I…” Maeve tries to form words, but the restraint around her neck
shows no mercy.
“What was that?” He cups his ear, slanting toward her. “I’m sorry, I can’t
hear you.”
“I’m…inno…cent.” Her voice cracks.
“But you’re not.” Venom pours into his words.
Taking a step back, he holds tight to the rope, pulling so hard, Maeve
stands on her tiptoes to give herself some slack.
“Stop it! You’re choking her!”
“Last question, Abbott.” His stare punctures me. “If your wife was here
and alive, and you had to choose who lived or died, who would it be? Becca
or Maeve? Who gets to live?”
 What kind of a sick and twisted question is that? Both. I pick both. I don’t
want either of them dead.
“Tick-tock, tick-tock.”
I shake my head, but he laughs from behind his skull mask. “Is that strike
three?”
No matter which I choose, it’s a betrayal. How am I supposed to choose
between the woman I married—the woman I lost—and the woman breathing
for me, my lifeline? Like it or not, Maeve is the only thing keeping me alive
at this point. She’s my only reason to exist.
If faced with the same question, would she say Ashton? Could she choose?
Becca should be an instinctual answer, a reflex, and yet, I can’t force my lips
to form her name. Maeve or Becca. Five letters each. I just need to pick one.
But even if I do, no matter what I say, if he doesn’t accept my answer or
doesn’t believe me, I’m screwed. Or even if he does believe me, he can’t be
trusted. He could end her life just to spite me.
“Your time is running out. Who’ll it be? Your wife or your whore?”
Fury ignites in my veins. “Maeve isn’t a whore.”
“Oh, really? And how long after you found out your spouses were dead
did she run into your arms?”
I rock forward, getting to my feet. “She was grieving the loss of her
husband. There’s no one else here! Where else was she supposed to go? Who
was she supposed to turn to?”
“I didn’t come here to negotiate or hear your rationalizations. Your time is
up. Strike three.” The puppeteer grips the rope and braces his foot against one
of the wooden legs, ready to kick over the chair.
“Maeve! Maeve.” I cry, dropping back to my knees, and I whisper, “I’d
choose Maeve.”
His eyes flash with surprise, then indignation bleeds through. It takes him
a few more seconds before he loosens his grip on the rope, allowing Maeve to
lower her heels to the seat of the chair.
“The sad thing is, I believe you’re finally telling the truth. Your poor, dead
wife. If she could hear your answer now.”
The noose still tight around Maeve’s neck, he lets go of the rope and
shoves her to the ground before grabbing the duffle by the door. As he digs in
a small pocket on the inside, his glare slashes through me. “You win this
inning.” He tosses the tiny silver key to the handcuffs at my feet, just out of
reach. “Don’t feel so sure about the next. It may be the ninth, and then it’s
game over.”
Whipping his back to us, the puppeteer slams the steel door.
I don’t waste a single second. “Maeve. Maeve.” My knees shuffle across
the concrete to her curled in the fetal position at the base of the chair.
“Maeve?”
She coughs, hand clasping the column of her neck as she hoists herself to
sit up with the other.
“Are you okay?”
Gripping my shoulder to hold herself upright, she rasps, “No.”
“I’ve got you. We’re alive.”
I see the unspoken question in her eyes. For how much longer?
Once she gains her composure, she asks, “Did he leave the key to the
handcuffs?”
I gesture to the floor behind me with my head. “Over there.”
Maeve is careful as she uncuffs me, and I rub my sore, red wrists. Fighting
against the restraints to get to her rubbed me raw.
“He’s escalated.” From the beginning, his quest has been torment and
suffering. Today it was death. “The water tank was one thing, but this was a
whole new level of cruelty.”
He had to have heard us talking yesterday, or he already knew about how
Holden died.
This was personal.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the casket, Ledger?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t want you to worry, to feel guilty. Especially
since I’d do it a thousand times over if it meant keeping you alive.”
Her hand forms to my bearded jaw. “You. You headstrong, self-sacrificing
man.”
I lean into her touch. “Your headstrong, self-sacrificing man.”
And she lifts a tiny smile that quickly droops. “No one’s coming for us,”
she utters.
My lips part to object, to reassure, but tonight was one step too far. Even if
we’re still being searched for, at this rate, they won’t find us in time.
Maeve blinks, a sheen of moisture coating her eyes. “This is where we’re
going to die, Ledger. I don’t know how we’re going to make it through
another day. We need to accept that. Her thumb traces my mouth. “And if I
haven’t told you yet, you need to know. I love you.”
Fighting a low laugh, a huff escapes my nose. “You haven’t, but I already
know.” I cradle the sides of her head and bring our foreheads together,
grazing the end of her nose with mine. “We’ve come this far.” I press my
palm over her chest, my lips searching for hers in a kiss. One, and another.
“There’s still air in your lungs and a beat in your heart. Don’t disappear on
me now, Goldie. Don’t disappear.”
Or I’ll disappear, too.
 TWENTY
NINE

maeve

I wake in Ledger’s arms, lying on our sides on the hard floor, spooning in our
corner. What woke me? The bugle is silent. There’s no tray or bucket in front
of the hatch. No crackle of the ancient speaker. There’s nothing but me and
Ledger. Until…
A low thundering filters through the door from the hallway. It’s faint, too
faint to make out the source of the sound.
“Ledger,” I whisper, and he hums a soft grunt, hauling me tighter to his
body and burrowing his face in the crook of my neck with a sleepy kiss.
“Not yet, Maeve. Just let me hold you a little longer.”
“I think he’s coming.”
Ledger tenses and places me behind him as we sit up, preparing to face our
endless nightmare.
Or maybe we’re at the end. He’s back too soon for this to be a meal or
bucket.
There’s a clang, then another. One after the other. The other steel doors
opening and closing? Why is he opening the other rooms? And then…
Footsteps. But not one set. Not two. There’s more. Too many to identify,
to count.
Before Ledger and I can comprehend what’s happening, the steel barrier
swings open, revealing a team of men in bulletproof vests with guns drawn,
flashlights blinding us.
Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot. I cower into Ledger’s side and he
clutches me against his chest. A jumble of shouts go in one ear, but I can’t
comprehend what’s being said. I steal a peek, blinking through the glaring
lights, but all I make out are shadows and flashing spots.
When they see we’re the only two people in here, weapons lower, and the
one front and center calls over his shoulder, “They’re in here!”
Seconds pass before my brain registers what this arrival means. They
aren’t a hallucination. They’re really here. I haven’t officially gone insane.
The man who spoke to his team cautiously approaches us, like we’re wild
animals. And maybe our disheveled appearance justifies that assumption.
“Are you two all right?”
SWAT. They’re law enforcement. They found us.
And then I shatter. Tears flowing as I crumple against Ledger. His arms
encircle me, and his body shakes with a silent cry.
“It’s all right.” The officer kneels before us. “You’re safe now.
Everything’s going to be all right. Medics are here.”
Ledger presses his lips right below my ear, his hand lost in my unkempt
hair. “Did you hear that, Goldie? We made it.” Head falling to my shoulder,
he kisses the curve of my neck, over and over. “We made it.”

The moment they start to wheel Ledger to a different room at the hospital,
I lose my mind. Screaming, crying, hysterical. They nearly have to sedate and
strap me to the bed to keep me from leaping onto his stretcher. They’re given
no choice but to agree. I can’t be away from Ledger. I can’t. Unless they want
to admit me to a psych ward, I have to be where he is.
From one small, colorless room to another, but at least here the puppeteer
can’t get to us. After pumping us with fluids and allowing us rest, the same
officer who burst through the steel door first stands at the foot of our
neighboring beds. I now know his name to be Detective Whitly.
We’re in a hospital in Connecticut, not far from where we were found.
Connecticut. We’ve been in a different state this whole time. More than two
hours from home.
“Your families are on their way. As soon as we verified your identities,
they were contacted.”
Families. My parents and sisters are probably breaking speed limits to get
here. I would be if it were any of them. Who will come for Ledger? His dad?
“And the puppet—” I catch myself. “The man who held us captive. Where
is he?”
The dusty-blond-haired officer shakes his head. “There was no sign of
anyone when we arrived. Are you saying there’s only one man for us to
search for?”
We nod.
“Okay. We have a team there, collecting evidence, and they’ll search for
any sign of him.”
He’s still out there. He’s still out there. He could capture us again. A shard
of fear drives into my chest.
“We’re safe, Maeve.” I look to Ledger, and he nods from his bed, so in
tune with me. “It’s okay. Just breathe. We’re okay.” His attention turns to the
detective. “Right? She has nothing to be worried about.”
Detective Whitly’s brow creases as he inspects Ledger, a reassuring turn
of his mouth. “That’s right,” he says to me. “We have officers standing
outside your door, and officers at every entrance to the hospital.”
My panic lessens, but only by a fraction. “What was that place?”
“From what we’ve gathered, it was an old bunker built several decades
ago. The room you were held in was probably some sort of cold storage
closet. We also found a larger room across from you with an entire
apartment-like set up: a kitchen, a couch, a bed. He was probably living there
with you.”
Distress like hands snakes around my throat, choking. Even though we
knew he wasn’t far from us, could see us at all times, knowing he was
probably less than ten feet away the whole time disturbs my stomach. I need
a vomit bag.
“What’s the date today?” I ask.
“November eleventh.”
“November?” Ledger says before I can even comprehend. “You mean—”
“Eight months.” I gasp. “We’ve been gone eight months?” We knew it
was a possibility that we lost more time than we counted, but two whole
months? We almost lost an entire year in that dungeon?
“How did you even find us?” Ledger asks.
“There was an anonymous tip called in this morning. We’re in the process
of trying to track down the caller.”
“Anonymous tip?”
Could the puppeteer have done that? Or better question, would he? From
the time we spent with him, that doesn’t align with his vendetta against us.
But if not him, who? Who else knew where we were?
The young detective nods, his gaze bobbing my way to Ledger and back.
He can’t be much older than I am. “The voice was distorted, so we’re not
sure if it was a man or woman, but they led us right to you. They didn’t
mention names, just that there were people being held against their will who
have been missing a long time.”
A shiver rolls along my spine as I glance at Ledger. How did the caller
know? What had they seen? Were they with him the whole time? Was it the
father he mentioned living with? Did he discover his son’s dark
extracurricular activities, but didn’t want to implicate him?
One after the other, questions flood my mind, but before I get to any of
them, Detective Whitly pulls up a chair and sits. “While we have a few
minutes, I know you two have been through an unimaginable ordeal, but if
you’re feeling emotionally able, can you tell me anything about the man who
took you?”
“We never saw his face,” Ledger says.
“Not once?”
I shake my head and shiver the moment the image of his mask raids my
mind. “He wore this lit up neon skull mask, never took it off. Most of his face
was blacked out.”
“Lit up?”
Ledger says, “Yeah, it was LED or something. A plain skull outlined in
bright blue, black plastic beneath, cut-outs for his eyes.”
The detective nods. “That matches up.”
“What matches up?” he asks.
“We’ll get to that.” Detective Whitly wags his pen in the air. “Let’s focus
on one thing at a time. Did he ever give you his name? Or a name to call
him?”
Our heads shake as I answer, “After he treated us like puppets, forcing us
to do as he asked, we started calling him the puppeteer, but he never gave us
anything personal about himself. Though, he knew a lot of personal things
about us.”
As the officer scribbles on a small notepad, he glances up. “I know it’s
difficult, but can you tell me what kinds of things he forced you to do? Take
your time.”
Like a tsunami, the last two-hundred and forty days of captivity surge and
cripple. My eyes shut, attempting to dampen the onslaught, but it doesn’t
help. It isn’t until Ledger says my name that I realize I’m shaking.
“I’ll tear these IVs right out of me if you need me to.” Ledger moves to
yank out the one on his hand, ready to move to my bed.
“No, stop. I’m okay.”
When I still can’t tell the detective what he asked, Ledger steps in.
“Maybe we can talk about that portion later. We’re not going to forget those
kinds of details any time soon.”
“Of course.” Though I’m sure he’s not pleased, he gives us nothing but his
patience. “You said he knew a lot of personal details about you. Did either of
you recognize his voice? Anything familiar about it?”
Together, we say, “No.”
“Were there any distinguishing features? Skin color? Tattoos? Scars?
Birthmarks?” Turning his attention to Ledger, the more sound of the two of
us. “Anything on his neck, hands, arms, legs? Anywhere.”
“He kept himself covered.” One of my shoulders tips up. “Hood up—
always the same ratty black sweatshirt—gloves and all when he was near us.
We rarely saw a sliver of skin, but we’re pretty sure he was white. And
somewhere around six foot, six-one, maybe.”
Ledger clears his throat. “I always found it odd that he never showed his
face. If he didn’t have any intention of releasing us, why cover who he is?”
Detective Whitly’s lips protrude, tapping his pen on his notepad. “It could
be a few things. He might not have had any intention of killing you, or he
wanted to be prepared. In case of a rescue or escape, you couldn’t identify
him.”
Yesterday he wanted me dead. If not both of us. There honestly wasn’t a
moment in that place where I didn’t think that was his intention.
“All right.” He taps his knees before standing. “I think I have enough for
the meantime. There will be a lot more questions we’ll need to ask you, as
well as getting your full statements, but I’ll give you more time to rest before
we dive further into the investigation. You’ve been through enough.”
 “But wait,” Ledger says, “What did you mean by that matches up?”
“Oh. With the statement your wife gave the night you were taken.”
If possible, Ledger grows paler. “My…my wife?”
“Ledger! Ledger!” His faint name travels down the hallway, filtering into
our drab hospital room, increasing in volume as footsteps draw closer.
“Ledger!” It’s not a low, masculine tone as I’d expected to hear. It’s high and
delicate, feminine.
The slightly ajar door swings open, and a dainty brunette appears,
shouldering past the two officers on duty. They don’t bother stopping her, so
either they’re terrible security, or they know who she is.
“Becca?” Her name is disbelief, a revelation, Ledger without a cognizant
thought.
Wait. Becca?
Wasting no time, she strides past my bed to him before falling into his
chest in a fit of sobs.
With one slow-sweeping arm and then the other, Ledger presses her
against him. He meets my eyes over his wife’s shoulder, blinking.
Confounded.
She’s alive.
The puppeteer lied.
But we saw images, blood. So much blood. We heard her screams. His
wife pleading for mercy, for her life.
If Becca is alive, does that mean…?
As if sensing him there, my gaze slides to the door once more and finds a
tall, familiar figure filling the open doorway. In an olive-green sweater and
glasses he only wears when his eyes are tired of his contacts, my husband
stands.
“Ashton?”
Pushing back his warm brown hair, he chokes on a cry, hand clasping his
quivering mouth, hiding the uncontrollable emotion. In the six years we’ve
been married, I’ve never seen Ashton cry.
Gradual steps bring him to my bedside where he lowers and cups each side
of my face. “Maeve?” It’s more than my name. It’s a weighted question, like
he doesn’t recognize me, or he can’t believe what he sees. We’re on the same
page.
“You’re alive.” A gasp. An epiphany. How? “He said you were dead. I
saw you.”
 “No, no. I’m alive, love. And so are you.” Ashton kisses my forehead as if
I’m made of antique glass and then my cheeks. My nose and my eyelids. My
temples and my lips. He hauls me into his arms. Arms that were once so
familiar, now foreign.
Did he change? Or just me?
“We found you.” Ashton shakes with his breakdown, my whole body
vibrating with his wracking, muffled cries. “I can’t believe after all this time
we found you. I was sure you were gone forever.”
He’s dumbfounded. I hug him as tightly as my atrophied muscles allow as
a sob breaks free. “You’re alive.” I can’t stop repeating it. Out loud. In my
head. Ashton is alive.
How? How is it possible? I saw him. Lying in a pool of blood, a huge gash
in the side of his head.
While I’m still attached to Ashton, my gaze travels across the way to
Becca still in Ledger’s arms. His eyes are closed as he takes in this
unfathomable moment, face nestled in her healthy, lustrous hair. Probably
freshly showered with high-end products. Guaranteed she smells amazing,
the same with Ashton. What must I smell like to him? Too concerned with
getting us the proper treatment, we haven’t been able to shower yet.
When those amber green spheres lift to mine, an avalanche of emotions
pours onto the floor. Utter disbelief, solace, and gratitude in his misty eyes,
but they mingle with an undercurrent of something different. Something
more. Regret, maybe. Or is it the unexplainable longing that courses through
me as well?
Our spouses are alive. We survived.
Then why do I not feel more at peace?
 THIRTY

ledger

When my mom and Holden died, day after day I prayed it wasn’t real, that I
would wake and find her in the kitchen making breakfast or him playing
video games in his bedroom. But that day never came.
And here I am with Becca, having survived horrors I wouldn’t wish on my
enemies, only to find the worst of it never happened. I’m a million different
layers of relieved and grateful, but I’m also confused, and I can’t shake this
deep, nagging ache in my chest.
And Maeve must feel it too because every time our eyes meet, it’s not
contentment I see but something unidentifiable. Her gaze is restless, dazed.
When I reluctantly release Becca, my peripheral vision catches an
ambiguous figure hovering in the doorway.
My instinct is a flinch, but I shift my gaze to find the last person I
expected. “Dad?”
Dressed to the nines in a custom navy-blue suit and tie like he came
straight from the office, he steps inside, head cocked as he assesses me. “It’s
about time that incompetent police department found you.”
This may seem like an odd way to greet your son who’s been missing for
the better part of a year, but I’m not surprised in the least. It’s his way of
saying I’m grateful you’re finally home. I’m grateful you’re okay. I’m more
surprised that he showed up at all rather than waiting until I was transferred
to Mass General.
Commanding the room, Victor Abbott walks in, stopping at the foot of my
bed. He makes no move to hug me, but when Becca steps aside, he rounds
the bed and holds out his hand for me to shake.
When I place my hand in his, the strangest thing happens. His eyes well up
with tears and relief, gripping my hand so tight. Blinking away the sheen, he
clears his throat and steps back. “I need to get back to the office, but I wanted
to see for myself that they found my son.”
He doesn’t have to go back. There’s no way the man drove two hours to
see if they found me, only to turn around. But the only time I’ve seen my
father cry was the day we buried my mom. He didn’t shed a single tear after
that, not even when we lost Holden. At least not around me. He hates
showing weakness, and his tears are weakness.
“Of course.” I lift a meager smile.
Heading for the exit, my dad turns and glances at me over his shoulder.
“When you’re healed up, come find me at the office. We’ll talk about easing
you back in.”
“Yes, sir.”
With a hesitant nod, he walks out.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Becca mumbles.
“Becs.”
“What?” Her arms fly in the air. “You’re lying in a hospital bed, clinging
to life in a fragile body I hardly recognize, and he can’t stay for more than a
minute? Then talks about you going back to work. Not even a ‘Hi, son.’ Or
God forbid an ‘I love you.’ You’ve only gone through hell—”
“Becca.” I run a hand down my face, over my wiry beard. “Let’s not do
this right now. I don’t have the energy.”
She takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“So, that was your dad, huh?” Maeve’s raspy voice breaks the tension.
With a low chuckle, I say, “Yeah. Is he what you expected?”
The edge of her mouth turns up. “Almost exactly.”

Emotions settled, Ashton and Becca pull up two chairs between our beds,
Becca’s hand resting on my blanket-covered leg. No introductions are made,
but they exchange mutual uneasy, yet polite smiles.
“We should probably rest, but I have so many questions.” I pat Becca’s
hand.
“The two of you were supposed to be dead.” Though they’ve been
pumping us with nutrients, Maeve still barely has the strength to lift her head
from the pillow.
“Us?” Ashton and Becca exchange glances with equal expressions of
confusion before he says, “What about you, love?”
“We saw images,” I say, focused on my wife. “A voice clip of him hurting
you. It was as real as we are now.”
Becca winces, and she nods, as does Ashton. “He—” She pauses,
gathering herself and I squeeze her hand, encouraging her. “He attacked me
that night, kept his face covered with a blue skull mask. I was waiting for you
to come home, had a few takeout menus ready for us to choose from. When
the doorbell rang, I didn’t think anything of it, but as soon as I opened the
door, he shoved his way inside. He hurt me with a bat and tied me to a chair.”
She clears her throat of tears, rubbing the curve of her shoulder as her eyes
brim.
“It’s okay, Becs. You don’t have to continue.”
She offers a watery smile. “I’m okay, I’m okay. After he finally left me for
dead…I eventually found the strength to crawl to my phone and called 9-1-
1.”
“Hell, Becs.” I place my other hand over hers.
“And what about you?” Maeve asks her husband.
“Yeah, I was attacked, too, but not like that. You don’t remember?”
Maeve shakes her head.
“It feels like a lifetime ago.” Ashton reaches for her hand, and the most
unexpected thing happens to me. I flinch. “He bashed me over the head
before I even saw him coming, when I came to and you were gone, I’ve never
been so terrified in my life. I spent a few days in the hospital. When the
police searched the house, they decided he came through the back door.
Before we sat down to dinner, I’d come in from shutting off the sprinklers,
and I didn’t think to lock it.”
“Why would you have?” she asks, and I get it. How often do people leave
doors unlocked? Feeling safe in their own homes?
“Maybe if I’d been more diligent.”
“Ashton, no. Don’t go there.” Maeve’s voice cracks, her lack of energy
evident. “It wouldn’t have mattered. Locked door or not, he wanted Ledger
and me. One way or another, he’d have gotten to us.”
 “Why? Why you two?” Becca asks.
“We still don’t know.” Maeve takes a deep breath. “All he said was that
we had the blood of innocent people on our hands, but neither of us can piece
together what he was talking about.”
“He thinks you killed someone?” Ashton’s forehead creases as he leans
forward. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
Shaking her head, Becca meets my gaze. “I just don’t understand why he’d
pick two innocent, random people.”
I rub my hand along hers over my thigh. This has to be as
discombobulating for her as it is for me. “I wish we had answers. He was
determined not to tell us. It was his own little form of entertainment. The
longer we couldn’t figure it out, the more he got off on it.”
Ashton shifts, his feet shuffling on the floor. “Did you two…did you two
know each other before this?”
“Me and Ledger?” Maeve glances at me, and there it is again. A spasm in
my heart. “Are you implying…?”
“No, no, of course not.” Ashton’s eyes dart to me before he scoots to the
edge of his seat and grips her hand in both of his. “I just wondered if there
was something the cops couldn’t connect. There was nothing in your cell
phone records or anything like that.”
“Because there wouldn’t have been,” I say.
Ashton doesn’t look at me like he wasn’t implying I was having an affair
with his wife, but he must see this isn’t the time or place to accuse Maeve of
cheating.
I take a deep breath. “We spent a lot of our time trying to find a connection
and came up empty.”
Maeve’s head rolls to the side, sapphire eyes finding me, searching for
something. Comfort? That’s what we’ve been to each other for so long,
nothing else alleviates the lurking trauma except for feeling Maeve beside
me, knowing we’re still together. We’re here for each other.
She breaks our eye contact and draws her attention to Ashton. “How did
they link our cases?”
“They didn’t. I wasn’t told until they called that you were with another
person.” Ashton turns to me. “Your face has been all over the news. Son of
Victor Abbott missing. It’s made national headlines.”
Me? My forehead pinches. What makes my disappearance so special?
“What about Maeve?”
 She chuckles, but it turns into a cough before she catches her breath. “I’m
not an Abbott.”
Like Ashton can’t stand being so far from Maeve, he scoots her over and
slides in beside his wife, folding her into his arms. Blocking her from my
view.
As Maeve hugs her husband, I should feel nothing but happiness for her.
This is a moment we never imagined we’d have again. Instead, I want to pull
him off her and be the arms holding her. I’ve been the one to get her through
this hell. She’s been the vital pulse in my veins. Not his. This paralyzing,
compounding convulsion seizes my chest without her in sight. I can’t process
anything. My brain is still trying to grasp that we’re free. But now I have to
process that my wife is alive and so is Maeve’s husband.
And I’m in love with her.
Hell. I am.
It wasn’t a lie when I confessed my feelings to Maeve. In the time that I
thought I lost my wife, I fell in love with another woman. Never in my life
did I think it was possible to be in love with two women at once, and yet I’m
living proof.
And I…I told the puppeteer things I can never take back. Things Becca
can never find out about.
But do those eight months held against our will trump the year and a half I
had with my wife?
There’s a soft tapping on the door, breaking me from my thoughts. Two
women slip inside, one at a time. The first with shoulder-length blonde hair
and brown eyes darts across the room, snatching Maeve from her husband’s
arms. The other slowly closes the door, one hand clutching her neck with
tears streaming down her face. Her glistening green eyes are obscured behind
shaggy brunette bangs. But even without the same intensely blue eyes and
light shade of hair as Maeve, seeing the three of them in one room, they
couldn’t be anything other than sisters.
From what Maeve told me about them, Eden must be the one hugging her,
while Elva waits her turn. Maeve holds tight to her petite sister until she spots
Elva hanging back. With one arm still holding tight, she opens the other, and
her older sister takes two strides before enveloping them both.
Ashton sits at the foot of the bed, watching his wife hug her sisters. He
rubs his face, clearing his leaking emotion. When he feels my stare, his gaze
turns to me. It’s hard to describe what transpires in that one look. Maybe he
doesn’t understand it either. There’s no accusation or jealousy, no possession
or resentment, but he’s taking me in. Every last inch. And maybe if it’d been
Becca held captive with another married man, I’d do my fair share of
analyzing. Who he is, what they mean to each other. What they went through
together, how he treated her in that time. An endless string of questions. I
can’t blame him.
With a short nod, he’s drawn back to his family, shifting to sit in his chair.
“Ledger.” Becca pats my leg. There’s an edge of concern in her voice, like
she’s been trying to get my attention for a while. “There you are. I was
starting to worry.”
“Sorry. I’m a bit out of it.”
“It’s all right. You’re allowed to be.” Her tentative hand runs up and down
my thigh. “Can I get you anything? Do you need any pain medication? More
water?”
“I’m okay.” I just want sleep. Good sleep. Not on a concrete floor. Or
freezing my tail off. Not sleep because I’ve hardly eaten and my body has no
energy to function. I want to sleep in a quiet room, on a soft mattress, with a
full stomach. Snuggled close to…
I shut my eyes to drown out my train of thought.
To Becca. To Becca.
To my wife. She’s alive. My wife is alive, and when I leave this place, I’ll
be able to sleep next to her night after night.
“Ledger?”
My eyes fly open at the unfamiliar voice. The shorter Campbell sister
hovers at the foot of my bed.
“It is Ledger, right?”
I scoot back to sit up and nod. “You must be Eden.”
A shaky smile curves a mouth similar to Maeve’s as tears clog her voice.
“I am.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.”
She chokes on a euphoric laugh and clutches her chest. “I just…” Swiftly,
she shifts around the other side of my bed, her hand trailing the rail.
“Can I…?” Her slender arms open and extend. A hug. I don’t object, and
without hesitation, she slips her arms around me. “I’m so grateful for you.
You helped keep my big sister alive. We can’t thank you enough.”
I shake my head, and she pulls away. “Please. Don’t thank me.” We
survived because he let us, not because I had any leverage or power. I
couldn’t shield her from everything. If anything, I should’ve done more. “As
much as I tried to protect her, Maeve isn’t alive because of me. She’s alive
because of herself.”
A firm knock on the door interrupts us, and the doctor who’s been tending
to us walks in.
“I’m sorry to disturb this reunion. Is it all right if I come in?”
Maeve’s sisters wave him inside, and he goes over a couple general
questions before saying, “We’re going to be doing more in-depth exams
soon, and with the amount of people I’m sure will be coming to see you both,
we think it’s best if you have separate rooms. So, we’ll be moving Maeve a
few doors down the hall.”
A couple nurses come in as they move tubes and disconnect IVs and vital
machines, getting Maeve and her bed ready for transport.
Wait. No. Sweat coats my palms, hands shaking. My heart pounds harder,
faster the further along they get detaching her from the medical devices.
Glancing over, my gaze locks with Maeve. Frantic. It’s the only word to
interpret the widening of her eyes and the tension of her mouth.
The doctor was there for Maeve’s initial freak out when they tried
separating us as we arrived. I’m not sure why they think this is a wise
decision now. Maybe because our families have arrived and her parents are
still on their way, they assume that’s good enough, that they’ll give her the
comfort she needs.
Does no one understand why this might be triggering for us both? But we
don’t say a word. It happens so fast. One minute Maeve’s bed is lined up with
mine, the next they’re lifting her railings and making a path.
The panic in Maeve’s eyes as she mouths my name almost hurls me across
the room as they wheel her out, but we’re safe now. She’s safe. She has
Ashton.
And I have Becca.
It’s going to be okay.
She’s going to be okay.

I’m not okay.

 THIRTY
ONE

maeve

Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
From one incessant sound to another. Without Ledger, this hospital room
is just another prison. Trapped by IVs and monitors and officers outside my
door.
Ashton lies, black-rimmed glasses crooked on his nose, snoring in a
recliner in the corner of the pale-walled room, and I envy him. Nurses have
been coming in every couple of hours to check on me, and I haven’t slept a
wink. Even with a soft mattress beneath me, fluids nourishing my body, my
racing heart and mind won’t allow me to relax.
If I could get out of this bed without needing to unhook myself and alert
the hospital staff, I’d have left hours ago to check on Ledger. Though I doubt
Becca would appreciate it, I just need to see him. How is his night? Can he
sleep? Does his chest feel like it’s caving in? Is he struggling with our
separation as much as I am?
I shouldn’t be. We’re safe. Ashton is here. Less than five feet away, my
husband is alive. This should bring me the most comfort of all. But it doesn’t.
Why doesn’t this bring me comfort? It doesn’t even feel real, like this is all a
dream, and I’m going to wake up in that concrete room. What’s wrong with
me?
What if the puppeteer finds us? He’s smart, too smart. What if he gets past
security? Or what if he’s one of them? What if he got to Ledger already?
What if he’s on his way to me?
I can’t breathe. A sob rips from my lungs, and I clutch my heart, the other
hand catching my outburst.
“Maeve?” In less than a second, Ashton is at my side. “What’s wrong? Are
you okay?”
“No,” I cry. “My chest. It hurts. I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“I’ll get the nurse.”
“No! Don’t! Don’t leave me.” I’ve already lost Ledger. Ashton can’t leave
my side, too. Even if he’s not the one who can help, who understands why
my head is the way it is, why my heart grew talons and shreds through my
chest. But I can’t very well beg the doctors to put me back in the same room
with Ledger. How would that make Ashton feel? Or Becca? I have to learn to
live without Ledger eventually, and that has to start now.
I wipe sweat from my brow, tears flooding my face. I can’t stop trembling.
Am I going to puke? I think I need to puke.
The machines blast, probably my oxygen levels going haywire, and the
night shift nurse bursts in. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” Ashton squeezes my hand. “She said she thinks she’s
having a heart attack.”
“I can’t breathe,” I sob. “And my chest. It hurts so bad.”
“Maeve, honey. I think you’re having a panic attack.” I can’t remember
her name, but she takes my other hand and leans close. “I need you to breathe
with me, okay? Close your eyes and breathe deep. This is temporary. It’ll
end. Just breathe.”
She coaches me. In. And out. But I can’t. I need Ledger. His chest to my
back, his calm voice in my ear, his soft soothing humming. I don’t care how
irrational and unhealthy it may seem. I need him more than I need another
breath.
“C’mon, love.” Ashton’s thumb strokes the top of my hand. “It’s going to
be okay. Breathe with Ashley.”
Ashley. Is that her name?
 “You’ve got this, honey. Another deep breath.”
I try, but my heart throbs.
Tapping the door, another nurse walks in, and the one holding my hand
says over her shoulder, “I need Dr. Jackson. I think we’re going to need
something for her anxiety.”
I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t.
I can’t.

“Maeve, love. Breakfast is here.”

I wince, blinking as the hospital tray squeaks across the floor, sliding over
my lap. The mattress dips as Ashton sits beside my hip. Still foggy, my eyes
close against the morning light.
“Can’t breakfast wait?” I feel like I’ve been hit by a Mack Truck. What in
the hell did they give me last night?
“It’s actually almost noon. You can go back to sleep after we get some
food in your body. Dr. Jackson said they needed to start you off slow, so you
have some plain oatmeal.”
I hate oatmeal, but it’s not a frozen dinner, so my stomach cheers. I take a
bite and then a sip from my hospital jug. Water and oatmeal. Delicious
combo, but at least my stomach doesn’t hate me for once.
“What did you eat?” I ask.
Ashton tucks a wispy strand of hair behind my ear, and I almost flinch. “I
went to the cafeteria a couple hours ago and got some french toast and eggs.”
“What I wouldn’t give for a syrup-soaked plate of french toast.”
“Easy there, turbo. One step at a time. They said your body wouldn’t react
well to most foods right now, so we have to take it easy. Build you back up
with small meals before diving into the good stuff.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “So no cheeseburgers and fries, is what you’re
telling me.”
He cracks a smile and nudges my cheek with his nose. “Not quite. Let’s
give it a few weeks.”
After transferring to my new room last night, Ashton helped me shower. I
didn’t want him to. I asked that nurse Ashley to be the one, but Ashton
insisted, and I didn’t know how to tell my husband no. After he saw my
naked emaciated body, I think he regretted his decision. The whole time he
scrubbed me down and washed my hair, he cried, kissing my cheeks, and all I
could think about was how I didn’t need to cover myself anymore, but I
wanted to more than ever. I almost asked Ashton to leave so I could do it
myself, but I didn’t trust my body to stand without falling in the slick shower.
He hasn’t looked at me the same since. Will he ever be able to look at me the
way he used to?
“Listen.” The guarded tone of Ashton’s voice sets me on edge. “Detective
Whitly called earlier, and he’s on his way here. I told him you might not be
up for talking, and he said that’s fine. He just wants to check up on you.”
The thought of detailing anything to him right now sends my heart into a
tailspin all over again.
“Hey, hey.” Ashton grabs my shaking hand, pulling the spoon away. He
presses my palm to his mouth and kisses. “Like I said, if you’re not up for
talking, that’s fine. You don’t have to yet. But you will eventually, and I’ll be
right here.”
Eventually. I don’t want to at all, but eventually only heightens the
throbbing in my chest. I’d rather get it over with and be done.

When Ashton said Detective Whitly was on his way, what he meant to say
was, he’d be here any minute. I barely finished my oatmeal when there’s a
light knock on the door. He sits in a chair at the side of my bed with Ashton
seated on the mattress on the other side, holding my hand. I expect to use him
as a support, but Ashton squeezes my hand tighter and more often than I do
as I describe our living conditions and only a handful of what the puppeteer
put us through. Every few minutes his lips meet the top of my head, a quiver
in his touch.
After going through a Reader’s Digest version with Detective Whitly,
which exerts more of my mental and emotional capacity than I was prepared
for, Ashton steps out to grab himself some lunch, leaving me with the
detective. Really, I think Ashton left because he couldn’t bear to hear another
word. I doubt he’ll eat a bite.
When the hospital door closes, Detective Whitly says, “I’m sure the
hospital will give recommendations for counselors, but we have great
resources for this kind of trauma as well, so don’t hesitate to reach out. I
highly encourage you to talk with someone. Maybe have Ashton, as well. I’m
not a doctor, but the kind of ordeal you went through will take some time to
heal from, and even longer without working through it with a professional.”
He stands, dusting invisible lint off his pants. “Just be sure to give it some
thought before you veto the idea.”
“Thank you, Detective. And can I ask… Have you spoken with Ledger?”
His eyes soften. “I just visited with him, yes.”
“Can you tell me.” Heart thumping wildly, I blink away tears. “Is he doing
all right?”
As he buttons his suit coat at the foot of my bed, he blows a breath through
his nose. “Suffice to say, Mrs. Campbell, he’s doing about as well as you are.
Just focus on yourself for now. That’s the best you can do for you. We’ll be
in touch.”
 THIRTY
TWO

maeve
Three Months Later

“I quit.” I pull onto the onramp, heading home.

Eden pauses before asking, “You didn’t actually quit, did you?”
“No, but I should.”
“Is it really that bad?”
“No, it’s worse.”
“I’m sorry, Eve. Maybe you went back too soon.”
It’s been so long since I’ve heard her call me the name she first used when
she was too little to pronounce my full name, tears prick the back of my eyes.
“Too soon?” I waited three months before returning to my patients. Three
months or three years. It wouldn’t make a difference.
“My face has been all over the news and internet since before we were
found, Eden. I’m a spectacle. Every doctor, every patient, spouse, nurse, they
all look at me like I’m the saddest, loneliest puppy in a pet store. I can’t walk
down a hallway or enter a room without someone recognizing me and a look
of pity or curiosity crossing their face.”
 Sure, my coworkers try to act normal. They try to carry on ordinary
conversations with me, but their eyes always glaze over with what’s truly
going on inside their heads. I thought I could go back to work as usual, that
my life could be normal with enough time passing.
I was wrong.
“You want to know what someone asked me today?”
“Do I want to ask?”
I raise the pitch of my voice to match the stranger. “But, like…was the
captor at least attractive?”
“They did not. Who?”
“It was someone who accompanied a patient to an appointment.”
“I hate people.”
“People are the worst.”
“The wooooorst.”
I used to love my job. It brought me the most fulfillment. Life. I brought
life into this world for a living. Everything’s tainted now.
“I just want to move to some remote cabin in the woods and never speak to
another human being ever again.” My hands grip the steering wheel. “Aside
from you and Elva, of course. And Ashton. Okay, and Mom and Dad.”
And Ledger.
I haven’t seen Ledger since they moved me to a private room at the
hospital. Never even got a chance to say goodbye. His family had him
transferred to Mass General within a day. I spent over half a year with the
man, and we were torn apart like the strangers we began as.
Dr. Jorgensen said it was for my benefit, to keep us from returning to a
traumatic state, but I return there without the help of his presence. If
anything, most days are worse without him.
Ninety-seven days since we were found, and I still wake up screaming,
searching for Ledger beside me. But he’s never there.
While I haven’t seen him, Ledger left a voicemail at the hospital on my
line a few days ago. When I heard his voice, I was grateful to be alone
because I broke down. Full-on snot and mammoth tears with my hand
clamped over my mouth to silence my cries.
As soon as that patient and her insensitive sister left today, I rushed to my
office and listened to the saved message on repeat. I’ve listened to it so many
times, I know his words by heart.
Maeve. It’s me. Ledger. Hi. I’ve debated contacting you since leaving the
hospital, but I kept talking myself out of it. Maybe I shouldn’t be calling, I
know I shouldn’t, but I needed to hear your voice, to hear you’re okay. You
were in my dream last night and I… I just miss you, Goldie. All right. Bye.
He didn’t leave a number, but I found one for Abbott Industries online. It
took me until this afternoon to gain the courage to call his office, and I
wound up leaving a voicemail for him, too. I recited what I’d say if I had to
leave a message so many times, but still ended up butchering it.
Hey Ledger. It’s Maeve. I wanted to let you know I’m…surviving. It’s
strange and hard and bittersweet and everything in between. I’m sure you
understand. Life just doesn’t make sense anymore. Not without… I wanted to
say not without you, but that felt inappropriate, so I ended the call with, I…
miss you, too.
We probably shouldn’t make contact a regular thing. Talking with him
would only blur the lines more. Dr. Jorgensen’s recommendations aside,
returning to life without Ledger has been hard enough. If we stay in touch, I
don’t know that I trust my self-control, that I trust myself to keep proper
boundaries.
What even are the proper boundaries for the man I fell in love with when I
thought my husband was dead? Yes, I made vows, but it doesn’t change the
fact that I lost Ashton and another man filled cracks only he could.
No, stop it.
I might not be a psychiatrist, but it doesn’t take a genius to understand
what happened between Ledger and me. I’m experiencing transference or
something. At least, that’s what Dr. Jorgensen believes. The puppeteer said
Ashton was dead, and Ledger was there, picking up the pieces. I depended on
him, admired him. We protected each other. Of course, feelings grew for him,
but they derived from our horrible circumstances. I’m not in love with Ledger
Abbott.
I’m not.
But it’s more than that, isn’t it? It was his loyalty to his wife in the
beginning. Over and over he chose the punishment of the puppeteer—not
knowing what it would be—to remain true, to protect me, respect me. When I
wanted to give up, he was there to breathe life back into me. He kept me
laughing and smiling when nothing was deemed worthy of either. We cared
for each other, nursed one another back to health numerous times. If I didn’t
gain deep feelings for him, I’d have to be dead.
This is wrong. It’s twisted and confusing and complicated. We were in that
cement room for over eight months, enduring cruel mind games and abuse
over and over again.
But to love a married man, while I’m in a marriage of my own. It has to
end. I have to sever the heartstrings tied to Ledger.
Crackle.
I swerve into the other lane, and an oncoming car blares their horn. “Holy
shi—” Swerving back in my lane, I narrowly miss a head on collision. My
nails dig into my palms around the steering wheel as two radio hosts
introduce a retro trivia game. Not the puppeteer. I’m not in the bunker
anymore.
Stupid freaking radio station sound effects. I yank the knob, shutting it off.
“You good over there?”
Attempting to breathe through an almost panic attack, I say, “Yes. Sorry.
There was a damn blown out tire in the road.”
“I lost you for a bit, thought maybe we were disconnected.”
No, I’m just over here daydreaming about a man that isn’t my husband.
“What are you going to do, Eve?”
What am I going to do? Oh. Right. “I don’t know. Keep going to work.
Move to a foreign country. Both are viable options.”
“I’d hate it, but I’d understand if you and Ashton needed to move
somewhere else, to start fresh where your face isn’t as recognizable. I can’t
imagine what day-to-day life is like for you now.”
Our story hit national news within days. Nowhere is safe, but if we moved
out of state, at least I wouldn’t be Massachusetts famous.
“Yeah, maybe.”
The puppeteer is still out there. Ninety-seven days and he’s still free.
Moving hasn’t actually been a serious consideration, but with him on the
loose, maybe it should be. I’ll talk to Ashton when I get home. He’d move.
He’d do it for me. But could I really ask that of him? His whole family is
here, same as mine. It would be a huge change, uprooting our lives.
Ever since I returned home, he’s done nothing but try to be sensitive and
accommodating, but he’s becoming quieter and quieter. We haven’t even
been with each other yet. For the first month it was because of how sick and
weak my body was, plus the intense therapy, but now I think intimacy is just
something we avoid. We don’t talk about sex. We just don’t have it.
But that’s Ashton. He’s good at avoiding conflict. Always has been a non-
contentious person.
 It’s the puppeteer’s prediction coming true. Not even my husband wants
me after what I went through. Does he believe the scars have ruined my
body? I lost so much hair, but it’s slowly coming back, and it helps that I
chopped most of it off. Maybe he hates my new hair. I’m close to the weight
I was before all of this, but I still don’t have the curves I used to. Maybe
Ashton struggles with looking at a woman who isn’t the one he first fell in
love with.

Savory hints of turmeric and garlic waft through the entrance of our garage
door as I walk inside the house. Ashton’s making tikka masala, my favorite.
His towering six-foot-four figure stands at the stove with his back to me, a
black apron wrapped around his waist. It’s the most natural, comforting sight
to come home to.
“Smells divine in here.” I plop my purse on the edge of the counter and
make my way to Ashton, who glances over his shoulder.
He offers a smile, but it’s nothing like his old, inviting smiles. These are
over the top and strained. They haven’t been the same since I returned, like
he’s trying to conceal pity or has to force happiness. Which, in my shoes, I
understand. Everything is different. Each day we try to find our footing, to
return to the groove we once had, but it’s challenging.
Someone knocks on the door, I startle. Ashton drops a pot in the sink, I
hyperventilate. I can’t even breathe in the dark. Ashton installed nightlights
all around the house, but they aren’t enough. He doesn’t know it, but I hardly
sleep when he does. I’ve tried, but every time I close my eyes, concrete
closes in on me, the puppeteer’s satiric laugh boomeranging inside my mind.
The crackle. That damn drip and flickering bulb return, and all that’s left of
my sanity is the strand connected to Ledger.
As soon as I left the hospital, Ashton had an elaborate security system
installed, like that will stop the puppeteer. Within two months, I got a license
for a handgun because at least it’s something I can use to kill him with. I
bring it everywhere I go and keep it in my nightstand while I sleep.
I don’t sleep. Every creak, every whistle of the wind or scratching of a
branch on the windows spiral me into heart-pounding paranoia. I’ve created
mantras to calm myself, but they only work fifty percent of the time. My
therapist says it’s going to take time, that I might never fully heal, but to keep
trying.
I try. I try every damn day.
When Ashton bends, his hand occupied with cooking, I rise on my tiptoes
to meet his lips. It’s a delicate kiss. The same he’s given me every time—so
cautious, so tame, like kissing me with too much passion will turn me into a
shriveled mess. I appreciate his consideration, I do. I just miss us. I miss our
old life.
But I’m alive, and so is he. That’s what’s most important. I had a home to
return to. I made my way back to him. A little bit more than broken, but I’m
here.
“I thought you were going to call me when you were on your way home?”
“Sorry. Eden called, so I didn’t think about it.”
“You promised, Maeve.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll be back to our regularly scheduled phone calls
tomorrow.”
Returning to work last week was a whole new level of paranoia. Ashton
made me promise to check in throughout the day and let him know when I’m
on my way home. He even followed me there and home for the first three
days. While that was considerate, it was a constant reminder that I’m not safe
until the puppeteer is found. This isn’t something I forget. It doesn’t need to
be ingrained in me every second of the day.
Our plates and silverware are set at the bar of the kitchen island as they’ve
been every time we eat dinner. All of my vitamins to help rebuild my
nutrients line up above my plate.
“Why don’t we sit at the table this time?” I smile. “Then I can look at you
while we eat and not teeter on our barstools.”
“I stopped eating at the kitchen table after you—” Ashton’s eyes dart back
to the stove while he stirs in some shrimp. He can’t say it, and I don’t make
him. “I’m just used to sitting there, but if you want…”
“I think the counter is perfect.” I slip onto the barstool without further
argument. “Then there’s only one surface we need to clean.”
After he dishes out the rice and shrimp tikka masala, Ashton lowers beside
me and clinks his glass of wine with mine. I could down the whole bottle
tonight, but I’ll settle for a glass.
When we’ve finished the small talk of how our days have gone, skipping
over the stranger’s comment, I bite the bullet. “What if we moved?”
“Moved? Moved where?” He takes another bite.
“Away.” I shrug, pushing around the grains of rice on my plate. “To
another state, somewhere new where fewer people would recognize me.” And
it might be safer, too. Until the puppeteer is found, I won’t feel peace.
Ashton stops eating, his fork suspended. “You’re serious. What about
Eden and Elva? They’d be crushed.”
“I already talked to Eden. She said she’d understand.”
“Wait. You talked to your sister before talking to me?”
“It wasn’t like that. I was complaining about what someone in the office
said today and joked about wanting to live in a cabin in the woods. And she
agreed it wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
“What was said to you today?”
“Nothing worth repeating.”
“Did you tell any of your superiors about it?”
“It wasn’t a colleague. It wasn’t even a patient. It was the sister of a patient
who came in. It’s fine, Ash.”
“Did you talk to Elva about moving?”
I shake my head. “It was just a phone call with Eden on my way home. I
haven’t talked to anyone seriously but you. If you’re really this opposed to
the idea, forget I said anything.”
Stabbing another bite, Ashton doesn’t say a word. This is what he does.
I’m a very vocal thinker. I need visuals. I need opinions and to hear my
thoughts out loud. Ashton takes it all in, logically assessing his feelings
before speaking. I’ve grown so used to it over the years, it never used to be a
problem.
My plate is clear and I stand as Ashton shifts, running his fingers inside
the collar of his shirt. “A fresh start.” A slow nod follows. “Moving wouldn’t
be easy, but since I work remotely, if you wanted to search for a position
somewhere else, we could make it work. I’d make it work, Maeve.”
“I’m not saying I need an answer now. I just wanted to put the idea out
there.”
“So we put it on the table.” Ashton stands with his empty plate. “Send out
some feelers, do some job searches, and see if anything feels right. Then we
can come back to it and discuss moving some more.”
 THIRTY
THREE

maeve

“Ashton, dear. Will you spread butter on the french loaf to get the garlic
bread started?”
“Sure thing.” Ashton scoots in beside my mom at her kitchen island.
Sitting on the other side, I chop cucumbers and tomatoes for the salad for
our Sunday dinner. We’ve been getting together every couple of weeks as a
family for dinner. More than we ever did before, but it’s nice. Even if making
dinner for all of us stresses Mom out, she refuses to let us take over or skip a
week to give her a break. Eden said they started getting together more often
after I disappeared, and now that I’m back, there’s no way Mom would give
up this time together.
“The fun has arrived!” Eden slides into the kitchen with her arms raised, a
bottle of wine for Mom in one hand, a case of beer for Dad in the other. The
perks of bartending, unlimited access to alcohol.
“Where’s Elva?” Mom’s stare moves beyond Eden’s shoulder.
“How should I know?” Eden kisses my cheek as she sets down the
alcohol. “I just got here.”
“I thought you were driving together.”
 “She bailed on me last minute, said she had some errands to run before she
could come.”
Mom pauses her stirring of the sauce and glances over her shoulder, her
face gently lined with age. “She didn’t mention anything to me.”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Ma, but we don’t tell you every detail
of our lives.”
“Well, if she’s going to be late, the least she can do is let me know so we
don’t let dinner get cold waiting for her.”
Eden bends and whispers in my ear. “You missed this, didn’t you?”
I chuckle. I did, actually. It really is the most bizarre things you miss when
you think you’ll never have them again. And Mom’s nagging and expectation
of punctuality, while annoying, are some of the things that make her who she
is. And I missed everything about her.
“Eden, how about you set the table? Elva will just have to eat cold
spaghetti.”
“Why will I have to eat cold spaghetti?”
“Oh, Elva. Good. You’re finally here.” She points to the cabinets with
plates. “Help Eden.”
Fluffing her bangs, Elva drops her purse on the edge of the counter.
“Mom, I’m like ten minutes late.”
“But you didn’t call or text me. How was I supposed to know when you’d
finally show?” Mom turns to strain the pasta in the sink.
Elva rolls her eyes behind Mom’s back and gives Eden a side hug before
rubbing my shoulder. “Hey, sis.”
I lean into her. “Glad you made it.”
“Of course. Just…had some stuff.” Glancing around the kitchen, her gaze
lands on my husband, then back to me. “What can I do to help?”

As we gather around the dining table, ready to eat, Elva smiles at me as

she scoots in across from Ashton. Well, sort of smiles. It’s off somehow.
Stressed about something at work, I’m sure. She’s a foster care case worker,
and it takes a special kind of human to do that job well. Elva is that person.
Before Dad takes his seat at the head of the table, he kisses my forehead
and whispers, “My Maevey.”
It’s taken a while, but life with my family is returning to normal. There
aren’t as many stares, or crying at the sight of me. Mom was the worst
offender in the first couple months. I swear I’d walk in the house and before
she even saw me, she’d start crying as if feeling my presence. We don’t
mention my time with the puppeteer. Wanting to forget it happened, it’s on
an invisible list of off-limit topics, which is fine by me. I talk about him
enough with Dr. Jorgensen.
While my parents drill Eden about her life choices and getting a real job,
Ashton eats like this is his last meal, and Elva picks at her food but doesn’t
contribute anything to the conversation. I try defending Eden, but I also don’t
want to be on the receiving end of my mom’s concerned lectures. I’ve had
more than enough in my life. She means well, but the woman is as subtle as a
stick of dynamite.
Looking around the dining table, it’s hard not letting my mind wander.
Have Ledger and his dad mended their relationship? Do they do dinners like
this? Has he gone back to work, too? Is he adjusting?
Is he okay? Surviving?
Does he have days where a noose constricts like a boa around his neck or a
tank of water fills his lungs, pulling him under? Is he ever in a room full of
people but never felt more alone?
“Eve.” Eden’s voice breaks me from my trance. “Have you and Ashton
talked more about moving?”
My attention darts up.
Mom’s fork clatters on her plate. “Moving.”
“Moving?” Elva finally opens her mouth.
Glaring at Eden, I say, “Nothing has been decided yet. I just mentioned a
change of scenery to Ashton. It might be good for us.”
“A change of scenery where?”
“We don’t know, Mom. We only started talking about it a few days ago. It
might not even happen.”
“Where would you go?”
Anywhere but here. “I’m not sure. Out of state, if anything comes of it.”
Tears brim her eyes. “We just got you back and you want to leave us?”
My stare lobs daggers at Eden across the table, and she sinks down,
realizing her mistake. Guilt trips are Mom’s forte.
“Jocelyn.” Dad uses her name as a quiet reprimand.
Ashton clearing his throat surprises me. “Whatever Maeve and I decide,
we won’t make the decision lightly, but mostly we’d appreciate it if we’re
met with support no matter where our future takes us.”
“Of course.” Mom swats away stray tears. “Of course we would. This is
just a lot to process. Why would you want to leave?”
I have to bite my tongue, and Ashton’s hand settles on my thigh. Of all the
good qualities my mother possesses, empathy isn’t her strongest.
“The scrutiny hasn’t been easy.”
Wiping her mouth with a napkin, Elva scoots back. “I’m sorry, but I need
to head out.”
“Wait a minute. You were late, and now you’re leaving early?” Mom’s
already solemn face falls. “We haven’t even had dessert yet.”
“I have a lot to do before tomorrow. I was lucky to make it at all.”
“This isn’t the first time, El. You’ve been spending less and less time here
for weeks. What could possibly be more important than spending time with
family?”
Elva rounds the table, giving Dad a shoulder squeeze. “Nothing is more
important, just…more pressing, okay? I really need to go.”
Standing for a hug as she passes by, I whisper in her ear. “Is everything all
right?”
“Yeah, it’s great. Fine. And I took the heat off of you. Don’t squander it.”
Elva brushes her lips against my cheek. “Enjoy Mom’s cheesecake for me.”
After the front door opens and closes, Mom has moved on from me. “What
is going on with her?”

I’m leaving the hospital the next day when my phone rings with a number
I don’t recognize. I almost decline the call, but I’m in the mood to chew
someone out. Bring it, media.
“This is Maeve.”
“Maeve Campbell? I’m Rain Kennedy. Journalist for the New York
Tribune.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I get more unwanted reporters trying to get inside
information than the number of unplanned pregnancies at the hospital. I’m
not interested in sharing my story, so kindly or not so kindly piss of—”
“Wait, wait. Please. That’s not why I’m calling.”
I pause with my finger on the red end-call button.
“I’m a criminal investigative journalist. I want to help find the person
responsible for your kidnapping and captivity.”
 “Isn’t that what the detectives are for? The police are already working
around the clock.”
“Are they? I’ve been following your story for months. It seems to me you
were missing for almost a year, and they weren’t close to finding you until an
anonymous tip was called in. And now we’re three months past your rescue,
and there aren’t any more leads than when they began.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, contemplating. “And how can you help us?”
“I have a different way of following the evidence, and I’m not restricted
by warrants and protocols. I abide by the same laws, but there’s no red tape
for me. Bending the rules is easier.”
When I don’t respond right away, she says, “Look. I’m not a stranger to
trauma. I’m not trying to exploit you or sell your story. I just want to catch
the SOB that did this to you and Ledger Abbott. You control what parts of
the story I tell. If I cross a line, you have the power to shut it down. I’ll
respect whatever boundaries you put in place.”
Months of therapy, and I still feel no closer to healing, to being able to
move forward. I’m not sure I could handle a reporter digging around,
dredging up everything I’ve already told the police.
“If I push too far, you tell me when to back off. All I want to do is to help,
Maeve. The person responsible for what you went through should not be
walking the streets a free man. Let me help you put him behind bars.”
“What cases have you written about?”
“Have you heard of the Railway Stalker or the Crow Killer?”
I can’t say that reading or watching the news has been a top priority over
the years, but those names are vaguely familiar.
“Look them up, if that’d make you more comfortable. Serial Killers are
my specialty, but I’m making an exception. Your case is compelling and I
want him found.”
Before I even know what I’m going to say, I hear the words coming out of
my mouth. “Fine. I’ll talk with you.”
“That’s great. Do you mind if I ask you some questions to get started? Or I
can email them to you if you’d rather answer them at your leisure. I imagine
getting back into the swing of things is difficult.”
“No, I’ve spent the eight months trapped in a ten-by-ten concrete cell, only
communicating with my captor through a metal box. Forgive me for not
wanting to open up to a stranger over the phone or through an email.”
“You’re right. I understand.” Her end of the line is silent before she says,
“How about we meet in public. This Saturday around ten o’clock? On the
corner of Beacon and Oak Street there’s a coffee shop I found this morning.
Pressed. Have you heard of it?”
“You’re already in Newton? You didn’t even know if I’d say yes.”
“I’m here for more than you, Maeve, but talking with you will make my
job easier. I prefer to do my research boots on the ground when I’m able.”
Though I’m weary, I say, “Okay.” I won’t go alone. I’ll bring Ede—
“Also, I want to invite Ledger Abbott to join, if that’s all right with you. I
thought maybe having the one person who was there with you would make
you more comfortable.”
It takes point two seconds for my heart to jolt and my lungs to stop.
Ledger. I have no idea how seeing him again will affect me, but I don’t have
to tell Dr. Jorgensen. Would it be too triggering? Would it be healing? I miss
him. It’s unfair how much I miss him, but I’ve needed my head space clear of
him, to focus on my marriage and putting myself back together. What if
seeing him unravels everything?
Face it, Maeve. You’re not much better off now than you were three
months ago.
When I don’t respond quickly enough, she says, “You could bring your
husband, if that would make it easier.”
No. Not Ashton. He’s dealt with enough from me. Hearing the story once
was enough to fill his nights with his own nightmares.
“Ledger would be fine.”
Fine. Such a weighted, inaccurate word.
It’s not fine.
And yet, it’s more than fine.
 THIRTY
FOUR

ledger

Standing in a room full of executives at Abbott Industries, I go over a few

reports I’ve dissected for a profit analysis, their faces approving or
unreadable. It’s my first presentation in front of the board of directors, a
board who is leery of my mental state. Presenting in front of them is one step
closer to my future position as CFO. No pressure.
As I turn to the PowerPoint, a flicker of light catches the corner of my eye.
Tensing, my head twists to the ceiling. Flicker. Shudder. Flicker. Shudder.
Flicker.
“Damn light bulbs,” my father mutters. “I’ll get someone on that as soon
as…”
I don’t hear another word he or anyone else says. I freeze. In the middle of
my presentation. I’m not in a boardroom. I’m surrounded by concrete.
Shivering, empty. The smell of decay and mildew burns my nostrils. That
caustic melody drills into my eardrums.
But there she is. Gold and sapphire and porcelain. The only splash of life
in this colorless hell. Even beaten and starved, she’s beautiful.
My Goldie.
 “Ledger.” My father’s tone isn’t harsh, but it’s firm, like it isn’t the first
time he said my name.
My head whips up.
“Why don’t you take a minute?”
I blink and loosen my white-knuckle grip on the edge of the oblong
mahogany table, surveying the discerning, judgmental eyes around the room.
Eyes that know exactly what I’ve been through, their doubts of my being
ready to take on such a prominent role in this company clear.
With trembling hands and a curt nod, I mutter, “Excuse me.”
As soon as the boardroom door shuts, I wipe sweat from my brow.
Shaking the foul, paint-peeled room from my mind, I exhale. I’m not there.
I’m not in tattered clothing or fighting against starvation. I’m in a pristine,
tailor-made suit with my stomach sated in one of the most iconic buildings in
Boston. I’m not there.
But she still lingers.
Ever since that journalist called a few days ago, I haven’t been able to get
Maeve out of my head. I’ve been diligent in refusing to let my mind stray to
her over the last three months, but Maeve paints my dreams and nightmares.
And she doesn’t stop infiltrating my psychotic breaks. It makes sense that
she’d be there. She was a part of it, but it’s more than that.
With every image of her, the ache grows, tunneling deeper. Soon, nothing
will be able to excavate her from my body. She won’t just be in my head or
my heart. She’ll run the blood in my veins and feed the marrow of my bones.
And I have to wonder, if I can’t rid her from my mind, does that mean she’s
supposed to be there?
There were moments when the puppeteer’s fists and boots were meeting
my flesh, when all I did was cry and wish I was home in the arms of my
mom. Not my wife. My mother. The ultimate comfort. I haven’t told a soul
about that, not even Dr. Jorgensen.
And here. Now. Even still, it’s not my wife who my body begs for. It’s
Maeve.
Pressing my thumb and forefinger against my eyes, I slouch forward
outside the boardroom, trying to slow my pounding heart. When the door
opens, I straighten, and one by one, the board members file out, nodding their
goodbyes or blatantly ignoring me. My father is the last to exit, and I fall
back against the wall, ready to get my butt chewed.
“You need help, Ledger.”
 I have a therapist. I’m not sure what more he thinks I need. This isn’t
something that can be fixed with a pill overnight.
“I’m all right. It was just a little flashback. I can handle it.”
“You weren’t handling it. You were shaking in the middle of a
presentation. You weren’t in that boardroom with us; you were somewhere
else entirely.” Stepping closer, he places a hand on my shoulder and lowers
his voice. “It was the same haunted look you had when I first saw you
unrecognizable in the hospital. You can put on an act around everyone else,
but I’m your father. I can see when too much is too much.”
“It was the bulb flickering. I only needed a moment to snap out of—”
“Why don’t you head home, son.” He pats my shoulder before moving
back.
“Sir, I’ve only been here for a few hours. I’m fine. I don’t need to go
home. I need to work.” Anything to distract my mind.
When I went to him a month after he visited me in the hospital, we made
an agreement that I’d start out slow. Half days. Four to five hour days
depending on my mental state that day. We did that for the first month. It’s
only been a week since I returned to full time hours. I can’t go back to
staying at home with Becca observing me, monitoring my every move.
“I’m not asking. I’m telling you. Go home to Rebecca.” Without another
word, my father walks down the hall toward his corner office.
He’s been different since I was found. Less distant and cold, but just as
firm and stubborn. When he walked into my hospital room, eyes glassy and
full of relief, I knew things were going to be different from there on out—
even though he didn’t stay for long.
In those first couple months, we started getting together for dinner on the
weekends, and he even invited me on a round of golf he normally uses for
solitary time and winding down. It’s not enough to make up for his distance
and mistakes in the past, but it’s a start.

Walking inside our house from the garage, I loosen my tie and unbutton
the top couple buttons before draping my suit coat over a kitchen chair.
As I enter the living room, Becca reclines on the chaise, a fashion
magazine in hand. Her head lifts when she hears my footsteps, and a wide-
spread grin wreaths her face. “Every time you walk through that door, I
almost pinch myself, like I need to wake from a dream.”
Sometimes I do, too. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up in that concrete
cell. “This is real life, Becs.”
“That was a quick day. You weren’t gone for more than four hours. I
thought you were doing full days now. Everything all right?”
“Yeah, it’s great.” I bend down, giving her a lingering kiss to cover my lie.
Her coffee eyes brighten with anticipation. “And the presentation?”
“Went better than expected.”
“I knew you’d nail it. Is that why you’re home early? Big man on campus
getting a reward?”
Laughing, I turn to head upstairs. “Yeah, something like that.”
She doesn’t question it, doesn’t hear the falseness in my tone. I don’t like
talking to Becca about everything anymore. I don’t know why. Though, I’m a
terrible actor. I don’t know how she hasn’t seen right through my act yet.
Maybe she’s oblivious, or maybe she’s ignoring my everything’s fine
performance on purpose. Fake it ’til you make it, right?
After months of being skittish and clingy, she’s back to being the carefree,
easygoing wife I left behind. It’d be selfish of me to return her to the jittery
mess she was, always looking over her shoulder like we’re about to be
attacked and I’d be taken again. But a piece of me wishes she’d notice
anyway, without me having to tell her.
Therapy’s helping her more than me, and for some reason I don’t want her
to know that. I hate that I’m in therapy. I didn’t have a therapist after my
mom died, or when we lost Holden, but Becca insisted. I’ve been without
control for so long, diminished to a shell of a man. I don’t want Becca to see
me in that light. Prideful? Maybe. Or self-preservation.
Hand on the staircase, I tell her, “I’m gonna work out for a bit.” At first I
started exercising again to get back into a routine, to help my body return to a
healthy state, but getting my blood pumping and endorphins released has
been the best form of therapy.
“Well, since you’re done early today and it’s Friday, what do you say we
get away for the weekend after you exercise? Drive to Cape Cod or Newport.
The Hamptons, maybe? Just a little one-on-one time.”
Looking at her hopeful face, I hate letting her down. “I wish we could,
Becs, but I’m meeting with a journalist tomorrow morning. How about next
weekend? I can talk to my dad about taking Friday off, and we can go
wherever you want to go. Sky’s the limit.”
Within seconds her face wilts. “A journalist. Why?”
Because Maeve agreed to, though I have no idea why, and I’m not about to
let her face this reporter alone if I can help it. And even if she is willing to go
alone, nothing would stop me from an opportunity to see her.
“She wants to help find the man responsible.”
“Isn’t that what they all say? Are you sure that’s such a good idea?” She
rises to her knees, spine straightening, eyes creased with worry. “Not trying
to catch him, but speaking to the media. They only have one angle, and that’s
the angle that can get them the biggest headlines. Do you really want more of
our life plastered out there?”
“I have a feeling she’s different.” There was something in her voice, like
she’s been through things. Like she understands the depravity of this world.
Maybe even more than I do. “Genuine, honest in her pursuit for the truth. If
she turns out to be none of those things, the interview is over.”
I’ll haul Maeve out of there so fast.
“I’ve never heard of a genuine journalist. I just worry about you, Ledge.
You’ve been through too much. Why let the media in more?”
The simplest answer. “I hate that he’s still out there.” Capable of taking us
again and finishing the job, or doing the same thing to other people.
I still can’t figure out why he hasn’t come back for us. For the first few
weeks, we had police surveillance watching our house, but they couldn’t give
up the manpower forever. After that I had a security system set up, but if I
know one thing about the puppeteer, it’s that he won’t let anything stop him.
The alarm system is more of an alert system, something to warn me he’s here
before he can jump on me or Becca. He could easily take me from the
parking garage at work again or anywhere else while I’m out and about, and
he hasn’t. Why? What’s stopping him?
“I just have to do this, Becs. Maeve will be there, too.”
“Maeve.” Her face falls a fraction more.
“Yes.” I might be keeping my effed-up brain from her, but I also want to
keep my marriage intact. “The journalist asked us to both be there. If the
police can’t figure out who he is, maybe she can.”
I looked up a few of Rain Kennedy’s articles after we got off the phone,
and she’s handled some pretty intense, high-profile cases. She’s not some
rookie, chasing cases to climb the ladder. She’s the kind of journalist who can
pick and choose who she wants to feature, and she wants to help us.
 “Have you talked to Maeve?”
My eyebrows meet as I shake my head. “Not since that first night in the
hospital. Why?”
Her shoulders roll back. “I wasn’t sure if she was comfortable with an
interview.”
“I’m sure she’s just as desperate to get our kidnapper behind bars as I am.”
After a beat, Becca nods. “Just be careful, okay?” Scooting back to the
chaise, she reopens her magazine. “I don’t want you to be taken advantage of
in your desperation to catch him.”

Pressed. A quirky little coffee shop in Newton I’ve never heard of, but
why would I, considering I never come here. Cambridge and Boston and
back. Returning to the steady routine I’d been keeping for years.
I remain in my parked Range Rover with a view of the quiet street and
entrance of the rustic brick building. I’m a bit early, and I need a minute. A
minute to see Maeve before facing her for the first time in three months. Her
last look of panic as they wheeled her out of our hospital room is branded
into my mind. I have no idea how my head and heart will react to seeing her
again.
A white Kia SUV pulls into a spot on the opposite side of the street, and
somehow, though I have no idea what kind of car Maeve drives, I know it’s
her. As I peer closer through her windows, only the back of her head is
visible. She runs her fingers through her fair blonde hair before going still.
Need a minute too, Goldie?
She must because she doesn’t get out. Though the seat blocks most of her
from my view, enough of her is visible to notice she doesn’t budge. Not to
take off her seatbelt or shut off the engine. Thinking about ditching? If she
weren’t here, I’d never have taken the interview in the first place. But if she’s
thinking about ditching, is it because of the journalist or me?
After a few moments, she pulls down the visor and flips open the mirror. I
can’t see clearly enough, but her arm is moving. Touching up her makeup?
Fixing her hair? Applying some lipstick? The corner of my mouth tugs into a
small smile. I took extra time with my appearance today, too. It’s not about
trying to impress, but showing her the real me—not the skeletal version she
spent so much time with.
The moment she opens her car door, I do the same and adjust the twist of
my dark blue sweater, a slight chill in the early February air this morning.
The slam of my door draws her ocean eyes across the street.
A few things crash into me at once. Her once long golden hair is chopped
short, dusting her shoulders, a subtle wave to each strand. A warm, rosy glow
illuminates her skin—now filled out and healthy. But what nails me in the
chest with the power of an MMA fighter’s fist is the soft smile curving her
pale pink lips.
Every curse word to ever enter my mind floods together in one singular,
combined word.
I’m so screwed.
As we draw closer, her fingers toss a small wave. “Hi.”
“You cut your hair.” Observant, dumbass.
“Yeah.” Those same dainty fingers graze the ends by her slender neck. “It
was too damaged and thin to save. It’s actually a bit longer than it was when I
first got it cut.”
“I like it. Suits you.”
“Thanks.”
With my heart hammering in my chest and only a couple feet between us,
the distance is still too far. This was a bad idea. If I hug her, I won’t let go.
I’ll never let go again.
She’s married. I’m married. We’re married. To other people. People we
thought were lost, but were granted a second chance. And I love my wife. I
do.
But my soul searches for Maeve.
Shoving my hands into my front jean pockets, I tip my head toward
Pressed. “Are you ready for this?”
“No.” She laughs. Breezy yet anxious, her smile not quite reaching her
eyes. “But I want him found more than I want anonymity, and if this woman
is as legit as she seems, I’m banking on her.”
I might be the only other person who understands how precious anonymity
is. Do people recognize her when she walks down the street? In the aisles of
the grocery store? While she’s pumping gas? It doesn’t help that I’m the son
of Victor Abbott. As an Abbott, I’ve rarely had anonymity, but it was a
different kind of recognition. More awe and attention seeking, less twisted
curiosity.
 “You looked her up, too?”
“Does that make me paranoid?”
I shrug. “With good reason to be, but more than anything I think it’s smart.
I did, too. Better the devil you know, right?”
Maeve toys with the collar of her gray blouse. “What if she’s connected to
him? Spying for him or something?”
I’d be lying if I said that hadn’t crossed my mind after I pulled Rain
Kennedy up online, finding so little of her background, only her articles.
Anyone could pretend to be her.
“Becca knows who I’m with. Does Ashton know where you are?”
“Yeah, he’s not too happy about it.”
“Neither is Becca.”
How is Ashton handling everything? Has he moved past it the way Becca
has? Does Maeve talk to him about everything? Or shield him? How’s their
marriage?
“We’re in a public place. If the puppeteer was going to come—” When
Maeve tenses, I stop. “We’re okay, Maeve. If I truly believed she wasn’t a
legitimate journalist, I’d keep you from going in there and we’d leave.”
Her breathing evens. “Do you know what she looks like?”
“Lots of different photos came up, but no one consistently or in the New
York area. And not a single one connected to her articles.”
“Yeah, I came up empty, too.”
Unable to stop myself, I glide my hand along her arm, up and down,
soothing. “We’ll get a look at her ID. If her name doesn’t match up, we won’t
stay.” Reluctantly, I pull away and sweep my hand to gesture Maeve forward.
“Together?”
She offers a deep breath followed by a smile and nod of solidarity. We
walk side by side to the entrance. A united front.
The one thing we’ve been since this all started.
 THIRTY
FIVE

maeve

I was nervous about coming today for a lot of reasons, but the instant my
eyes met Ledger’s, my worry washed away.
He’s here, and because of that, everything will be okay.
His warm presence at my back follows me into the quaint coffee shop.
And while he puts my nerves at ease, he also makes me anxious in a
completely different way. I was prepared to see a different man than I last
saw, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the man he is today.
Ledger’s back to blindingly gorgeous. Like staring into the sun, it hurts. So
much so, fierce guilt seeps in for looking at him. Because it doesn’t take
more than a blink of an eye for every drop of love I gained for him to surge
and flood my veins.
In pristine fitted jeans, he’s wearing a navy sweater rolled up to his elbows
that stretches across his filled-out chest, forming to his trim torso. His
restored thick, dark hair is styled with gel in a tousled swoop, raked by his
hands. And his carved jawline, it’s no longer hidden by an untamed beard but
sculpted by well-groomed stubble. Though haunted undertones plague his
eyes, every time our gazes meet, the pain ebbs, and a certain unspoken
understanding connects us.
After we order two coffees—Ledger stepping in to pay before I can—we
study the occupants of the eclectic cafe. Even though there are no pictures of
Rain Kennedy online, when my gaze zeros in on a woman with midnight
black hair and the most vivid green eyes I’ve ever seen, intuitively, I know
it’s her.
She stands and gestures to the table she secured near the back corner. As
secluded as we’re going to get. Once close enough, she offers a brief wave
but not a handshake—whether for her comfort or ours, I’m not sure.
“Maeve?”
“Yes, hi.”
“And that makes you Ledger.”
He steps close to my side. “We didn’t exchange how we’d know each
other, but I assume we’re recognizable.”
“Yeah, the news can be dicks. I’ve seen your faces so many times I feel
like I already know you.” She sits down and gestures for us to do the same.
“But that’s not important.”
We don’t budge. “Do you mind showing us some identification first?”
Ledger asks.
“You two are smart.” Not the least bit put out, she slips her hand into a
black purse beside her and retrieves a black wallet. The woman loves black
apparently. Solid choice.
Ledger flashes a glance at her New York driver’s license. Everything
matches.
“Your identity is very vague online.”
She shrugs as we settle in. “I help put away some of the most dangerous
criminals in the country. My anonymity protects me. My main forms of
communication are online or over the phone.”
“Yet, you chose to meet us.”
“Which I do when necessary. Your case piqued my interest.”
“But you use your real name.” Ledger leans back in his chair, propping his
ankle across his knee.
A subtle yet secretive curve tilts her lips, but she gives no confirmation or
denial. “Enough about me. I want to dive right in, if that’s okay with you.”
Though her rehearsed answer is understandable, I get a sense that there’s
more to Rain Kennedy’s story, but I’m not the interviewer here.
She asks about the most obscure details. If we noticed what kind of shoes
he wore or if he had a smell. Type of cologne or soap or otherwise. Were his
clothes always the same? Did he ever use phrases or terms that felt odd or
unfamiliar?
“He called me mate once.” Ledger stares off, like a memory is surfacing
from the recesses. “It didn’t have much of an effect at the time considering
we were about to drown, but it stuck with me.”
It’s tempered glass, mate. I was so focused on breaking out of that tank, I
wasn’t paying enough attention to care what he was saying to us.
“Mate.” Rain jots it down. “And he never spoke with an accent? Or
slipped up any other time? Or tried to cover up something he said?”
“No, I mean, his accent was always unidentifiable,” I say. “We thought he
might be someone who moved around a lot and picked up on different
pronunciations. Do you think that’s why? That he was hiding the fact that
he’s British or Australian or something?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he just spent a few years in another country and picked
up a term or two. Could be useful information later. Do either of you know
anyone who’s from England or Australia?”
Ledger shakes his head, and I do the same. “I mean, I’ve had a couple
patients come in with spouses from other countries, but I’ve never known
anyone personally.”
“It’s okay. We can table that for now. It doesn’t have to be the main focus,
but I’ll keep that in mind. Let’s move on to something else. An informant of
mine mentioned you couldn’t tell what color his eyes were.”
“They were too hard to define with the low lighting and neon glow of the
mask,” I say. “In some angles, you could tell they were lighter, but they
could’ve been green or blue, gray or hazel. We couldn’t tell you.”
“Could you tell if he had wrinkles around his eyes? Anything to give away
his age.”
“He did, but no more than the average person who squints.” I glance at
Ledger for corroboration, and he nods. “He could’ve been anywhere from
thirty-five to fifty, if he looked good for his age.”
“Anything else distinct you can tell me?”
“He used ketamine on us,” Ledger says. “At least, that’s what he said
once.”
She nods. “That was mentioned to me by my informant, but unfortunately
your captor could’ve gotten that from a number of sources. It might be a
helpful lead down the road, though.”
 Rain spends over an hour with us, though not all of which is spent talking
about our captivity and the puppeteer. She never once asks what he put us
through or what we did to survive. It’s about him, not what he did. Though
I’m sure she has plenty of information from other sources to fill in the blanks
—not to mention what’s been presented on the news—I appreciate her
respect for that aspect.
When the interview concludes she says, “I can’t make any promises that
I’ll figure out who did this to you, but never underestimate a determined,
avenging woman. If anyone can uncover the truth, I can.”
“I’ve got to ask,” Ledger says. “No offense to the Tribune, but why aren’t
you working for the Times or the Journal? We’ve seen what you’ve
accomplished in your short career, you could aim higher.”
“I’m not looking for recognition, Ledger. I don’t do this for fame. I do it
for the victims.” Fishing in her wallet once more, she hands over a black card
to each of us. “If you can think of anything else or anyone who might be
willing to talk to me, here’s my card.”
A hushed voice carries across the busy coffee shop. “Is that Ledger
Abbott?”
Beside me he stills, and my stare drifts over various tables toward the
voice. Two younger women, probably in their early-twenties, gawk at us a
couple tables over. “Oh my gosh, and Maeve Campbell?”
I tense. Do they think they’re being quiet? Or do they simply not care that
we can hear them? You’d think we were celebrities on the red carpet, not
survivors of kidnapping and torture at the hands of a madman.
Rain stands, leaning on the tabletop, and angles herself toward them. “This
isn’t an exotic animal exhibit. Run along, twats, before he comes for you.”
She’s not loud enough to quiet the whole place, but enough that the tables
around us glance in our direction with stunned expressions.
Without shame, Rain looks back at our gaping mouths and shrugs. “I’ve
dealt with my fair share of nosey, judgmental pricks in my lifetime. Your
skin will harden soon enough that you won’t feel sorry for biting back or care
how others react. You’re lucky I didn’t growl.”
Maybe this should raise red flags, but it only makes me like her more.
She’s not worried about what others think, and I crave to be more like that.
When a muffled cough comes from beside me, I glance at Ledger, his eyes
full of stifled amusement. Hand clamped over his mouth, he clears his throat
when Rain reaches for her bag, slipping it on her shoulder.
 “If I have any more questions, would you mind if I contacted you again?”
“Sure,” Ledger responds, and I nod.
After Rain leaves us, we stay seated beside each other, our cups of coffee
long gone.
A minute passes before Ledger breaks the silence. “What do you think?”
“I’m not going to stop setting my alarm system or sleeping without a
nightlight just yet.”
Ledger laughs. “I’m pretty sure even if he’s caught, I’ll never stop setting
the alarm or sleeping with a nightlight.”
Ha. Neither will I. Or the gun in my nightstand.
After a beat of more stillness, I swallow and spare him a glance. “How are
you, really?”
On an exhale, he meets my gaze. How two eyeballs can express so much
in seconds is beyond me. And without saying a single word, my heart
lurches, my eyes pricking with tears.
“I’m alive.”
Those two words hit me bone deep, speaking to my very core. Being alive
isn’t the same as living. It’s going through the daily motions, hoping to gain
some form of your old self, hoping you’ll eventually find your footing, but
knowing it’s impossible. You can never go back.
I don’t live, I survive. Every day, I survive and fight for each breath and
heartbeat.
“And you?” His low voice is one part whisper, two parts ache.
I miss you. “I’m here.” My eyes glisten with unshed tears, silenced by my
suppressed (but no less palpable) emotions.
His hand closes over my fingers rolling the corner of a napkin on the table.
Touch. Just one simple touch, and I’m a live wire. Seated so close to me, it’s
impossible to ignore the electricity, like we’re two ends of a conduit.
“Maeve.”
“I know.”
Nothing can be said aloud. It would cross too many points of no return.
We said what we needed to say in that cement prison, and that’s where it has
to remain. In there. With them. Two souls battling for a chance to live.
Then why does it feel so wrong to hold back, to be apart?
A lock of Ledger’s tidy yet disheveled hair falls across his forehead. The
urge to brush the rich strand back and kiss him is reflexive, but I control my
mouth and hands, my grip holding tighter to Ledger’s on the table. When I
meet my threshold of restraint, I turn away, reaching for my purse beside me,
and he lets go.
“I should probably get home.”
It takes him a moment to respond. “Yeah. Me, too.”
Allowing me to pass in front of him, he trails behind me to the glass
entrance, opening it before I can.
On the sidewalk, we step to the side and take our time facing one another,
dragging out the inevitable farewell.
“I’d ask for your number so I could check in on you. That voicemail
wasn’t nearly enough.” Ledger’s eyes dart over my shoulder, his bristled
jawline taut. “God, Maeve. I worry about you every day.” His neck muscles
strain with a hard swallow. “But that’s not a good idea. Is it?”
It guts me to agree. “Yeah, probably not.” Us communicating would lead
nowhere our marriages could thrive. And the four of us beat the odds. We
owe it to ourselves to cling to this second chance at life. Don’t we? Our
spouses deserve the faithfulness we showed in captivity.
“I’ll be seeing you.” He won’t. We both know he won’t, but maybe it’s
easier to pretend.
With affectionate eyes and a sad smile, Ledger turns toward his car. I can’t
even bring myself to say goodbye.
Unable to watch him walk away, I do the same until a large hand hooks
my bicep and spins me, enfolding me in sturdy arms, my cheek pressed to his
familiar chest. Thump, thump, thump. A lullaby for my raw heart. Clenching
my jaw, I battle more tears because it takes less than a gasp to feel safe, to
feel whole.
Ledger’s hand sinks into my hair, cradling the base of my skull, his other
cinching around my waist. His head rests atop mine, fully encasing me in his
intense but tender embrace. And even though our bodies aren’t the same ones
we parted with, mine recognizes the pulse in his veins and the beats of his
heart.
My heart weeps, demanding answers from my brain. Why? Why did we
have to fall for him?
Why? my brain replies, like I should already know. Because he’s Ledger
Abbott. He’s the moon at midnight, the lifeboat in a hurricane. He’s the
reason we’re still breathing.
He’s home.
Trapped in that cement room, enduring the same continual torture—no one
understands what happened in captivity but us. He’s my everything.
Fight as I might, a tear betrays and seeps from my shut-tight eyelid.
Maybe Ashton and I moving is the best thing, for more than one purpose.
I’ll never be able to be in the same state as Ledger, much less fifteen minutes
between our towns, without a constant thought in my mind and pang in my
heart. It’s time we officially make the right choice. It’s time to give each
other closure.
Ledger loosens his hold, sliding his hands to the sides of my face, our eyes
fastening, fusing. With his hands molded to my jawline, his lips press to my
forehead for the span of two breaths.
One breath, I love you. Two, and goodbye.
Then he’s a breeze. Nothing but a cool gust with his sweater-clad back as
my final photograph in time.
 THIRTY
SIX

ledger

On my drive home from the interview, I nearly swerve off the road four times
from blurring flashbacks. Maeve injected and hauled through that steel door
to protect me. The life leaving her blue eyes in that damn tank. Her hysterical
screams when the puppeteer dragged me away, separating us for weeks on
end. The terror of being wheeled away from me for good in the hospital.
Over and over again, I almost lost her.
And today, we came to a permanent end.
Parked in the garage, car shut off, I sit with my hands on the steering
wheel. Does the puppeteer even understand the damage he caused? Was this
his end game? Our lives nothing but rubble and ash.
And where the hell is he? He’s not the type to let us go free. This can’t be
over for him. Someone put an end to his games before he was finished. He’s
not going to take that lying down. Is he waiting for us to put the pieces
together or is he waiting for the perfect time to attack? Because it’s only a
matter of time before he comes out of hiding.
It’s only a matter of time before our time is up.
 When I walk in from the garage and head straight for our home gym to
outrun the illicit grief clawing at my heart on the treadmill, Becca doesn’t say
a word. I can’t decide if I’m relieved or worried, preparing myself for an
honest conversation.
But it never comes.
Not the next day, or the following. I’d be concerned that she’s upset,
except she goes about her days as normal. No silent treatments or passive
aggressive comments. No questions about the interview and how it went. Not
a single comment about me seeing Maeve again, asking how she’s doing.
After a week of business as usual, it’s in bed with Becca slipping her hand
beneath the waistband of my boxer briefs that I blow.
“Is this some sort of test?”
Her hand stills. “I’m not following.”
“The interview with Rain Kennedy. You haven’t asked a single question.
Not about her or Maeve, or what was said.”
Pulling her hand away, she rolls to her back. “Was I supposed to ask about
it?”
“I’m just confused. For a woman who was so opposed to me taking the
interview, I’d have thought a, ‘how did it go,’ would’ve been in order, at the
least. But you’re doing what you’ve been doing for months, pretending like
nothing happened.”
Becca rises to her elbows. “When you got home you didn’t leave much
room for talking. You spent three hours in the gym, Ledger. So, I gave you
space. I assumed you didn’t want to talk about it, and I didn’t want to pry. If
you wanted to talk, you’d talk.”
“Since when do you not pry?”
She’s quick to bite back. “Since you came home a different man.”
Slice. Her words cleave a gash in my heart. A slap sharp enough to draw
blood from my cheek. “Did you expect me to be the same?”
With a quiet exhale, Becca whispers, “No, but with your bi-weekly
therapy sessions, you seemed to have been healing. Interview aside, I’m
doing what I can to help ease you back into how we used to be. I don’t want
to be the one to make you regress by asking triggering questions.”
“Healing? You think I’m healing?”
Her head swivels on her pillow. “Are you not?”
“Oh my go— No, Becs. No.”
 I can’t see her eyes in the dark, but the silence that ensues gives me a
pretty good idea of what they’d convey. Confusion. Betrayal. We used to be
so open, so honest. And now all I can do is keep my mouth shut.
“What are you more upset about?” Her tone is flat, but a bitterness boils
beneath the surface. “The fact that I didn’t ask about the interview or that I
didn’t ask about Maeve?”
“Everything!” I burst from bed. “I’m tired of faking my stability, of your
ability to move on as if nothing happened. I hate that I’m not getting better,
that I never sleep and that when I do it’s only a stream of nightmares. Or that
I startle at the slam of a door and everything tastes like chicken fried steak. I
hate the constant crawling sensation up my spine like I’m being watched or
the fact that I can’t even look at a bucket without wanting to puke. I want you
to notice I’m not okay.”
Taking a breath, I stare out our bedroom window overlooking the
backyard. It’s lit by newly installed landscaping lights and motion sensored
lights, catching the smallest critters and dying rose bushes surrounded by
half-finished paver pathways.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Glancing over my shoulder, I see Becca
sitting up and flipping on her bedside lamp. Her gaze roves me up and down
like she’s seeing me for the first time. “But I never asked you to pretend for
me. I knew you weren’t one-hundred percent, but I didn’t know it was this
bad. Why haven’t you said anything?”
“I know, and I’m not blaming you. I just haven’t felt like I could. You
were doing so much better after your sessions with Dr. Jorgensen, how could
I possibly put the weight of my issues on you? And you went through
something, too. Being attacked and tormented by him isn’t an easy thing to
forget or recover from.”
“You’re right. It’s not, but that happened to me a year ago. I’ve had more
time than you to work through my trauma. You haven’t, and the fact that
you’re trying to compare us…Ledge.”
“I know. I just didn’t feel like I could show you this side. Like you
wouldn’t like who I am now.”
“I love every side of you, baby.”
“Do you?”
She rears back. “Of course I do.”
“Then I need to ask you… I need you to stop ignoring what happened, to
check in on me. Help me. I need you to open your eyes.” I gesture to the bed.
“And to understand, I’m not ready for this kind of intimacy yet.”
Becca stalls, hurt skittering across her eyes.
We’ve had sex a few times since my return, but it hasn’t been without its
challenges. My…freaking impotence. Just another issue my therapist said
was not uncommon with PTSD. One would think after nearly a year without
it and then reuniting with my wife after believing she was dead, that
connecting on such an intimate level would be at the top of the list, but my
desire has been close to zero. And I hate it.
I’ve tried, but it always ends in defeat and leaves us both unsatisfied. Over
and over again, I disappoint my wife.
“Is this about her?”
What?
“Maeve. You love her.” Tears glisten in Becca’s eyes, and a stake drives
into my chest.
I don’t want to have this conversation. My issues have nothing to do with
Maeve. But Becca’s second accusation draws a different answer. I don’t want
to lie about my feelings, but I don’t want her to hear the truth. It’s the last
thing she deserves, considering what I’ve already put her through. Is this one
of those lie to draw a smile rather than a truth that draws a tear instances?
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Then answer me this. Do you love her?”
No. Tell her no. This isn’t something she needs to know.
But Becca and I don’t lie. We don’t keep secrets from each other. This
isn’t us. Even if I give her the answer she wants to hear, she’ll see right
through me.
“What do you want me to say?”
She whips the covers back and stands on the other side of our bed. “Tell
me you don’t. Tell me I’m the only woman for you. That you only love me.
That you’ll only ever love me.”
Will that eventually make it true? Lie until it becomes the truth. I open my
mouth to deliver the untruth, but it tastes like acid. This is my wife, so why
does my attempt to spare Becca feel like a betrayal to Maeve?
“You can’t, can you?”
I wish I could. With every ounce of love I have for my wife, I wish I had
the ability, but I can’t. And I can’t look Becca in the eye for one more second
as she reads the truth on my face.
“I love you, Becca. I have and will always love you.”
 “But you love her, too. I saw the way you looked at her in the hospital. I
hoped I was wrong, that it was some kidnapping bond, but it’s not, is it? You
really fell in love with her.”
Turning away, I shake my head. Not a lie, but an uncontrollable admission
of guilt.
“What happened to you?” she whispers. “A few months with another
woman and all of a sudden your wife is obsolete? Did our vows mean
nothing to you?”
I whirl around. “Our vows meant everything to me!” I could hurl at her the
countless times I was beaten within an inch of my life for refusing to sleep
with Maeve, all in the name of fidelity. But I’m not going to pound on my
chest and wear my faithfulness like a blue ribbon. This isn’t a competition.
She’s hurt, and rightfully so. Because while physically I haven’t and will
never cheat on Becca—at least not knowingly—my heart can’t keep the same
oath.
“You don’t get it. You died.” My voice shakes with threatening tears. “In
our world, you died, Becs. I mourned you. For months and months and
months, I grieved my wife while trying to survive at the hand of a
psychopath. Do you understand what it’s like to be in a constant state of fear
for your life? Every day wondering if today will be your last? How it’ll
happen? How long it will take? Having to dig your own grave? Or lie trapped
in your own casket? It screws with your head in more ways than I can put
into words.
“All I had was Maeve. And all she had was me. I realize that doesn’t
absolve me, but it’s the only truth I can offer you. She’s not my wife. You are
and I chose you, but I’m not the same man. I want to be the same man for
you, but I’m not.”
“What are you trying to say?” Her words are a shadow, faint and without
warmth.
“I don’t know. I don’t—” I miss Maeve. I shouldn’t. I can’t, but I do.
She’d get it. She’d have the right words for Becca. She’d be able to tell her
all I sacrificed for my wife. It’s only been a week since we said goodbye for
the last time, but it might as well be years.
Yet none of that matters. I made a vow. And Becca deserves not only my
faithfulness but all of my heart.
“I love you and I’m committed to this marriage, but I also need you to be
patient with me. I’m trying. All of this is hard. Harder than anything I’ve ever
endured, and for as long as we live, I will always stand by you, by us. I could
just use a little grace.”
“Grace.” She laughs, mirthless, but there’s a quiver in her breathing. “As if
I could ever lose you. You’re all I have, Ledger. So, yes. I will try, too. But
it’s been over three months. How much longer—”
“Exactly, Becs.” I drag a hand down my face with a strained laugh. “It’s
only been three months. I was gone three times as long, and you think I’m
going to miraculously heal and bounce back in less time?”
She comes around to my side of the bed and presses her palm to my bare
chest. “It’s not that I thought you’d bounce back. You’ve just been keeping
this all from me, making me believe you were doing better, so I’ve been
moving on, too, trying to create the normalcy we once shared, thinking that’s
what was best for you. This is a hard adjustment for me, too. How am I
supposed to know if you aren’t communicating with me?”
“I didn’t want you to worry about me.”
“It’s my job to worry about you. Let me be your wife, Ledge. Don’t shut
me out.”
“Okay.” I slip my hand around the side of her neck. “But in return, I need
you to understand, this might take years. I’m never going to be the man you
first fell in love with. You’ll have to accept me the way I am.”
Her hand meets my cheek as her mouth locks with mine. “Until death parts
us.”
 THIRTY
SEVEN

maeve

Sitting down at the kitchen table across from me, Ashton sets the dish of
shrimp scampi in the middle.
“This smells amazing. Never deprive me of your cooking. I don’t know
what I’d do.”
A smile curves his mouth. “Starve, most likely.”
I laugh. “Probably, but I did make a killer omelet the other day.”
“I’ll give you that. It was good.”
“Good? It was next level.”
Ashton holds out his hand so he can scoop the pasta onto my plate.
“Maybe we should have a cooking date night. You come up with a dish you
want to know how to cook, and we’ll do it together.”
“Saving yourself from food poisoning, disguised as a date. You’re a smart
man, Ashton Campbell.”
He chuckles, filling up his own plate. “It’s one of the reasons you married
me, gotta flaunt what I’m working with.”
“You dork.” With my first bite of butter and garlic, my stomach rolls. A
macabre déjà vu snakes underneath my skin, goosebumps and little hairs
standing straight. “This is what you made that night.”
“Huh?” he asks, chewing.
I clamp a hand over my churning stomach. Drifting, my stare falls over
Ashton’s shoulder on a neon blue lit mask hovering in a darkened corner of
our living room. Ice floods my veins, freezing me in place.
“Maeve?”
With inhuman speed, he’s there. Behind Ashton, baseball bat raised.
My scream tears through the air. “Ashton!”
With wide baffled eyes, Ashton follows my stare behind him, but it’s too
late. The blow lands, cracking his skull and knocking him to the ground.
“No! No, please. Please, please.” The thud of my chair echoes through
our kitchen as I dart up, backing away. “Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Just
don’t take me back there.” I trip over my feet as he hunts me, tumbling to the
floor.
The puppeteer doesn’t say a word, stalking closer and closer as I scramble
back on my hands and feet. I lose ground, my head hitting a wall.
Caging me in with one foot on either side, he bends down. “Don’t get
your knickers in a bunch, Doc. This will only pinch for a second.”
“Please, don’t. PLEASE!”
“Goldie.”
Blurring together, green eyes come into focus against a slate gray
backdrop and a flickering overhead light.
No. No. It can’t be.
“I’ve got you. Breathe.” Ledger draws me into his arms, the chill of the
cell sinking into my bones. “We’ll get through this together. I’m here with
you.”
“No. I can’t. I can’t do this again, Ledger. I can’t!”
“I know. I know, Goldie.”
I pull away from him and scream at the metal box. “Just get it over with!
Kill us and be done!”
“After you escaped me, you think I’ll let you go that easily?” He tuts, and
I drop to my knees. “Make yourself comfortable, Doc. And welcome back to
your home sweet home.”
Curling forward, my face falls into my hands. Ledger lowers beside me,
enfolding me against him as we sob.
“Maeve.”
A hand grips my shoulder, another at my cheek. “Maeve, wake up!” My
eyes shoot open, my body jack-knifing. The creamy walls of our bedroom
come into focus under the glowing moonlight through our windows.
“It was just a dream,” Ashton soothes in my ear, his fingers stroking my
hair. “It’s not real.”
I clutch onto him, burying my face in the warm cotton shirt stretched
across his chest. His freshly showered scent fills each of my breaths as I gasp
for air. My sweat and tears wet the material, but he only holds me tighter.
“It’s over now. I’m here.”
Doesn’t he get it? It’ll never be over. I’ll always be stuck in that cell,
clinging to Ledger, fighting to get out.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. But there’s no way I’ll be able to fall back asleep. Every
time my eyes close, I’m surrounded by cement. My brain refuses to reroute,
refuses to let me go.
It’s not the first nightmare I’ve had about the puppeteer, but it was the
most realistic, the first to go back to the moment I was captured. I’ve never
been able to remember details. Was I conjuring up my own version? Or was
that what happened? They weren’t fully able to pinpoint what hit Ashton, but
a baseball bat would make sense, since that’s what he used on Becca. And
that mixture of seafood and garlic butter will never smell anything but
revolting for as long as I live.
“You made shrimp scampi that night.”
Ashton’s fingers still while brushing my clammy skin. He nods against
the top of my head.
“Never make it again.”
“Never.”
“Do you remember what we were talking about before he knocked you
unconscious?”
“Yeah, I’ve played that conversation in my head so many times. I wanted
you to pick a meal to learn to make, something we could do together.”
Tears trickle down my cheeks. “Pad thai. I want to make the best damn
pad thai you’ve ever eaten.”
“Whatever you want, love.” His lips press to my forehead.
What would Ashton have done if he’d been in my place? If he were stuck
in that frozen hell. Would he have survived? Persevered to make it out alive?
“Ashton?”
“Hmm?” His hand continues running up and down my arm, though his
voice carries a drowsy note.
“If it wasn’t me in there with Ledger, and it was you and Becca, if it
meant torture or being with her, which would you choose?”
Ashton freezes, his arms around me tensing. I don’t know why I asked.
Maybe it’s because middle of the night conversations have a tendency to give
more courage, and mouths less of a filter.
“Is that what he forced you to do?”
“No, I’m not— That’s not—” I’m not ready to reveal everything I went
through with Ashton, and after sitting in on my first interview with Detective
Whitly, I doubt he’s ready to hear all of it yet. Or if he’ll ever be ready. “We
didn’t—”
“Maeve, it’s okay.” His face burrows in the crook of my neck as he
tightens his hold. “You don’t have to say it. I’m not mad. You did what you
had to do. Gun to my head, I’d have done the same thing. If it meant
surviving with the hope of coming home to you, I’d have made the hard
choice.”
It’s my turn to still. “You’d have had sex with Becca?”
“I’m not saying I’d have enjoyed it, or wanted to. And I’m not saying I’m
okay with whatever you did with Ledger—I don’t need details, by the way—
but I forgive you. I can’t imagine being in the kind of situation you were
forced into. I’m just grateful you made it out alive, that you made it back to
me. I’d have done whatever it took, too.”
I almost tell him the truth, but I have to process his answer first. I
understand desperation, and if the puppeteer put a gun to my head I might’ve
complied, but that wasn’t my initial reaction. I was willing to let him take me
out back and shoot me to be free of my strings.
Ashton’s response gnaws at me. He didn’t even have to think about it, no
hesitation. There was no real threat in front of him. He automatically assumed
and went with it.
Is he doing it for my sake? Because he believes that’s what I had to do?
Or would he have jumped on the opportunity when the puppeteer presented
the option? That he’d cave so easily to the pressure when there was no
guarantee it meant making it out alive?
It doesn’t matter, and it’s unfair of me to hold it against him. I can’t hold
Ashton accountable for a hypothetical situation, especially one where if
Ledger agreed, I might’ve given the same answer.
Then why isn’t my mind letting it go?
 “Why did he take you, Maeve?” Ashton kisses my neck, his whispered
question hanging in the air.
Why me? It’s a question I ask myself every day. Right next to how am I
supposed to live a life knowing he’s still out there? This is no way to live, in
neverending fear, sleeping with one eye open.
Will the puppeteer be found first or will he only be found when he comes
for us again? Would he take the risk?
Yes. One-hundred percent he would.

“What’s up with the emergency sister lunch?” Eden slides into the booth
opposite me, Elva scooting beside her. “Not that I’m complaining. I’m
always up for some sister time.”
I had a break in patients, so I asked them to meet me around the corner.
We haven’t gotten together, just the three of us, much since I returned—only
dinners at my parents’ house—and sometimes a woman just needs her tribe.
Even if it means going into public where I’m constantly looking over my
shoulder, constantly wondering if I’m being watched, if he’ll find me.
Before I can dive in, the server comes to our table and asks if we’re ready
to order. We used to come here often, so we’re all prepared with our usuals.
After he walks away, I take a deep breath. “Let’s pretend you’re both
married. And let’s pretend you were in the same situation as me in that cell
with a married man.”
“Just jumping right in, aren’t we?” Eden takes a sip of the Coke I ordered
for her before she got here. “Where are you going with this, Eve?”
Elva lowers her voice and glances at the neighboring tables all too
involved in their own conversations to hear us. “Is this something you really
want to talk about in public?”
Rubbing my temple, I try to assuage my building headache. “Yes. I just
need you two to put yourself in my shoes for a minute with no other context,
and I’ll explain in a bit.”
“Okay. Go easy.” Eden pinches the bridge of her nose. “I only woke up
like an hour ago and I haven’t had a lick of alcohol today.”
I cock a brow. “It’s noon.”
“Exactly, which is why I haven’t, which is also why I need you to go easy
on me. This seems like the kind of conversation that requires a round of
beers, or maybe a few shots.”
Elva sits back quietly, her features softened and concerned, but she nods
for me to proceed. “Whatever you need.”
“Okay.” Deep breaths. “If your captor gave you two options, sleep with
the stranger or be punished, what would you choose?”
“Holy balls, Maeve.” Eden’s eyes dart around the eatery before she leans
in and whispers, “Is that what you had to do? Sleep with the hot CFO?”
“I’m not going to tell you what I did or didn’t do, and he’s not a CFO
yet.”
“Semantics.”
I ignore Eden. “This isn’t based on what I did. It’s what you would do.
Cheat or torture?”
“What kind of torture? Do you know beforehand or…?”
“Eden, seriously?” Elva glares at the side of our younger sister’s head.
“No, you don’t know,” I snap.
“Sorry. Stupid question. Okay, fine. Give me a second.”
The two of them stare off for several moments, contemplating, but I cut
them off. “Time’s up. You don’t get all day. He waits for no one. Split
second decision. What would you choose?”
“Is it technically cheating if it’s not your choice?” Elva asks.
“Is it not a choice? Torture or sex with someone who isn’t yours. A
crappy choice is still a choice. There is no reward for doing as he asks. He’s
not promising freedom, or that you’ll even live. The only option you get is
sleep with your cellmate or receive a punishment.”
“A forced choice is no different than a decision made under duress.” Elva
rests her forearms on the table, leaning in. “You have to sleep with someone
against your will or you suffer. It’s not some clandestine affair, Maeve. It’s
torture both ways, honey.”
“I don’t need reassurances or justifications, okay? I don’t want to debate
the interpretation of a choice. It’s about so much more than that. There’s no
right or wrong answer. Just choose.”
CRASH. I scream and my head whips around. A server bends at a nearby
table, picking up shattered glass on the floor. Closing my eyes, I breathe
through my nose. Just a plate. It was just a plate.
“You all right, Eve?” Eden asks.
Choking the collar of my shirt, I release a deep breath and open my eyes.
“Yes. I’m fine. Just…” I shimmy, shaking off the scare. “Just give me an
answer.”
Eden regards me with a worried stare before she lifts a slight shrug. “I’d
accept the punishment. No one decides who I sleep with but me.”
I look to my older sister, and she chews on her bottom lip. “I’d rather not
find out what the punishment is.”
“So, you wouldn’t and you would.”
They nod.
“Why are you asking us?” Eden tilts her head.
I huff an exhale. “Ashton said he’d sleep with Becca.”
“What?” Like Elva can’t believe she said that outside, she clasps her hand
over her mouth and sinks into the booth.
With kid gloves, my younger sister asks, “And did you…sleep with
Ledger?”
Averting my eyes, I shake my head.
“Eve.” Elva sighs, changing her tune as she reaches across the table and
grips my hand. “You can’t blame Ashton. That’s a cruel expectation to ask
him to pick the moral high ground. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know that.”
“Then why the hypotheticals?”
I whip my stare back to them. “It doesn’t make it hurt less. He was so
quick and willing to give in.”
“Maeve…”
“I know, I know.” I swat at unwelcome tears, eyes raised to the ceiling.
“I get why his answer bothers you, but maybe don’t put too much stock
into it. You can talk in hypotheticals, but decisions can be so different in the
moment. Maybe he’d choose differently.”
Eden leans back, crossing her arms. “If it were my husband, I’d be pissed
if he chose sex with a beautiful woman over being faithful to me.”
“You’re also twenty-five and have had one serious relationship that lasted
less than three months.” Elva’s eyes roll. “Not everything is black and
white.”
“Maybe I’m not as experienced as you, O wise one, but that doesn’t mean
I don’t understand love.” She shifts, a hint of hurt in her eyes as she focuses
on me. “You said you didn’t have sex with Ledger, so what happened?”
I close my eyes and breathe, trying to stave off flashbacks. They will not
control me today.
 “It’s okay, Maeve,” Elva whispers. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“It’s fine.” I can do this. My trauma can’t control me forever. “Every
couple of months or so, when the puppeteer would demand we sleep together
and we’d refuse, Ledger would get taken away and beaten. Once it was right
in front of me, until he was lying bloody and out cold.” Ledger’s crumpled
body flashes in red, but I breathe, willing more images away.
“Another time I forced the puppeteer to take me.” I stretch out my arms,
slowly raising the sleeves of my sweater, explaining my scars without a
word. It’s not the first time they’ve seen them, only the first time I’ve told
them how the scars originated. “We thought Ashton and Becca were dead by
then, but at that point, it was principle. You know? He could take our dignity
and sanity, but he didn’t get to take our morals from us, too. We were more
than his puppets.”
Gasping, my sisters murmur with unshed tears glossing their eyes. “Oh,
Eve.”
My fingers curl in as I draw my arms into my chest, rolling my sleeves
back down.
Eden clears her throat, but keeps her volume quiet. “You can tell me to
shut up if I’m crossing a line, but I have to ask because it’s something we’ve
skirted around since you returned. It’s clear you and Ledger have a deep
connection, but how deep does that connection run?”
The deepest. What can I say? Certainly not that. They’re my sisters, but I
struggle with admitting my own feelings to myself.
“Do you…love him?”
Before all of this I never kept a single thing from my sisters. We never
had a reason for secrets, and every lie was caught in the delivery. But this
isn’t Eden’s crush on our next-door neighbor’s dad or the vase from Mom’s
grandmother Elva broke and blamed on my parents’ cat.
“I don’t know how to put into words what happened between us, but I’ve
put it behind me.”
I haven’t. I’m trying, but I haven’t, and I don’t know how I’ll ever be able
to.
“You know we’d understand,” Elva says, fluffing her russet bangs. “This
sisterhood is a judgment free zone. What you went through…it’s not cut and
dry. You’re allowed to be confused and have complicated feelings. No one
can tell you how you should feel or how you should process all of this.”
All I can do is nod and blink back tears.
 “Okay, back to the issue at hand.” Eden shifts with a deep exhale, an
acceptance to not push me more. “Have you and Ashton been together
since…”
Answering with a shake of my head, I gulp down my glass of water to
give me something else to focus on.
And then Elva does the strangest thing. She sighs. In…relief? With
clarity? But then she takes a sip of her soda, like it’ll take the edge off this
conversation.
“Well, maybe that’s half the problem.” Eden gives a sassy tilt to her head
and widens her eyes at our sister. “Not that I’m an expert on relationships.
But maybe you’re not upset so much by his choice. You’re upset because he
hasn’t chosen to do it with you yet. I’d be upset, too.”
A spasm twists my chest. “Maybe.”
“Is that something you’re ready for?”
It’s hard to hold in my snort. “I’ve been ready for a while.” I just don’t
want to be the one to initiate it. I can’t.
“Okay.” She brightens. “Then show him. Spice things up. Buy some new
lingerie. Watch a sexy movie together to get you in the mood. I don’t know,
whatever it is you two do. If you don’t want to ask for it, make him come
begging.”
Elva takes longer to agree, and even then, she doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Cut him some slack, Maeve.” Eden drifts closer. “He’s trying. And I
know he loves you. My gosh, that man was so lost without you, completely
miserable.”
Clearing her throat, Elva’s eyes flit to me, unshed tears glossing her
mossy green eyes. “He was.”
I know my sisters better than anyone else in this world, but there’s
something in Elva’s gaze I can’t quite pinpoint.
Does she know something I don’t?

Unable to think of much else throughout the rest of my appointments

today, I hunt Ashton down as soon as I get home. “Did something happen
with you while I was…gone? Something with someone else?”
He pauses in the doorway of our walk-in closet, freshly changed into
joggers and a white T-shirt for the evening. Having already removed his
contacts, he adjusts his glasses with a furrowed brow. “Why would you ask
me that?”
Why not deny it outright? “Because Elva was acting strange at lunch
today.” Come to think of it, she did a lot of defending Ashton. Which, okay.
So did Eden. But a woman knows her gut, and something was off.
Then there’ve been our family dinners. My mind has conjured up
different excuses for her, but maybe I’ve been looking at it all wrong. Elva
avoids Ashton, never talks to him anymore, never stays for more than dinner.
No dessert, no games or movies. She bolts as soon as the opportunity presents
itself. And she never even shows up early to hang out and help before dinner.
Like my words strike a chord, he drags a hand down his face. Why did he
do that?
“What aren’t you saying, Ash?”
“Nothing, Maeve. Nothing.”
“Did you sleep with Elva?”
His eyes double in size. “What the hell. What do you take me for?”
“Just answer the question, Ashton.”
He trudges toward the dresser and snatches a fresh pair of socks. “No. No,
I did not sleep with your sister.” Sitting at the foot of our bed, he yanks them
on. “But even if I had, what would it matter? It’s not like you haven’t slept
with him.”
I rear back, air knocked from my lungs. Him. He doesn’t even say his
name. Ashton’s never shown any hint of resentment or animosity toward
Ledger, but evidently he’s good at hiding it.
As if it’d be tit for tat if I had been with Ledger. “We never did anything
like that. And even if we had, it would have been with a gun to my head.”
Ashton’s face scrunches. “Then why did you say you did? Why did you
ask me if I’d sleep with his wife?”
“I never said we did. I tried telling you we didn’t when you assumed, but
then you went on your own tangent, not even hearing a word I said. So, I let
it go.”
Ashton quiets, eyes reeling like he’s rewinding to the middle of the night.
“I just wanted to know what you would have done. We almost had to, but
whenever we refused, Ledger was brutalized within an inch of his life. And
where do you think these scars came from?” I shove up my sleeves and lift
the hem of my shirt. “I stepped in when Ledger couldn’t take another
beating.”
Every stitch of color drains from Ashton’s face.
“What did you think? These were just par for the course? You’ve never
once asked me about my scars and how I got them.”
“What do you want me to say?” He grips the roots of his sandy brown
hair. “They speak for themselves. It’s no secret he hurt you. I thought
bringing up your scars would be worse for you, set you back in therapy. I
don’t know how this all works. Dr. Jorgensen tries to give advice, but there’s
no special handbook for how to live with a kidnap victim.”
His words are a stinging slap across my face, one gigantic red handprint.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Maeve. I’m sorry. That was really insensitive.”
Ashton stands, reaching for my hand, and I let him take hold. “This is hard,
okay? I’m trying to understand what you need. I’ve never felt more helpless
in my life, and that includes when you went missing.”
My brain thinks the unforgivable, but I strangle it before my mouth can
voice his name. There’s only one man who understands, who I need. And I
can’t have him.
And the sad thing is, Ashton’s never once asked what he can do. He
remains quiet, hoping I’ll lead, hoping I’ll tell him, but I don’t even know.
Maybe I’m being unfair, but his trying is weak. He holds me after nightmares
and lets me cry on his shoulder, but it’s not enough.
“I get that it’s hard for you. I really do, but if you set foot inside my head
for one day, you’d have the patience of a saint. You’d know however hard
this is for you, it’s tenfold for me, and you wouldn’t just wait for me to tell
you what I need; you’d take initiative. You’d ask me. You’d ask my
therapist. You’d stop being such a freaking coward when it comes to my pain
and love me through it!”
I yank my hand out of his grasp and leave Ashton standing in our
bedroom. He doesn’t follow.
Irony. That’s what all of this is. That after years of being together, eight
months apart because I was being held captive by the devil is what breaks
Ashton’s trust in me.

I drive around Newton for hours, stuck in my head, trying to get out of
this maze of resentment. I want to be patient with Ashton, but it’s hard. I’m
working on my own twisted issues. I can’t hold his hand through how to
support me. I need that to be his job, his to figure out, so I can focus on
rebuilding myself.
Maybe that’s too much to ask. Maybe that’s not how this works and I’m
being selfish, but it’s what I need.
When I return home, the sun having set long ago, Ashton hasn’t moved.
He sits at the foot of our bed, head in his hands. When he looks up, his eyes
are bloodshot.
“You came back.”
My head tilts and I murmur, “Of course I came back. I just needed to cool
off.”
“Maeve, love. I’m so sorry. I should—”
“Why haven’t we had sex?”
“What?”
“Is it my body, the scars? What I went through? Are you not attracted to
me anymore? What is it?”
“What? Maeve. No.” He rushes to me, grabbing hold of my hands. “Are
you insane? You’re just as beautiful as the day we met, if not more. More
because of what you’ve survived. You’re a survivor, and I’m in awe of you
every day.”
“Then why, Ash?”
Taking a deep breath, he licks his lips. “You don’t talk about what
happened in there, and I get it. It was traumatizing. But I also didn’t know if
more happened than you let on. And I would rather die than cause you more
pain.”
Raped. He thinks I was raped. “Nothing like that happened to me. That
wasn’t his favored form of torture. It was always psychological or physical.
Never sexual.”
A trembling breath passes through his nose. “I should have asked. I’m
sorry.” His hands rise to my face as he bends, kissing beneath each one of my
closed eyes.
“I might be a little more broken than before, but I’m not fragile, Ash. It
was my biggest fear coming back to the real world, that no one would want
me. I need you to show me you still do.”
I need to know if I still want you, too.
“Oh, Maeve. I will always want you.” It takes him a moment, like we’re
two virgins experiencing our first time, fumbling with our touches and kisses,
but then he steps flush with me, chest to chest, hips to hips.
“So, this is okay?” His hands slip beneath the hem of my shirt, rising up
my bare spine as his lips meet mine.
I don’t want him to ask. I just want him to do as my husband did before,
but instead of asking too much of him too soon, I nod—and Ashton rids me
of all my clothes, one article at a time. Before getting far, he pulls back to
remove his glasses and tosses them on the bed behind him. Kissing along my
jaw and neck, nipping at my earlobe, he devours all the places he knows light
a fire in my core and curl my toes.
But it doesn’t slip my notice, Ashton’s mouth never once touches my scars.
 THIRTY
EIGHT

ledger

My cell phone rings, and I jolt awake. Since returning to the real world, I’ve
turned my phone on silent during the night to lessen the likelihood of being
startled, but I was so out of it last night, I must’ve forgotten. Not to mention,
it’s Saturday morning. Who’s calling me on a Saturday morning?
Facing Becca’s side of the bed, I notice the empty sheets. Unsurprising.
She mentioned an early yoga class this morning. Wiping the sleep from my
eyes, I snag the ringing chunk of technology and check the caller ID.
Rain Kennedy.
If the volume of my ring didn’t get my heart pumping, her name sure does.
“This is Ledger.”
“Ledger, morning. It’s Rain Kennedy. I’ve been up all night chasing a
lead, and I think I’ve got something, but I wanted to fill you in before I move
forward. It could be nothing.”
Clearing my throat, I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
“Go ahead.”
“I did some digging. A lot of digging, actually. That bunker you two were
held in was built in the late 1940s for a doomsdayer during the Cold War.
A…George Myers.”
She went way back in history. “How have the police not discovered this
yet?”
“Considering those kinds of records were before the digital age, they
might not have gone through the same avenues I did. The land’s been sold
several times since then. And the permit to have the bunker built was buried.
Let’s just say it was a long shot to follow this trail and come across the
permit. Though, maybe they’re aware but haven’t shared it with you yet
because it leads to a dead end. George died seventy years ago, suicide, and I
couldn’t find any living relatives until last night. While it’s changed
ownership, no one has lived on the property since then.”
“Yeah, the police mentioned the current owners couldn’t have had
anything to do with our capture, that they weren’t even aware of the bunker.”
They planned on tearing down the run-down house on the property and
building a new one, but they’ve had some financial issues that set them back.
They were even debating on selling the land.
“Which is possible, considering it sat under fifteen acres and how well
hidden it is by overgrowth, but I kept having this sixth sense feeling.
Someone else could have stumbled across the bunker, or it could be a relative
of a previous owner. So, I started with George. The only problem is dear old
George lost his wife in the late 1930s in a car accident, and their only son’s
trail of records ends when hers do, but I couldn’t find a death certificate. No
missing persons report. Nothing. A number of different things could’ve
happened. He could’ve died with her and a death certificate was never
created. Or he might’ve been put up for adoption after George’s wife died,
too overwhelmed with his grief to care for him or something. Back then
adoptions were pretty informal, so not very many records were kept. A lot of
the time babies were placed with anyone who wanted a child.”
Rain pauses, sighing into the phone. “Forgive my rambling. All of this to
say, I couldn’t find anything other than a date of birth and a name, Patrick
Myers—which unfortunately for us is pretty generic and could’ve changed.
Because I’ve come up empty handed, he could be anywhere. Possibly even
dead. He’d be almost a hundred years old by now. He could’ve had children
who had children, and any one of them could be our guy, but it’ll take me a
lot longer to track more information down, if I even can.”
“And what makes you so sure this won’t lead to another dead end?”
“I’ve been doing this for quite some time, and my gut never lets me down.
I looked into a few of the previous owners, but something in the pit of my
stomach keeps bringing me back to George’s line. It’s a trail the police
haven’t gotten far with, which means it might hold all of the answers.”
“Have you talked to Maeve about this?”
“I just got off the phone with her.”
Getting out of bed, I make my way to the bathroom. “Will you share this
with Detective Whitly?”
“I was about to call him. They don’t always listen because they hate
journalists poking around in active investigations, but I’ll see what I can do to
make sure the information is passed along.”
“I appreciate you keeping us in the loop, even if the information doesn’t
lead anywhere. It’s nice being included.”
The police keep their investigation pretty tightlipped, not wanting to give
false hope or risk us harassing whomever they’re investigating—and I
understand—but we can’t keep living like this. With no answers, always
looking over our shoulder, fearing that he’ll strike again.
“I’m not going to stop, Ledger. This is a speedbump. A large one, but I’m
not giving up just yet.”
“Thanks, Rain.”
“We’ll be in touch.”

Come Monday, I manage to make it an entire day at work without a single

setback, no flashbacks or panic attacks, and I’m riding on top of the world. It
was a regular day at the office. I forgot what that’s like.
As I head out at a decent hour, I tip my chin at my father in his glass-
walled office, and he offers a smile. Yeah, the man freaking smiles at me. It’s
closed-mouthed, but it’s a smile. He won’t be leaving any time soon, but he
agrees getting home to Becca is more important, so he doesn’t give me flak
for not putting in the extra hours like he used to.
Becca’s sitting at the kitchen table painting her nails when I get home.
“Hey, baby.” She raises her face to me, puckering her lips for a kiss.
I oblige with my hand cupping her neck. “How was your day?”
“Good, actually. I’ve been a little restless, so you’ll be proud to know I
sent in a resume. We’ll see if anything comes of it.”
 “Oh, yeah? Where at?” I toss my keys on the counter and loosen my tie.
“That place I’ve been doing yoga needs a new instructor. The one I have
right now is opening her own studio, so she’s leaving.”
“What does that all entail? Do you have the requirements to be a yoga
instructor?”
One shoulder shrugs. “While you were…away, I needed something to
keep my mind off of everything, so I completed a training course.”
“You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It hasn’t really come up, and I hadn’t planned on actually using it.”
“I’m proud of you, Becs.” I graze her cheek with the backs of my fingers.
“I think that’d be good for you.”
She smiles. “I think so, too.”
We’ve been more open since our discussion, and I think that contributed to
my good day. There wasn’t a dark cloud of Becca’s oblivion or my
internalized suffering hanging over me. Who knows? Maybe tonight will be
the night to try being intimate again.
“I’m gonna head upstairs to change out of my suit, then we can grab some
takeout. Sound good?”
“Won Won Kitchen?”
“Whatever you want. This calls for a little celebration.”
 THIRTY
NINE

maeve

It’s been a few days since I had lunch with my sisters, and Ashton and I
reconnected for the first time, but my mind can’t help returning to the way
Elva acted. Something is going on with her, and I have to get to the bottom of
it. She’s been pretty silent on the sister text thread since our lunch date, so I’ll
have to try another avenue.
Ashton and I didn’t finish our conversation, and I never prodded for more
about Elva. Maybe I should have, but then Rain called and I haven’t been
able to think about much else. She could be investigating the wrong lead, but
what if she’s not? Could she really be the one to crack our case wide open?
On my way home from the hospital, I take Elva’s exit on the freeway.
Calling her to let her know I’m coming would be the polite thing, but I want
to check my theory, and the only way I can do that is if I’m looking into the
eyes of my sister. Without her being able to prepare for me.
Taking a chance that she’s home, I knock on her front door and wait in the
cold. Above her stoop, like a cruel joke, a bulb in her porch light flickers.
Before my memories can take hold, I look down and close my eyes. Inhaling
and exhaling. Inhaling and exhaling.
 When the door swings open, my name is a wheeze. “Maeve.” I uncover
my eyes, but Elva doesn’t smile or hug me the way Eden would if I showed
up unannounced. Her head tilts and her eyes jump with surprise. “What are
you doing here?”
Nice hospitable greeting.
“I was just on my way home and thought I’d stop by. Is this a bad time?”
“No. Of course not.” She finally smiles and steps aside. “Come on in.”
While Elva and I have always been close, she’s not exactly the type to put
a person at ease. More the type of person to drag on long awkward pauses in
conversation and study you with her eyes. Not because she’s rude or wants to
make others uncomfortable; she’s just quiet and observant, an introvert to the
core.
I follow her inside, making our way to her kitchen. “Do you want anything
to drink? Water? Soda? A beer?”
“I’m good.” I settle onto one of her barstools as she rounds the kitchen
counter and gets herself a Diet Dr Pepper. “So, I talked to Ashton.”
Shifting her weight, Elva ruffles her brunette bangs and cracks open the
can. “Oh, yeah? And how did it go?”
“Fine. Not ideal, but it’s a step in the right direction.”
“So, you two…made up?” She takes a sip of the soda, covering the twitch
of her lips.
“Yes and no.”
“What does that mean?”
“We talked it through and finally made love, but there was still something
missing somehow.”
Her ears perk up like a Doberman Pinscher. “Missing what? Like passion
or…”
“No, he was passionate, but he didn’t touch me like he used to.” His mouth
never once dipped below my collarbone. His hands didn’t grip or take. They
hesitated and caressed. “I’m sure it’ll just require some time. For both of us.”
Nodding, she takes another sip, holding the can in front of her mouth as
her gaze drifts over my shoulder into the empty living room.
“But he finally kissed me like he used to instead of like a fragile flower, so
at least there’s that.”
She hums in response, but it’s a distracted noise, not an agreement.
“Elva…is there something you need to tell me?”
Her eyes dart to me. “Huh?”
 “You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I need to ask you something. Maybe I’m totally off base and I’ve lost my
mind, but…you haven’t been yourself lately.”
“Yeah.” She takes a deep breath. “Work has been emotionally draining. I
received a case a few months back that’s been a devastating one.”
“I thought that might have something to do with it. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, but you know, challenging cases come with the job.”
I nod. “For sure, but something else has been nagging at me, and I just
have to ask. Did something happen between you and Ashton before I was
rescued?”
With her brow puckered, her head shakes, but it’s too swift. Too adamant.
Not the head shake of someone who is baffled by such an accusation.
“Nothing. Okay. Then why are you acting so weird about him?”
“I’m not acting weird.”
I laugh without amusement. “You’re my big sister. I’ve known you my
whole life, and I can tell when something is off. We don’t lie to each other.
We’re always real with each other. I need to know. Did something happen
between you two?”
In an instant, tears fill her eyes and her chin meets her chest.
I hoped and prayed I was wrong. “Elva?” Her name trembles through my
larynx.
“Nothing happened. Not really.”
I wait, hands clasped in my lap, mouth sealed shut. I’ll wait as long as it
takes. She will break before I let her off the hook.
A tear falls when her gaze lifts to mine. “You were gone for so long, and
it’s hard when no one understands you. I know you can relate. My friends
never knew what to say. It didn’t take long before they began avoiding me
altogether. I stopped being the friend they knew and became a woman with a
deep, heavy void. Eden understood, and Ashton understood.
“Outside of Mom’s dinners, the three of us used to get together a lot and
reminisce about you, desperate to hold on to anything good, desperate not to
think of what was happening to you if you were alive, or what happened if
you weren’t.”
No longer able to look me in the eye, Elva stares beyond my shoulder.
“But there were nights Eden couldn’t come, so Ashton and I would hang out
without her. It was innocent, two people in need of solidarity, too scared to be
alone. We’d make dinner, watch movies, shoot the breeze. It was innocent, I
swear… Until it wasn’t.”
Ashton said they never slept together. Please, don’t tell me my husband
lied to me. Please.
Elva’s head drops, her index finger circling the rim of the soda can. “It
was a few weeks before you were found. One night while I was on my way to
meet them, Eden called and said she had to take on a double shift. She was
supposed to bring takeout from the bar, so when I got to the house, all we had
was the alcohol. We ordered pizza, but it was going to be another hour before
they delivered, so we drank and cried. And drank. Then we…kissed.”
Her lower lip wobbles as her flooded eyes break like a dam. “I wish I
could say it was the only time, but it happened again. And then again the
night before you were rescued. It never went beyond that, but it happened,
nevertheless. I’m so sorry, Eve.”
Kissed. It’s such a simple thing. We kiss our parents, our friends, our
children. And yet…when you hear your sister and your husband kissed, it
brings a whole new level of complicated betrayal. No, they might not have
had sex, but they might as well have. Because it wasn’t one kiss, or even two.
It was three. Three damn times.
The first could be explained away as the alcohol taking advantage.
Mistakes happen. Maybe the second was another bout of sadness and
loneliness. It’s not okay, but maybe I’d be able to move past it. But a third?
That’s intentional. And the night before we were found? My fists curl in,
nails biting my palms.
Remorse strains Elva’s voice. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with him,
Maeve. I’m not going to insult you further with a lie. Because I did. I fell in
love with Ashton. And it’s been too hard being around him, the two of you
together.”
Love. Did my sister just say she’s in love with my husband? I had to have
heard her wrong. She was the one who introduced us. She was the one who
set us up on that blind date. She’s the reason we found each other, and now
she’s going to tell me she’s in love with Ashton?
“We’ve never had a brother/sister type relationship, and the longer you
were gone, the less hope we had of you being alive, the harder it was to keep
from falling for him. I should’ve stopped spending time with him without
Eden once I understood what was happening, but I couldn’t. He was the only
good thing in my life when you were missing.”
 My eyes flit around the kitchen, my finger tugging on my earlobe. “So, at
lunch, when you said the situation isn’t cut and dry, and you’re allowed to
have complicated feelings… Really all you wanted was for me to give you a
pass.”
“No, Maeve. It’s not like that.”
I can’t listen to any more of this. Standing, I maneuver around the
barstool. “I have to go.”
“Wait. Please. Can we talk about this?”
“I need to think, and I can’t do that with you right now.”
“Don’t confront Ashton, please.” She trails after me. “Don’t make this a
thing. It’s not. It’s over. You came back, and he hasn’t spoken a word to me
since.”
Cracking open her front door, I stop and say over my shoulder. “Yeah, I
came back, but while I was gone, my husband fell in love with my sister and
forgot to tell me.”
“He didn’t.” Elva rushes forward as I walk out, but I don’t slow my pace.
“Maeve. Don’t tell Ashton. He doesn’t know how I feel. I swear he doesn’t
know.” Her voice grows louder the farther I get. “Please forgive me, Maeve.
I’m so sorry!”
Me, too.

With tears streaming down my face, I drive home. I have no idea if I break
speed limits or run red lights or stop signs. A bleary haze blankets my mind,
an endless loop of my husband and sister sitting on our couch—safe,
unharmed—bonding, falling, betraying. While I sat in a cold, dank cell
fighting for my life.
When I walk into the kitchen, Ashton sits alone at the bar. My unfilled
place beside his, pots and pans covered in lids wait on the stove, an
untouched bowl of salad in front of him.
He swivels around at the sound of my clacking heels on the wood floors
and bolts up, striding toward me. “Where have you been? You haven’t been
answering my calls or my texts. You can’t do that to me, Maeve. I’ve been so
worried about you. I almost called the police. I thought—”
“Are you in love with my sister?”
 Ashton blinks, coming to a halt. After digesting my question, he deflates,
shoulders sagging, eyes closing. His head swivels side to side. “Maeve. It’s
not what you think.”
“Not what I think? How do you even know which sister I’m talking about
if it’s not what I think?”
His eyes pop open, wide. Caught.
I take a deep breath. “If it’s not what I think then explain it to me because
it sounds like you gave up on me and turned to my sister for some comfort.”
“Nothing happened.” Both of his palms lift, placating. It only boils the
outrage in my veins. “Okay. That’s not entirely true. We kissed, but it never
went beyond that, and it didn’t happen right away. It took nearly the whole
time you were gone. It was a lapse in judgment, weakness when we were at
our lowest point, imagining the worst.”
“If this is supposed to make me feel better that my husband kissed my
sister, you’re doing a piss poor job.”
Ashton takes a step forward, but I take a step back. Getting the hint, he
doesn’t continue to pursue me. “We spent a lot of time together after you
went missing because no one understood what we were going through,
missing you, fearing for you. Endless sleepless nights and panic-filled days. I
know you went through hell, but it wasn’t all rainbows and butterflies for us.”
“So, you what? Decided I wasn’t worth waiting for, waiting for proof if I
was dead or alive before moving on?”
“Stop it, please. Do you hear yourself? It wasn’t like that.”
My voice amplifies. “Then tell me what it is like because I can’t wrap my
head around this.”
“Look, it wasn’t right. I won’t deny that, but you’re not so innocent
yourself. Don’t pretend like you don’t have feelings for him.” His snappy
comeback stops me short in my tirade. “I’ve kept my mouth shut, but I’m not
blind, Maeve.”
As much as I’d like to deny his accusation, I can’t. After what we went
through, I’ll always have feelings for Ledger. That kind of deep-seated bond
can never be severed. Not by anyone.
“Even if I do, it’s because for the majority of our captivity, I thought you
were dead. And he’s not your brother. We only had each other in that horrific
cement box. That’s it. Just the two of us for eight long months.”
“We thought you were dead, and it gutted us both!”
Ashton has never yelled at me before. A slight raise in volume, sure, but
never a flat-out, fuming shout. It takes me a moment to compose myself, but I
can’t bite back my words.
“The only difference is, I had what I thought was confirmation, and you
didn’t.” The grisly images shoved under the steel door of Ashton and Becca
pummel my brain, tears leaking, tremors coursing through me. “I saw you
lifeless, bleeding out on our kitchen floor. You have no idea what kind of
torture that is, to see and believe your spouse is dead.”
Tugging me against his chest, Ashton fists my shirt at my waist, his other
hand cradling my head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m not as strong as you.
The thought of what you went through, I can’t let myself dwell on it because
it makes me sick.”
“That’s the thing.” I pull back, tilting my head to look him in the eyes. “I
don’t have a choice. I can’t not dwell on my captivity because it makes me
sick. I can’t push it from my mind like it’s an inappropriate thought. The
memories are there day in and day out whether I fight against them or not.
I’m strong because I have to be. I fight against my demons every second of
every minute of the day so that I can live.”
Otherwise he’d find me rocking in a corner, drowning in my pain. But I
refuse to allow the puppeteer that triumph. He will not best me.
“Let’s just take a breath.” Ashton’s hand sweeps the moisture from my
cheek, curling my hair behind my ear. “We’ll grab some takeout, have a quiet
night in, bring back some normalcy.”
“No.” I push out of his grasp. “Because we won’t come back to this.
You’ll revert back into the non-confrontational man I’ve always known you
to be and pretend like none of this happened, just so we can go back to living
our ‘normal’ lives. But we can’t do that. Not anymore. Not when I know
you’re in love with my older sister.”
“It’s not— That’s not—” Shaking his head in frustration, Ashton takes a
couple steps back. “My feelings for Elva grew out of our fear and
desperation, out of missing you. It’s no different than what you feel for
Ledger.”
“No different? No different? Do not pretend to know what we went
through or how I feel. You and I did not experience the same trauma.”
“You’re not in love with him, Maeve. The same way I’m not really in love
with Elva. Your feelings were born from your mutual suffering, from
circumstance. Like you said, he was the only one you had. Elva was the only
one I had. It’s not true. It’s a false love. It’s something you clung to because
it was the only time you felt anything resembling happiness.”
My breath hitches.
“There were no romantic first dates, no sharing french fries and chocolate
shakes at Blue Plate Diner while listening to ’50s music on the jukebox,”
Ashton says.
No, there was Twenty Questions and Two Truths and a Lie with an
unsteady drip where we learned every detail about each other and he told me
he loved me.
“There was no holding your hair back while you puked because you got
the flu just in time for our first Christmas.”
No, there was holding me and tending to my every wound when the
puppeteer sliced up my body like a turkey on Thanksgiving.
“There were no late-night runs for forty-four-ounce Diet Cokes when you
needed a pick-me-up or slow dancing in the kitchen to Ed Sheeran to break
up your study sessions.”
No, there was snuggling close at night just to keep warm and sharing our
scraps of food or glasses of water on days when the other needed it more.
“There was no consoling and bonding after losing a child.”
The emptiest, coldest darkness throbs in my chest, more tears falling
without restriction. My baby. It’s so unfair to use our son against me.
No, with Ledger there was hysteria and despair when the puppeteer
separated us for weeks, only to finally be able to breathe again when we were
reunited.
But before, it wasn’t Ashton I was grieving. It wasn’t Ashton I needed. It
was my baby, and even after hearing of Ashton’s fabricated death, I never felt
as hollow as I did in those weeks without Ledger.
A cavern of shame rips open my heart like a grenade. How could I
possibly let that thought cross my mind? It’s the trauma talking, the betrayed
heart of a wife and sister.
“We’ve been through it all, Maeve. We have love built on enduring life
and hard work and devotion. No one can replace that.”
It’s true. They can’t. But when I think back on those parts of our life, I
don’t even recognize that woman. I’m not her. Will Ashton ever understand
the new me? Will I ever?
In one swift stride, Ashton snatches my face and locks our mouths.
Though my heart wants to flee, my body doesn’t fight him. Neither of us are
innocent. And I’m too drained to keep playing the whose-offenses-are-worse
game.
I’ve never been unsatisfied or felt unloved in our marriage. He’s never left
me wanting—until this moment. Until he unleashes this fierce, passionate
movement of flesh. A man’s desperate attempt to show his wife he’s not
giving up, a kiss to make her forget all other kisses. As if afraid I’ll put an
end to his Hail Mary if he doesn’t devour me first.
Ashton doesn’t waste a second. Tearing my top off, buttons flying. I
didn’t even know that was possible. His lips follow the curve of my jaw,
nipping as he goes, a ravenous rampage of tongue and teeth.
“I love you, Maeve,” he gasps, a heated whisper. “I love you so much.”
I feed off of his intensity, ridding him of his shirt and pants. As his mouth
marks a path across the swell of my heaving breasts, I drag his lips back to
mine.
Spark fervor in my heart, I beg. Spark flames in my veins. Give me the
will to fight for this crumbling marriage.
Sweeping our plates aside until they crash onto the floor, Ashton hoists
me onto the kitchen island, positioning me in the V of his thighs until we
connect. As he moves in a lost rhythm, I realize this isn’t a man I’m familiar
with. It’s like making love to a stranger. The deep crease between his eyes of
untamed…anger? Agony? Awe? All of it?
I close my eyes against the force of passion. It’s heart wrenching.
Powerful. Excruciating.
Too much.
This is my husband, but it’s not. He’s desperation encased in flesh and
blood and bones, clawing to be free.
I take it all. His collision of frantic adoration and emotive punishment. If
this is what he needs right now, I’ll give it to him. No matter the price of the
fallout. Because there will be an inevitable fallout after a heated round of
anger-driven sex. Even with the underlying love, this is not the man I
married.
But I guess I’m not the woman he did, either.
We kiss like we’re at war, but are we fighting on the same side? We
clutch and gasp and tumble over the edge until all that remains is our ragged
breath and lingering storm of sorrow.
It’s painful. It’s beautiful.
It’s over.
Ashton’s forehead drops to my shoulder, his lip brushing my damp skin.
“We can get through this, Maeve. We can get through anything.”
Then why did that feel like clinging to the last thread instead of
possession?
 FORTY

ledger

Opening the garage door, I note that the space for Becca’s white Audi is
empty. Huh. She had her interview for the yoga instructor position a couple
hours ago, but she should’ve been home by now. I’m an hour later than I said
I’d be, but I did text to let her know. Though, I wouldn’t put it past her to
make a little shopping trip to reward herself. She hates interviews.
When I walk inside, the alarm blares, and I type in the code to shut it off.
Stepping farther inside, I see that the lights are all on in the house, which is
weird she didn’t turn them off before leaving, but nothing seems out of place.
“Becs?”
The only response I get is the hum of our heater to take the edge off the
late February chill. I shoot off another text to find out where she is, tossing
my keys on the counter, and head upstairs. In our walk-in closet, I loosen my
tie and shrug off my suit coat when my cell phone rings from my pocket.
Sliding it out, expecting Becca’s face, I freeze when her name appears.
Rain Kennedy.
“This is Ledger.”
“I wanted to let you know I tracked down more. Are you sitting down?”
I’m not, but she doesn’t wait before continuing. “George Myers’ son Patrick
was in fact adopted, but it was nothing official. George had a younger sister
who took him in. She was married, so he became Patrick Keller after she
unofficially adopted him. He’s passed on, but he had a few children. After
following each line, one of his son’s family stood out. Lucas Keller has a son
named Grant.” If those names are supposed to sound familiar to me, they
don’t. “Lucas was bound to a wheelchair after a freak accident seven years
ago, but his son, Grant, is alive and well. Or maybe not so well. He lost his
wife and newborn child two years ago.”
Two years ago? Okay…
“And about six months later, his mom died. An aggressive form of ALS.
With his dad in a wheelchair, Grant was her main caregiver. Compiling with
the loss of his wife and baby, that might’ve been a trigger.”
My heart lurches. “Are you saying you found the guy?”
“Maybe. I couldn’t get the medical records unsealed, but after speaking
with Lucas’s younger sister, I discovered Grant spiraled after he lost his
family, hit the bottle hard. He blamed the doctor.”
An ice pick to the gut. “Who was the doctor, Rain?”
“She couldn’t remember the name, but she knew the hospital. Newton
General.” Maeve’s hospital.
I latch on to the door frame to steady myself.
“And get this. Grant was born in Brisbane, Australia.” My knees give way,
but I lean against the doorway, white-knuckling the trim. “Lucas and his wife
moved there for a job, and they didn’t return to the states until Grant’s
sophomore year in high school, where he met his wife, Jillian. High school
sweethearts. They were together for fifteen years.”
“Have you told Maeve?”
Rain pauses for too long. “I haven’t been able to get a hold of her.”
Adrenaline kicks in, straightening me as I push off the door. “I have to go.
I have to get to Maeve. Damn it. I don’t have her phone number.”
“Slow down, Ledger. I’m not done. Grant is a vet tech, works for a Dr.
Hansen in Belmont. He’d have ketamine readily available.”
“Call Detective Whitly.”
“Already done, but I’m keeping you in the loop because I know they won’t
until they’ve got him, and you should lay low until we know for sure.
They’re doing their own background check, but if my research checks out—
and I know it will—they’ll head straight to his house.”
“Thank you, Rain.”
“I don’t need thanks. Let’s just nail this bastard. Oh, and I’ll text you
Maeve’s number, so you can try to get ahold of her, too.”
Her text comes through seconds later after hanging up, and I immediately
dial Maeve. No answer. Why isn’t she answering? I shoot off a text.

Me: It’s Ledger. Rain has information on the puppeteer. His name is
Grant Keller. Call me ASAP or I’m coming to you.

Tapping away on my phone, I search online for different combinations of

Maeve’s name and hospital and current city, hoping to find a home address or
something, anything.
Rain found a connection to Maeve, but what’s his connection to me? So
caught up in worrying about Maeve, I didn’t even think to ask. Maybe a
business deal gone wrong with Abbott Industries? My father’s list of enemies
isn’t short, but what could a tech company do to cause a death? A reason to
believe I’m responsible for the death of an innocent life?
Honestly, it doesn’t matter right now. Scrolling through the searches that
pull up, I can’t calm my thrashing heart. Nothing is helpful. She probably
took every bit of private information off the internet like I did. Most reporters
are vultures. Maybe Detective Whitly would give it to me. I’ll call him on my
way out.
I pat my pockets. Keys. Where are my keys? What if there’s something
wrong, and that’s why she’s not answering her phone? And here I am missing
my damn keys.
Take a breath. Think logically, Ledger. Maeve’s an OBGYN who’s
probably on a shift. She could be in the middle of delivering a baby. I don’t
need to jump to conclusions. I need to be smart. Be patient.
I can’t be patient where Maeve is concerned. I’ve seen her almost die too
many times. If she’s in danger, if my interference could prevent her from
getting hurt, I have to do it.
My phone rings from my hand. A restricted number. Normally I’d let it go
to voicemail, but after Rain’s call, I answer.
“This is Ledger.”
“Miss me?” Two words. That’s all it takes for the oxygen to knock from
my lungs.
That voice.
I know that voice.
“Grant Keller.”
 “Congratulations. You figured out who I am.”
I wish I could say I stood with a firmness in my own home, but it takes
everything in me not to cripple, to slip into that concrete hell on the carpet of
my bedroom floor.
“I’m going to make this quick, mate. I’m sitting here with the one you
chose to live over your wife, but I’m afraid she doesn’t have much longer.”
I drop to my knees.
“I’m going to send you an address, and you’re going to get in your car and
drive here now.”
And then the phone goes dead. I check my screen—CALL ENDED. A
second later, an address pops up in a text—a Newton address—with an
attached message.

Come alone. No police. Get here if you want to see her alive one last time.

I don’t think twice. In the top drawer of my dresser, I grab my Glock. Over
and over, Becca and I discussed the need for firearms in our home after
everything went down. She’d been so against the idea, but a couple weeks
ago, I bought one without her knowledge. And thank the Almighty I did.
Speeding across town, I have no idea how I make it from point A to point
B. One second I’m backing out of my curved driveway and the next I’m
swerving into a short, cracked drive in front of a two-story brick house.
Without another car in sight, I search for anything else out of place, but all is
quiet in this suburban neighborhood.
No seatbelt to unbuckle, I fly out of the driver’s side and run to the front
door. I don’t bother with knocking. I press the lever and let myself in. A long,
low-lit entry hall greets me, but I don’t hear a single voice.
The click of the front door already made my presence known, so I call out,
“Maeve?”
Silence.
Closing the door behind me, I make my way down, gun in hand leading
the way. But when I reach the end, something cold and hard presses to the
side of my skull, and every artery and vein halt their flow.
“So happy you could finally join us, Abbott.” The puppeteer’s voice
petrifies me in place. “Drop the gun.”
Resisting at first, he jams the barrel into my head. “Do it now. I won’t ask
again.”
 I crouch and lower my 9mm to the floor.
“Kick it to me.”
I do as he says, and Grant bends, picking up the gun before tucking it into
the back of his pants. Standing to his full height, he’s no longer disguised.
Copper hair and gray eyes slice through me. His crooked smile is one that’s
always hidden behind a mask, and yet is no less familiar.
“Join the rest.” He points to a spacious room on my right with two leather
couches and a soaring fireplace, but I don’t see anyone until I turn the corner.
Maeve’s eyes lock with mine from against a family photo-collaged wall. On
either side of her are her husband and my wife.
“Becs?”
She doesn’t say a word, her pale face and swelling chest saying it all.
What is she doing here? Why didn’t he tell me she was here?
I’m sitting here with the one you chose to live over your wife.
Becca’s eyes collide with mine, and it doesn’t take more than a broken
glisten of her eyes.
She heard him. She knows what I did, what I said.
“I knew keeping this little detail to myself would pay off in the end. And
what do you know, I was right. Your face is priceless. Go. Next to your
wife.” He directs me forward with the barrel of his gun against my spine.
As I walk, my eyes connect with Maeve again, and a thousand words pass
between us. All I can do is nod, even though every gut instinct is begging me
to take her in my arms for this one last puppeteer game.
Shoved to the end next to Becca, I murmur, “Becs. Let me—”
“Don’t,” she whispers, half betrayal, half anguish.
Grant pulls a silencer from the front pocket of his pants, twisting the long
cylinder onto the end. My pinky locks with hers, but she wrenches her hand
away. One corner of his mouth curves in a callus smile, and I loop an arm
around Becca’s waist, pushing her behind me.
As much as I hated that damn mask, being able to look the puppeteer in
the eyes, I prefer the neon skull to the evil dripping from his pores.“The
police know who you are.” I clear the terror from my voice, faking
confidence. “It’s only a matter of time before they track you here. If you
leave now, maybe you’ll get a head start.”
“Oh, I’m aware.” His black boots track dirt along Maeve’s wood floors as
he saunters back and forth, his head tilting as he examines each of us. “When
I pulled onto my street after doing some grocery shopping for my dad, a fleet
of officers were swarming my house. I decided if I’ve finally been caught, it
was time to pay you all a visit, to finish this at long last.”
Unpredictable, he maneuvers around the living room, and impulse slides
me closer to Maeve, keeping my arm behind me on Becca. “You know, I
didn’t really get a chance to tour the place the last time I was here. Must be
nice being able to buy anything you want.”
“Just leave. Please,” Ashton speaks. “We’ve been through enough. You
can take whatever you want, and just go.”
I step in for Ashton because if he thinks offering the man some money will
set us free, he’s living in another universe. “We won’t tell the police you
were here. You can run, scot-free. Just walk out of this house and never come
back. This can be over, our little secret.”
A dark humored snort puffs from his nose. “Your begging and bargaining
is just as grating on my nerves as before. I don’t give a rat’s ass who you tell.
Catch me or not, as long as I get what I came here for tonight.”
“Then do what you want with me and leave the rest of them alone.”
“No.” Maeve is resolute. “I’m the reason for all of this. You want me. Let
the rest of them go.”
Damn it, woman. “Stay out of this, Maeve.” We talked about this in that
prison. No more heroics from her.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Her eyes remain on Grant, even as her jaw
quivers and she clenches her teeth. “This has more to do with me than you.”
“You don’t know that yet. I will not let him hurt you again.”
“Ah. A lover’s quarrel. How do you two like getting a taste of what I saw
between your spouses while we lived together?” His stare drifts from Ashton
over my left shoulder. Becca shifts, the warmth of her closer to my back.
“You got more than a taste on our way here. I told you it was irrefutable in
person.”
“Don’t talk to her.” My voice is granite. Hard, but still breakable.
His head knocks back as booming laughter thunders. “So protective, so
protective. Interesting. So, you’re this way with all of your women, not just
the ones you fall in love with in abandoned bunkers.”
“I swear if you lay one finger on my wife—”
“You’ll what, Abbott?” He points the gun at me. “You still haven’t
followed through on all of your threats from our home underground.”
“I’m not the frail man I was in that hell. Don’t test me.”
“Test you?” He advances, leaving only a few feet between us. “I’m the one
with the gun. One pull of the trigger, and you’re gone before you can take a
single step, but I’d hate to do that before we air out all of our grievances
first.”
“Then answer one question. You at least owe me an explanation before
you end this. Why me?”
“Why you? Excellent question. Where should we begin?” Eyes sliding
over my left shoulder again, his fixation doesn’t waver from Becca until he
snaps again. His manic laughter is an explosion, volatile and reverberating.
“He has no clue, does he?”
What?
“Oh, this is pure poetry.” He slow-claps, gun dangling like a pendant.
“And I get a front row seat. Do you want to tell him or should I? Oh, please
let me, angel. Please.”
Not wanting to take my eyes off of him for long, I glance back at Becca’s
uneasy stare before focusing on him again. “What is he talking about?”
Pressing her chest to my back, her voice quakes. “I don’t know. He’s a
psychopath. You said so yourself.”
Grant’s eyebrow rises. “Oh, that’s how you’re going to play it? After all
we’ve been through.” He tuts.
I step away from my wife, angling myself so I have a view of both of
them. “Someone tell me what the hell is going on.”
A wicked twinkle inflames his eyes, a twisted smirk screwing the edge of
his mouth, but he still eyes Becca. “It’s comical how you believe you’re
going to get away with acting like I mean nothing to you.” It’s as if I don’t
exist. Grant stalks closer, and I fight against the instinct to shield her, my
need to understand stronger. “You cut me off. You really thought I was going
to let you come play house with him again? If the cops hadn’t come for me, I
was coming for you either way.”
“You’re a monster.” Horror laces her insult.
“What does that have to do with this?” His arm fans out. “I know you
made that call, Rebecca. I didn’t want to believe it after everything, but
you’re the only one who could have. And something’s been nagging me.
How did you manage to find them?”
It takes not one but two heavy breaths for his confession to sink in.
“Becca?” How I have a voice, I don’t know, but it croaks on her name.
Glare locked with his, the mild scar above Becca’s top lip twitches, but she
doesn’t refute his accusation.
 Like a vault combination, more revelations fall into place. Schlink, schlink,
click. “You made the anonymous call? You knew where Maeve and I were?
How?”
Raw agony stirs with remorse in her stare as she turns to me. I don’t
recognize this woman. Nothing about her but the rose gold ring on her left
hand. “Ledger.” My name is a whispered plea.
“What is going on?” I reach out, but she steps back—of all the fights and
comments we’ve hurled at each other throughout our relationship, this one
step away cuts the deepest. “I don’t understand. Is this some sort of
Stockholm syndrome? Did he do more to you than you said he did the night
he took me? Keep in contact with you? Feed you lies about me or
something?”
“I—”
When she doesn’t continue, Grant curls his fingers toward himself.
“C’mon, angel. Why don’t you come on this side with me. It’s where you
belong, and we can discuss how you figured me out.”
Her head shakes, eyes flooding.
“Now, Rebecca,” he shouts.
“It was never supposed to turn out this way.” She doesn’t move. “You
were never supposed to do what you did.”
Grant advances, stopping a foot away. “If you hadn’t made that call,
they’d both have been wiped off the face of the earth by now and we
wouldn’t be in this predicament. He never had to know. You brought him
back and now you have to deal with the fallout.”
“Becs?” A breath, a fissure.
And then she breaks. “You were supposed to kill him, not torture him!”
I don’t— I can’t—
“And I would’ve gotten the job done, and you’d have eventually gotten
your money if you’d let me. But I’ll forgive your mistake if you right your
wrong.”
“Forgive me?” She holds her ground even as a river streams down her
face. “You took it too far, Grant. It stopped being about him and more about
your demented pleasure or whatever the hell is wrong with you. And you
brought an innocent woman into it? You said nothing about hurting the
doctor.”
“That’s my business! She killed my wife and daughter.”
“She didn’t kill them. They died in childbirth!”
 Grant backhands Becca, sending her to the ground, and it’s the most
disorienting turmoil. My instinct to go to her versus hesitation after trying to
piece together her involvement.
“Was it my father?” he demands. “Did he tell you where to find me?”
Holding her cheek, she peers at him from the floor, her eyes lined with
hatred. “He said you’d been gone a lot over the last year, that if you didn’t
want to be found, you’d go to your great grandfather’s bunker. That that’s
where you went a lot after Jillian died.” Her breath snags on a cry. “I had to
know why you were avoiding my questions and calls, so I followed the
address he gave me. Deep down I knew something was off, so I parked down
the road and went on foot. I watched you force them to dig their own graves.”
There’s a woman at my feet with long brown waves and coffee eyes, but
she’s not the woman I fell in love with. She’s not my wife.
I don’t know who this woman is.
 FORTY
ONE

maeve

The moment Becca showed up on our doorstep, my gut told me something

was off, the poorly concealed edge in her eyes. Edge of anger or edge of fear,
I didn’t know until Grant showed himself, emerging from a blind spot on our
camera with a concealed gun aimed at her side, I thought maybe Becca came
to confront me. The same way I had Elva. She’d have every right, but once
Grant grabbed her arm and charged inside, having used her as a decoy, I
wished we’d never opened the door.
Though I never imagined she’d be in on this, too.
Having left my phone on silent upstairs to unwind after work and be
present with Ashton, he saw her on his phone through the security app
heading up our walk. I was ready to defend myself with words, not weapons.
My gun is still tucked inside my purse in the kitchen, too far to sneak away.
And as soon as Grant saw Ashton’s phone, he pocketed it. We have nothing.
Nothing to defend ourselves or call for help. All I can do is stand by and
watch Ledger’s world unravel.
“This can’t be right.” I can’t bear the strangled disbelief in Ledger’s voice.
“But the blood, your screams, you were tied to that chair in our kitchen. You
said he beat you with a bat. It was all so real.”
Her hand drags under her nose as she stands. “We had to make it
believable. Eliminate me from the suspect list. So, Grant did rough me up. I
thought it was strange he took pictures, but I had no idea he was going to use
those images against you. And I had no idea he recorded my voice.”
“You…You helped him plan all of this? From the very beginning, you
were in on this.”
Ashton’s hand grips my wrist, halting my urge to step forward when
Becca’s nostrils flare, anger infiltrating her shame. “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand!”
Grant shoves the gun against Ledger’s forehead, and his eyes close, hands
raised in surrender. “That’s enough from you.”
When Grant steps back, Ledger’s eyes reopen, and he finds my gaze, our
only steady ground. We’ve been here before. Helpless, at the mercy of a
lunatic. Only I never dreamed we would be at the hands of the puppeteer
again, or Ledger’s wife.
It’s too painful seeing him watch his life disintegrate at his feet. Becca is
not my fight, but he deserves to understand, so I focus on Grant. “Are you in
love with her? Is that what this is? Kill two birds with one stone. Torment the
woman you feel is responsible for your family’s death, and get rid of the
husband to be with the woman you were having an affair with?”
“What a pathetic cliché. Of course not.” Grant scoffs. “That’s only
partially true.”
“Were you having an affair with my wife or not? It’s a simple question,”
Ledger snaps.
With a nonchalant tilt of his shoulders, Grant rolls his eyes. “Technically
you were having an affair with her. She was mine long before she was
yours.” And then Grant yanks Becca into his side, burying his face in her
neck. She cringes away, but there’s more to her eyes. While she might be just
as terrified of the puppeteer, there’s more we don’t understand. If I knew her
better maybe I’d be able to deduce what’s going on, but she’s a solid-colored
jigsaw puzzle.
“You son of a bitch.” Ledger charges.
In one swift motion, Grant swings around and bashes Ledger upside the
head with the butt of the gun, dropping him to his knees before shoving him
to my feet.
I gasp and sink down, cradling Ledger’s head. A trickle of scarlet oozes
from a cut on his eyebrow. “You okay?”
He winces against the hammering I’m sure is wreaking havoc inside his
head. “I’m fine.” Accepting my help, he gets to his unsteady feet and faces
them.
Ashton reaches for my hand again, curling his fingers around mine, a
slight tremor in his touch as he tugs me closer to his side, away from Ledger.
“You good, princess?” Grant cocks his head. “Think you can stand on
your own? If it’s too much, we could have Rebecca grab you a chair.”
Ledger grunts but says nothing, pinning Grant with a lethal stare.
“How can you pretend like you care about what he is to me?” Becca cries
as Grant cinches a possessive grip on her waist. “Ever since you returned
home, all you’ve done is pine after Maeve.”
I suck in a breath, and Ashton’s hold on me tenses. Not tighter, not
stronger—stiff. As reflexive as if she’d smacked him. Do her words mirror
his feelings? I squeeze his hand, a reassurance. I can’t break away from my
connection to Ledger. That love is part of me now, as significant as the air in
my lungs and the beat of my heart, but I can show my husband I’m here. I’ll
stand by him.
“I tried being patient, giving you time, but you’re never going to stop
loving her. You didn’t even know where I was tonight when you got home,
but you sure were concerned about getting to her.”
Without even using my name, somehow she makes her sound like
profanity, and I flinch.
Betrayal bleeds from Ledger. “And obviously I shouldn’t have been
concerned since you’re clearly not in danger. You’re on his side.”
“I’m on no one’s side but my own. I didn’t agree to everything he did to
you. And he kidnapped me after my interview today, but you weren’t rushing
around town looking for me, worried why I hadn’t called or texted.”
Ledger’s breath pulsates as he exhales. “I endured the unimaginable to
remain faithful to you, and you wanna throw my concern for Maeve’s safety
in my face?”
“You didn’t do that for me. I know you, Ledger. I’m your wife. You did
that for yourself, fearing you’d become attached to a woman who might not
survive, another woman you might lose. First your mother, then me. I’d have
accepted your physical infidelity to stay alive, but what you did was so much
worse. You chose her over me. Her life for mine.”
“Enough!” Ledger surges forward, and Ashton holds me in place when I
attempt to reach for him again. “What is wrong with you, Becca? What is so
freaking distorted in your head that you tried to have me killed? And for
what? My money?”
“The fact that you have zero clue shows how truly entitled and self-
absorbed you are.”
“Just tell me, damn it!”
“You’re the reason my little sister is dead!”
 FORTY
TWO

ledger

A vase could drop on asphalt and it’d be quieter than the tension cramming
this house, than the pandemonium inside my head.
As if surprising herself with the accusation, Becca gasps, clutching her
chest.
“There it is, angel.” The puppeteer rubs her arm. “Let it out.”
My fingers press to my temples as I grapple with everything unfolding. I
don’t— “Becca, you don’t have any family, and I’ve never killed anyone in
my life.”
Has she lost it? Has my wife lost her damn mind, and I’ve been completely
clueless? Too consumed with my own trauma to notice hers? She had to have
gone insane to willingly align herself with the puppeteer.
“November second, 2010,” she whispers.
It’s a date that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but me. How does she
know that date?
“You and your brother were driving home from a party. Amelia Shaw was
walking home from a friend’s house. As she was crossing the street, you
didn’t bother stopping, hitting her without a single skid mark.”
 No. No. No.
“She was thirteen years old, and the saddest part of it all, she didn’t die
instantly. If you’d called 9-1-1 before calling dear old Daddy, Amelia might
still be here today.”
No. This doesn’t make sense. I’ve never told Becca about that night, never
confided in anyone. And my father paid exorbitant amounts of money to keep
our names out of the press.
“How do you know any of this? You’re Rebecca Pyne. You’re my wife.
You grew up in foster care. Your parents died when you were five years old.”
A hollowness snatches her eyes. “After we lost Amelia, my parents
spiraled. My dad had a buddy in the police department who fed him the
reports, your names, but knowing who your family is, knew we couldn’t
afford to go after you. He couldn’t take the loss, the powerlessness of not
being able to seek justice for his baby girl. He gave into a severe depression,
refused to leave his bed, lost his job. My parent’s marriage crumbled. Within
a year he put a bullet in his head. It didn’t take long for my mom to follow,
drinking herself to death. I was fifteen when Amelia died, seventeen when I
lost the rest of my family.”
“Becs,” I utter.
“So, yes. I’m an orphan. I didn’t lie to you about that, and I was in foster
care, but it was only for a year, not for most of my life. As soon as I turned
eighteen, I took control of my life. Got the hostess job at that little Italian
restaurant I told you about, and fended for myself. And then by some twisted
turn of fate, one day I saw you grocery shopping at Sprouts downtown. It’d
been so long since I’d seen a picture of you. I wasn’t positive it was you, so I
followed you home and did more research online. Day after day, I got to
know your routine, so I could bump into you or create an organic meeting.”
Her mischievous brown eyes across the café table flash in my mind. “That
day at the coffee shop.”
“No one was bothering me, I just needed to grab your attention.”
“Why didn’t you just confront me? Talk to me? We could’ve figured this
out. You don’t know the full story.”
“Because you took everything from me!” Fury and heartache weave like
threads as more tears fall. “I wanted to ruin your life, everything you loved.
But your mom was already dead and so was your precious baby brother. You
don’t even have a relationship with your father to ruin.”
After everything that’s poured from her vile mouth, this shouldn’t hurt as
much as it does, but somehow I can’t force words out to stop her.
“I met Grant one night when I was out with some old friends from high
school after his wife died. Before I met you. He shared his story, so I shared
mine. The real one.”
The puppeteer forms his body to Becca’s back, resting his chin on her
shoulder. “After she told me she found you, I came up with a brilliant idea.
Marry you, murder you, then take all of your money. The triple M’s. I
thought it was rather clever, myself.”
“Ledger, I swear I had no idea he kept you and tortured you. I never would
have agreed to something so horrific. I swear on my life.”
I can’t do it. I can’t listen to anymore. “Rebecca. Stop. Talking.” I knead
my temples. “I wasn’t driving the car that night.”
“What?”
My chest heaves as I lift my heavy head. “The night your sister was killed.
I wasn’t driving the car. Holden was.”
“No, that’s impossible.” She rakes a hand through her hair, a nervous tick
she’s done since the very first day we met. “That’s not what the police report
said. He wasn’t even old enough to drive.”
“Oh, this is good,” the puppeteer murmurs, but I block him out.
“Holden was too high to function when he stormed out of that party and
climbed into my car. I tried stopping him, but he refused to get out and
locked the driver’s side door. I did the only thing I could. I climbed into the
passenger’s seat before he could take off without me.”
Her head shakes, as if believing the harder she denies it, the less my words
will be true. Her question wobbles, “What are you saying?”
My vision blurs with unshed tears, every repressed regret and memory of
that night surfacing. “He was driving like a lunatic—speeding, all over the
road—crying and screaming about being a disappointment, about my dad
hating him, how our mom was the only person in the world who loved him,
and she was gone. He wasn’t in his right mind.”
Becca says nothing as her face becomes a deluge, her head never slowing
its disbelief.
“It was the middle of the night, and Amelia was in dark clothes. Even if
Holden wasn’t high and knew how to drive, I don’t know if he would have
seen her. I didn’t until it was too late. I tried getting him to stop, to take the
wheel, but he yanked it the other way, not understanding why I was trying to
take control.”
 The thud of her body crashing into the windshield was the precipice of
every nightmare before the puppeteer’s torture chamber hijacked my nights.
“After Amelia was hit, Holden freaked. We got out of the car to check on
her, but she wasn’t breathing and I couldn’t find a pulse. I swear we thought
she was already gone. I couldn’t let Holden take the fall. He was already such
a mess, I knew if my brother got arrested we would lose him forever. So, I
told the cops I was driving. I had a clean record, and I was a designated
driver that night, so I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol. My dad hired the best
lawyers to keep me out of juvie, making it a horrible accident.”
“I know. House arrest and community service. It was a laughable ruling
for vehicular manslaughter, but I don’t believe you. You just don’t want to
admit the truth. You can’t face what you did, killing an innocent girl. A girl
who’d never even had her first kiss, who will never know what it’s like to be
in love.”
“I’ve done my share of lying in this life, but I’m telling you the truth,
Becca. Holden couldn’t bear the guilt of me taking the wrap for him, of
taking her life, so he took his own.”
“No. Shut up. You’re lying!”
“Believe what you want, but if Holden hadn’t gotten behind the wheel that
night, he’d still be alive. And so would Amelia, for that I’m so sorry. Nothing
will ever express how sorry I am for her death.”
Her hands grip the roots of her hair, head shaking. “I don’t want to hear it.
You can’t be telling me the truth. Because that would mean…”
“I’m not who you think I am.”
“You are!” Cascades spill from her eyes. “You should’ve stopped Holden,
jumped on the hood of the car, taken the keys. You should’ve called 9-1-1
first. You should’ve performed CPR. ANYTHING. Anything but what you
did.”
“Are you trying to justify what you’ve done in the name of your sister’s
life? Rebecca, you lied to me, you married me. For over a year you made the
decision to betray and fool me every single day. You allowed that man to do
unspeakable things to me. You made me believe you were dead.”
One blink, lips pressed closed, fighting a quiver. “And yet you’re still
standing and she’s not.”
“Not for long,” the puppeteer murmurs, and I’m this close to charging him.
“I’m not going to defend what Holden and I did, but what happened in no
way excuses what you did to me and Maeve. Nothing could ever excuse the
damage you’ve done.”
“I don’t know what… I don’t know what to believe.” She cries, staggering
when Grant grips her elbow, hooking his arm around her waist. “But I
realized I made a mistake, and I tried to fix it. I called in that tip as soon as I
found out he was holding you.”
“How is that any better than having him murder me for money?”
“It’s not. I know, but you’re far from innocent. He showed me footage of
you. As we were driving here, he forced me to listen to what you said your
last night with him. How are you any better than me? You chose her! If I’d
been standing there, she’d be alive and I’d be dead.” Shattered torment
shrouds the distressed lines of her face. “You didn’t even mourn me!”
“I mourned you every damn day!” One step and another, I close the
distance between us, lowering my voice. “And it turns out I never should
have.”
In less than a second, heartbreak turns to outrage, and she shoves me. “I
saved you! You wouldn’t have lasted another day in there. Grant was going
to kill you! You should be thanking me!”
“Do you hear yourself right now? Rebecca, you were going to let a man
kill me and you want me to thank you because after eight months of endless
torture you found out and called the police? Eight months, Rebecca. Where
did you think my body was? Did you ever think to ask?”
Shaking her head, her nostrils flare. “I asked him over and over, but there
was always an excuse. He couldn’t move the body yet, he needed to find a
place to dispose of you that wouldn’t connect to him. He—”
I can’t believe I’m listening to this. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You’re what’s wrong with me. You destroyed my life, took everything
away from me, Ledger Abbott.”
My throat bobs on a hard swallow, my mouth pinched. “I may have lied
about driving that day, but you destroyed your life all on your own. Our life.
So, congratulations Rebecca Pyne. You got what you wanted.”
She’s nothing but tears and snot as she trembles.
“As devastating as these confessions are, we really need to wrap this up.”
The puppeteer cracks his neck, holding his gun to my head.
Becca swipes at her ruddy cheeks. “Grant, what are you doing?”
“It’s only a matter of time before the cops track me here, and I can’t listen
to the two of you babble any longer.”
“I need more time. I need more facts. What if he never deserved to die?”
She turns, placing herself between me and the puppeteer. “I’m not going to
let you kill him.”
“Are you insane?” He pauses, but not for long. “You are. He knows what
you did! What we did. You’re going to let him tell the police?”
“Maybe it’s what I deserve.” Her shoulders shake with racking wails. “Do
you realize what I had you do? What if he’s innocent?”
Stepping back, the barrel still aimed at my head, he shifts and pulls my
Glock from the back of his waistband. “This squabble is giving me a
headache. Rebecca, angel, you had so much potential. And now you have to
die, too. Pity.”
I don’t know what comes over me. Human instinct? An unexplainable
love?
“No!” As the gun goes off, I lunge, wrapping my arms around Becca, and
take her to the ground, but he’s faster. Wetness spreads beneath my hands. I
roll her to her back, hovering above. “Becs?”
Blood pours from her stomach as she blinks up at me. “I’m so sorry,” she
rasps.
 FORTY
THREE

maeve

“Well, that’s that. Why don’t we let Ledger suffer for a little longer and move
on?” Grant converges on me, gun in each hand, and Ashton clasps tighter to
my hand. “You know why I’m here. You killed my wife and my daughter.”
Darting my eyes back and forth from Ledger—who is pressing his hand
over his wife’s bullet wound—to the puppeteer with nothing behind his gray
eyes, I murmur, “Grant, there’s nothing—”
“Shut up!” He directs the guns at my chest. “I heard you, Doc. You were
trying to convince Jill to leave me. What kind of a doctor manipulates a
woman who’s about to have a baby?”
I breathe through my nose, struggling to jump from one tragedy to the
next. “The kind who has the best interest of her patients at heart. It was my
responsibility to report her injuries. You think I didn’t notice the bruises? The
healing split lip? The black eye?”
“That was none of your concern!”
I don’t know where I gain the courage after watching him take out Becca,
but my voice doesn’t waver. “As a healthcare professional, and a woman who
supports women, I’d never lie about something like that. What would I gain?
All I wanted to do was help Jillian and the innocent life she was about to
bring into this world.” And the saddest part is, she refused to leave Grant,
giving every excuse in the book about how he was a good man; she just made
him mad sometimes. How he didn’t used to be like this. How she deserved it.
Maybe if Jillian had survived, held that soft, defenseless bundle in her arms,
she’d have found the strength to leave.
“You purposely let them die to keep them away from me.”
Flashes of that day in the OR blind me. The urgency. The shouts. The
chaos. The flatlines. The blood. So much blood. And their delicate,
vulnerable lifeless bodies.
“I did everything I could to save Jillian and her baby. Her uterus ruptured.
She lost too much blood and too quickly. Her baby wasn’t getting enough
oxygen. I couldn’t save them no matter how hard I tried. Damn it. I tried, and
I couldn’t do it.” It’s haunted me every day since.
“You don’t know the toll their loss took on her—” Ashton urges, but I
press a hand to his chest, shaking my head.
“How convenient. No responsibility taken, no consequences for you. You
doctors get away with murder every day. And now it’s time you feel the same
loss I did.”
Sliding his stare over his shoulder, he says, “We’re almost out of time.
Abbott, next to Doc.”
Ledger’s head bolts up. “Becca will bleed out if I take my hands off.”
“Why do you care? She’s not innocent. Beside Doc now or I’ll send a shot
right through her heart.” Grant presses a gun over the left side of my chest,
and I shudder.
Without another second of hesitation, Ledger gets to his feet and comes to
my side.
“How about we play one last game? Can’t miss out on the ninth inning, am
I right?”
I can’t. I can’t do this again. Please, God. If you can hear me. Let this be a
perverse practical joke.
Another hand slips into my free grasp, and Ledger squeezes. My heart
squeezes.
Tucking the pistols into the back of his pants, Grant bends and pulls out a
different one from the top of his boot. Ashton curses beneath his breath. I
don’t know much about guns, but when he flips out the middle and spins the
cylinder with only one bullet inside, it’s not hard to determine what game
we’re going to play.
“Lucky for me, I had this stashed in my glove box, a present from my
grandpa Patrick. What do you say we play some Russian roulette?”
The men flanking either side of me inch closer.
“Okay, Doc. Ledger had his moment. It’s your turn for the hot seat.” Grant
positions the gun on Ashton. “Who can’t you live without? Your husband or
your lover?”
An involuntary response, I shake my head. No. I’m not doing this. I can’t
do this.
“You know the rules. Not answering isn’t an option. And I’m not in a
generous mood this evening.” He swings the barrel to Ledger and shoots. I
recoil, the chambers of my heart halting, but nothing happens. The round was
empty.
“Your first strike of luck. If you have more good fortune, you’ll have four
more, so let’s try this again. Who will it be, Doc?” Stepping closer, he
presses the gun to my cellmate’s head. “Ledger or Ashton?” Then swings it
back to my husband. Ashton’s grip crushes my fingers.
“Kill me,” I beg.
“That’s not an option.” Barrel pressed to Ashton’s head, he fires. An
avalanche of tension clogs my larynx, my breath catching as I try to scream.
Click. Empty.
“Please,” I cry, relief and terror mingling. “Please, stop. I won’t choose.”
“You have the chance to save one, and you’re not going to take it? Is that
what you did in the operating room? Did you have the chance to save my
wife or my baby and let them both die so I couldn’t have them?”
“No, no. Please.”
“Maybe I should take them both from you, so you feel my pain. So you
understand what it’s like to have two people you love most ripped away from
you.”
“Don’t do this.” Tears surge, desperation smothering me. “Kill me.”
“Stop it, Maeve.” Ledger tightens his grip on me. “Give him your
husband’s name. Just do it.”
I can’t form a response; all I do is shake my head. Not because I don’t
want to choose Ashton. I just want to choose Ledger, too. I need to keep them
both, and if I have to make a decision, I want it to be me. Take me out.
Who’s to say whatever name I give him will be what Grant accepts? If I
say Ashton, will he kill Ledger or Ashton? That’s the true roulette.
 Catching sight of Becca’s still figure from the corner of my eye, she
continues to bleed across the floor. Is she breathing? Is she dead? Wretched
as she may be, Ledger might never forgive himself for not being able to save
her.
Grant steps toe-to-toe with me, covering her from my view, his reddish-
brown hair falling across his forehead. “You’ve had two chances, you really
want to risk a third? I’ll ask you again. Your husband or your lover.” He
keeps the barrel of the revolver on Ashton who shakes, but doesn’t make a
sound as he peers at me.
Swiveling my head side to side, I meet Grant’s stare. “Me. Kill me.”
“Shut up, Goldie,” Ledger growls, gripping my hand to the point of pain.
“Just say his name. Say Ashton.”
“Oh.” Grant chuckles, unhinged, like an escapee from a mental institution.
“Someone’s a little offended. Ledger chose you so easily in that room, and
yet, you can’t do the same in return.”
“Ledger didn’t have a choice. He thought Becca was dead, and I was next
if he didn’t give you a name. He said a name, not a declaration. He loved her
until the end.”
A corrosive arch turns his mouth up. “Is that what you’ve let yourself
believe? For what? So you don’t regret choosing your husband? So you don’t
regret staying in your deteriorating, loveless marriage?”
Loathing descends as I take a bold step toward him. “You know nothing
about my marriage. There’s more love in my pinky finger for Ashton than
your wife had for you in her whole body.”
Click. Empty. Every last breath leaves Ashton as he exhales.
“Talk about my wife one more time and I’ll choose for you, firing until I
win. And you forget, Doc. I had cameras set up all over your house, and the
cops didn’t find them all. You think I don’t still have access to footage?
Because I do. So I know every gory detail about how messed up your
marriage is.” His attention shifts a fraction to my right. “Her sister? Really,
Ashton. I had a higher opinion of you until I saw you kiss…Elva, is it?”
No. No. Why is this happening?
“You might as well have been inside her. The first kiss was something
else, but that last one? Phew. Talk about undeniable sexual attraction. I
thought I’d need a fire extinguisher to put you two out.”
Bile burns my throat, the disturbing visual forced upon my mind.
“Imagine that, while he was kissing your sister, you were kissing Ledger. I
can’t decide which one was more riveting to watch.”
Ashton loosens his grip, but I hold tight. He doesn’t know how the
puppeteer works, how he’ll say anything to mess with your head. I refuse to
feed into his warfare any longer.
“Should I keep going?” His triumphant smirk never wavers. “Or are you
ready to make a decision?”
“You can’t make me choose.” Though my limbs quiver, my voice is
unshakable. “I refuse to play a part in your sick games again. So just get it
over with and kill me. I can’t do this anymore. Free me.” I whisper, “Free
me.”
Keeping that vitriolic smile, he aims the gun at my head. “Even in death,
you’ll never be free of me.”
I close my eyes.
Ashton screams my name.
Click. Empty round.
As I open my eyes, Ledger releases my hand and dives.
“LEDGER! NO!”
He tackles Grant to the ground and Ashton wraps his arms around my
waist, hauling me back, my legs kicking out. I’d lunged after Ledger on
instinct.
They’re a tangle of limbs and fury, battling over the gun. I shout, not even
sure of what passes through my lips. No logical thoughts run through my
head, except for getting to Ledger.
Grant’s grip loosening, the revolver slides out of his hand across the wood
floor, too far out of my reach. They roll and teeter like two wild animals
dueling, a feral scuffle for dominance. Landing on top, Ledger beneath him,
Grant’s hands lock around his neck.
“No! Ledger!” I try breaking free of Ashton’s clutches, but as if
anticipating my escape, he holds tighter. “Let me go!”
“No,” Ashton snaps in my ear, pulling me from the living room, but the
farther he makes it, the harder I fight back. “Stop struggling, Maeve! Please.
I will not lose you again. If you love me at all, please stop!”
I can’t. I can’t let Ledger die. Not now. Not ever.
Grant’s head whips to the side after Ledger throws a punch, and he loosens
the grip around his throat. I feel the satisfaction of that connection of flesh in
my soul. As if having the same thought, they reach for the spare guns tucked
into Grant’s waistband, but the puppeteer is faster.
 Hand over hand, their grip tucks between them around one, hiding where
the barrel aims. Through grunts and shouts, they fight for control. Back and
forth their bodies rock, arms tangled, but I can’t see. I can’t see what’s
happening.
I CAN’T SEE WHAT’S HAPPENING!
Then a deafening bang resounds, my ears echoing. Crimson liquid seeps
between them.
“Ledger. Ledger!” With herculean effort, I tear out of Ashton’s arms,
ready to take Grant on, but his body rolls to the side, deadweight as Ledger
scoots out from below, his shirt drenched in red.
A sob erupts from me as I sink by his side. His name is a desperate chant,
until he cuts me off with “I’m okay. I’m okay,” and folds me into his arms.
My wailing is uncontrollable, the conclusion raining down on me in a
monsoon of jumbled emotions.
I whisper into his chest, “I thought for sure I lost you this time.”
“No. I’m still here. We’re still here, Goldie.”
Several doors burst open, windows rattling. Shouts of, “Police!” fill the
air, weapons drawn. Everything happens all at once and in slow motion.
Officers checking Becca’s pulse and Grant’s. Grant is pronounced dead,
Becca with a barely there pulse. Ledger is hoisted up and put in handcuffs.
“Protocol,” they say. Ashton rushes to my side, lifting me against him as I
yell at the officers to let Ledger go.
Detective Whitly charges in and takes hold of Ledger’s arm. He tries to
reassure me, but protocol or not, Ledger should not be in handcuffs.
I stand at the mouth of our hallway as they lead him down to exit our
house, holding me back. “You don’t understand. It was Grant Keller and
Becca. They did this!”
“It’s going to be all right, Goldie,” Ledger says. “It’s over. I’m okay.”
He’s not okay. Nothing about any of this is okay. Ashton holds me as I
cry. At the threshold, Ledger stops, looks back, a trace of a sad smile
touching his lips as they escort him from my home.
Another goodbye.
Another soul-crushing goodbye.
 It was a late night following the ordeal in our home, not that I’d have been
able to sleep anyway. After they released Ledger and took his statement,
sending him home, Detective Whitly sat Ashton and me down and filled us in
on Grant Keller. More concerned with how Ledger was handling the
revelation of his wife’s involvement and if she’d live, I struggled to focus on
everything Detective Whitly discussed, but I picked up pieces.
After they raided Grant’s home, his dad informing them he’d gone to the
store an hour prior, they figured he was tipped off or saw them and escaped,
so they came for us. Stretched thin—first to Ledger’s house, then here. Better
late than never, I suppose.
Becca was rushed to the hospital and into emergency surgery, but she’ll
make it. Charged as an accessory after confessing her part in our kidnapping
and torture. In revealing Becca’s motive, Ledger came clean about Holden’s
part in killing her little sister. Detective Whitly said he’d suffered enough and
that they wouldn’t be charging him for perjury. I almost laughed because if it
weren’t for Rain Kennedy, they’d never have discovered Grant Keller’s
connection to us in the first place. They should be cowering in shame.
I don’t know where to go from here. I haven’t reached out to Ledger. I
want to. Every day I want to, but I don’t know what to say or what good it
would do. The puppeteer is gone, those responsible held accountable for their
crimes.
We’re free.
Free. Such a subjective word.
I’m free from physical harm at the hand of the puppeteer, but I’ll never be
free of the psychological damage and memories, all I lost in that year of
captivity. I’ll never be free of my love for him.
So, I do what I’ve done since we were found. I keep living, moving
forward the best I can, no matter how difficult or agonizing.
I keep living.

“Do you think they’ll start pitching tents on our front lawn? Maybe bring
in a Porta Potty or two.” Ashton walks into the kitchen from the backdoor,
smoothing his hair back. “I was taking out the trash and almost had to beat a
reporter off with a shovel. It’s been a week, how much longer are they going
to hang around?”
I haven’t been allowed back to work since that night, the higher ups too
concerned with my mental state to come back so soon, and I’m this close to
checking myself into a psychiatric facility just to get out of this house. I
mean, a sure way to send a previously caged kidnap victim to one is to make
them feel trapped all over again.
I’ve been held hostage in my own damn home with all the press and news
outlets surrounding our house twenty-four-seven. Everyone looking for the
full story. Only Rain gets the full story from us, but she’s giving us space to
process everything before we share the rest. Already on another case, she
couldn’t let slip away. Some serial killer in Manhattan.
“I still can’t believe it all.” Ashton settles on a barstool at the counter,
watching me cook dinner. “I can’t imagine that I’d willingly change my
identity for revenge, that I’d be able to keep my story straight for a year.
Forget keeping the story straight, that I’d be able to marry someone I thought
was responsible for my sibling’s death, for the destruction of my family. I
love my older brother, but not that much.” He pauses. “Would you do that for
Elva or Eden?”
“You kissed my sister, and I haven’t killed you yet.”
When he says nothing, I peer over my shoulder. “Sorry. Too soon?”
“No, Maeve. That’s not why…” His silence stretches, and then he’s at my
side. “You don’t have to keep doing this.”
Shouldering Ashton away from the stove, I say, “I’m going stir crazy.
Making dinner is the least I can do for you. And it’s store-bought garlic bread
with noodles and jarred sauce. I think I can handle it.”
“No.” Ashton stills my hand stirring the boiling pasta. “Forcing yourself
back into a dead marriage.”
I whip around, but where I expect to see bitterness or hate, all I see is
resolve and a peaceful ache.
“What are you talking about?”
“Let’s be honest. Our marriage died the moment you entered that bunker.”
Ashton twists the knob on the stove off behind me. “And I get it. I didn’t
before, but I get it now. The moment you first screamed his name, I knew.”
“Ashton,” I whisper, my head shaking as I plant both hands on the counter
behind me and lower my gaze.
“Don’t. You have nothing to feel guilty about. I’m not blameless. And
after only a night with that screwed up man, I don’t know how you survived
eight months.” Looking up, I watch as he leans his back against the island
across from me. “For the last week, the same moment has played on repeat in
my head.” Left hand swiping down his drained face, his wedding band
catches in the light. “When he was playing roulette with us, Ledger went for
the gun. No hesitation, no regard for himself. He charged the lunatic in our
living room.”
“That’s just Ledger.” I shrug. “He did what he had to do to survive while
we were imprisoned. When you’ve been under the puppeteer’s thumb for as
long as we were, your brain gets rewired.”
“No. For what you went through, for as long as you did, he should’ve been
cowering, PTSD setting in, and reverting back to the prisoner of a psychopath
to survive, but Ledger tackled him and fought for the gun. It didn’t even cross
my mind. Not because I didn’t want to save you or because I didn’t want to
die.” His throat bobs with a remorseful swallow. “I wanted to know your
answer.”
Who I would choose. So much heaviness in that simple sentence.
“I didn’t have an answer, Ash. I never would’ve given him a name. I’d
have died before letting Grant kill either of you. I meant it when I told him to
kill me. I wanted to be free of this poisonous hold he had on me.”
He nods. “I know that, but you did have an answer, Maeve. You might not
have thought it, or realized, but you had an answer.”
Ashton truly believes I’d have chosen Ledger. I never even deliberated the
choices when confronted. Who can’t you live without? But the answer comes
through clear as day when amber green eyes crowd my mind.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to rationalize your decision to me. You didn’t
want me to die because you’re not a monster, but I’m not the one you can’t
live without. You need him, and he needs you.” A sheen of tears glosses over
his eyes, but he blinks them away. “It’s not right of me or even healthy to
expect you to work so painstakingly for something that shouldn’t be this
hard.”
“Ashton—”
“No, let me finish.” He holds up a hand. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t be
worth it. I’m not saying our marriage doesn’t deserve the daily effort and
dedication. I’m saying I love you too much to keep you when it would do
nothing but make us both miserable in the end. You escaped one prison to
enter another. So. You’re free, Maeve.”
Shaking my head, I try to compute what he’s saying. I’m free? Oh, Ash. I
fling myself into his chest, wrapping my arms around his neck.
Ashton nuzzles in and whispers, “You’re free.”
“I’ve never felt trapped with you. Never once.”
“Needing freedom doesn’t require being trapped. Your wings just need
more room to breathe, and you can’t do that if they’re clipped. I clipped
them. I froze. I should’ve done something, made a break for the backdoor. I
should’ve gone for the gun. It should’ve been instinct. I should’ve been the
one to save you.”
“Ashton…”
“I’m sorry I didn’t go for the gun.”
It’s so much more than an apology for that night. It’s an admission of fault
in this shattered marriage. An, I’m sorry I can’t be what you need.
It’s finality.
 FORTY
FOUR

ledger

Hey. It’s Maeve. Can I see you?

It’s the last text I expect to open on a Friday evening, and if I didn’t have
her number saved in my phone from Rain, I’d have assumed it was some
reporter trying to dupe me into meeting them.

Yes. Where?

Somewhere private. These reporters are vultures.

So, I send her my father’s address, the house I grew up in. It’s where I’ve
been staying for the last week. I can’t set foot in the place I shared with
Rebecca. Even the night everything transpired, my dad showed up at Maeve’s
and drove me straight here, had his personal assistant pack a bag of my
clothes.
My father’s never around because he stays in his apartment downtown
these days. I think the only reason he keeps this house is to preserve the
memory of my mom and brother.
I’m not going into the office right now, doing all my work from home until
things settle down. So the place is all mine, safe for Maeve and I to talk, or
whatever it is she needs right now.
Even with the old memories that are tied here, it’s better than riding it out
in my house. My real estate agent is already drawing up the paperwork to put
my house on the market. I’m more than ready to move on.

For thirty long minutes I pace the first floor until the security system alerts
me there’s someone at the front gate, and Maeve’s white Kia idles on the
monitor. I buzz her in.
Not waiting for her to knock, I open the front door as she pulls around the
circular drive, parking at the bottom of the stairs. She’s here.
When Maeve steps out, rounding the front of her car, I hold tight to the
door frame. I can’t believe she’s here. She pauses by the passenger side the
moment her eyes lock with mine, and I can’t explain it, but the world feels
right.
As she climbs the steep staircase, it doesn’t take but a second to lose every
last trace of oxygen. Like a portrait, everything in the background blurs with
Maeve in the forefront in roaring color. In a loose cream sweater that falls
from one shoulder, a black strappy top peeking out. The blunt cut of her fair
golden hair grazes her slender shoulder. Blue eyes I’ve memorized every
fleck of shine with ease. And within two seconds my chest aches.
“Maeve.”
When she reaches the top, she smiles. “Hi.” Her chest heaves like she’s
out of breath.
“Hey.”
My body chooses for my brain, yanking her into my arms. As if any
progress I’ve made over the last three months was a drop in a bucket, her
touch heals, and I take my first breath since walking out of her home that
night.
I breathe her in, eyes closing, body humming. My life support. Then I snap
out of my Goldie fog and step back.
Combing a hand through my hair, I ask, “What are you doing here? How
did you get my number?”
 “Rain gave it to me.” From one foot to the other, she shifts her weight. “I
hope that’s okay.”
“Yeah, of course. That came out wrong. Is everything all right?”
Glancing over her shoulder, she says, “Do you mind if I come in?”
I don’t hesitate. I step aside. Even though we’re fairly well hidden from
the road, there might be a reporter or two lurking around. I can see the
headlines now. Puppeteer Survivors Rendezvousing At The Abbott Estate.
Maeve takes in the grand entryway, her head tipped back, the bright white
vaulted ceiling soaring two stories high as I close the front door. “So this is
how the one percent lives.” She smiles, teasing in the curve of her mouth.
I scratch the back of my neck. “Yeah. This is where I was raised.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
I can’t stop staring at her. She’s beautiful. She always has been, but this is
a different kind of beauty, radiating from the inside, bone deep. I have to stop
staring. She’s not mine to admire.
“How are you?” she asks.
I snort, scratching at my five o’clock shadow. “You mean how am I
handling the fact that the woman who vowed to love and cherish me tried to
have me killed? I’m— Hell I don’t know.” I chuckle. “But I know I’ll be fine
someday.”
Before this can turn into a therapy session about my psychotic wife who
now faces prison for twenty-five to life, I shift the conversation back to
Maeve. “And you?”
“Ashton and I are separating.” She says this in a rush, as if it were one
word, not a sentence, and I’m once again left without a drop of oxygen.
I have to repeat what she said a few times in my head, and still I clarify.
“You’re getting a divorce?”
With a subtle nod, she says, “We can’t give each other what we need
anymore. He left to stay with his younger brother.”
My eyes fall to her naked left hand. No ring. “I’m so sorry, Maeve.” But
I’m also selfishly not.
“I’m not.” She flutters her fingers in a dismissive motion. “It was for the
best. Who knows? Maybe he’ll shoot his shot with Elva now.”
I realize she’s trying to make jokes, but I don’t feel much like laughing.
My brow pinched, I’m clocked by what the puppeteer said that night about
her sister and Ashton. “And you’re okay with that?”
 “I won’t lie. Family dinners will be weird, but honestly,” her eyes roll to
the ceiling, her fingers rubbing her earlobe, “they make more sense than
Ashton and I ever did. It shouldn’t have taken what it did for us to see.”
I’m at a loss for words. A divorce seems an inappropriate moment for a
fist pump, so I reel it in and instead take a step toward her. She moves with
me, one step in.
“I’m sorry nevertheless.”
Maeve chuckles, and it’s the first time I’ve heard it without being laced
with a thundercloud. “I’ll survive. Really.”
While I think I know, I ask anyway. “Why are you here, Maeve?”
One inhale in, one exhale out. “If I wasn’t trying to be a faithful wife, I’d
have come the moment the police were done questioning me that night. I’d
have flown out of my house after you in those handcuffs.”
“Is that right?” I take another step.
She nods, a tear leaking down her cheek and meets me again, step for step.
“I’m done living with this ache that never surrenders.” Maeve rubs her chest.
“This ache that only goes away when I’m with you.”
My bare feet tap her black boots when I bridge the last bit of space, and I
tuck her hair behind her ear. “It took all of my willpower to walk away when
I looked over my shoulder and saw Ashton holding you back from me. Those
tears in your eyes…they were absolute torture, Goldie.”
“So.” Another tear escapes and I catch it on my thumb. “All of this… it’s
so complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be. And I don’t want to turn you coming here into a
rehash of our suffering because from this day forward, I want nothing more
than to see what happened to us in the rearview mirrors, but something has
been driving me crazy for the last week. Something I need you to know,
something I can finally say.”
Maeve nods, a tentative go ahead.
Too ashamed to continue looking her in the eyes, knowing the reason for
all of this was Rebecca, I focus on the marble tile floor. “When Grant had us
at gunpoint and you told him I only said your name that day in the cell
because I had to.” I lift my gaze and hold hers. “That wasn’t true. It’s not
true.”
Her tiny intake of breath gives me courage to continue.
“Now that I know Rebecca is not who I thought she was and Ashton is no
longer in the picture, I don’t feel remorse confessing… I said your name that
day because I couldn’t imagine living without you. I still can’t. I’ve stayed
away for your sake, to respect Ashton, but there hasn’t been a day where I
haven’t wanted to storm your house and steal you for myself.”
When more tears stream, I brush the wetness away with my lips, and
Maeve leans into my touch.
Kissing below her eyes, I inch back. “I want to say I wish I was never held
in that concrete cell, but I can’t because that would mean you wouldn’t exist
in my life. It’s so much more than what we experienced. It’s you, Maeve. I
love you. I think I started falling the moment you jumped in front of me and
begged Grant to take you instead of me.
“Because the thing is… we didn’t have to look out for each other. Anyone
else in our position wouldn’t fault us if it became every man for himself. But
that never once crossed my mind, not because you’re a woman or I felt some
obligation to take care of and protect you. There was always something about
you I couldn’t part with. Like a string connecting you to me. It wasn’t about
heroics or chivalry, or whatever you want to call it. I looked out for you
because my heart didn’t give me another choice. You’ve always been the one
my string tugs for. And it’s never stopped.”
Maeve says nothing, moisture coating her eyes as she breathes through her
nose. My hand still close to her face, I stroke her silky cheek.
“Two Truths and a Lie?” she asks in a rasp, and I nod. “I’ve wanted to call
you every day since that night, but after everything I didn’t know what to say.
As soon as I saw you standing in the doorway of this house, it took every
ounce of self-control not to run and jump into your arms. And the moment we
left that concrete room, I stopped loving you.”
I sweep my other hand through her hair and out of her face, leaning in. A
breath away, I press my forehead to hers. Being allowed to be this close to
her, I want to savor the freedom of touching her. Something I’ll never take
for granted. One of Maeve’s hands takes my jawline, the other looping
around my nape. Her touch is an antidote to every lingering fear and doubt.
There was a purpose for that prison, more than their destructive goal.
“I don’t know why we had to go through what we did to get here, but for
you, Goldie, I’d do it all over again.”
“I can’t believe I agree with you.”
A gruff chuckle passes my lips. “You’re mine, Goldie.”
She nods with a soft choked sob, and I kiss her. I kiss Maeve the way I
wanted to in the cell, but didn’t have the strength or stamina for. I kiss her the
way I wanted to when I saw her step into the street outside of Pressed. The
way I wanted when I was hauled out of her house in handcuffs, and when she
stood before me in front of this house looking like everything I never knew I
needed.
With untamed precision and profound longing, pulling staccato breaths
from her, I fill her with my pent-up love. Every ounce I hoarded and kept safe
for her.
Hands in her hair. Lips captured. With affection and devotion and hunger,
I hand my heart over. Because more than she is mine, I am hers.
 Curious about Rain Kennedy?
Her real name is Katarina Soloway.
Make sure to check out her story in Stain.
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book came out of left field for me. I had a vision for this storyline, and it took me in a completely
different direction, and taught me more about who I am as a writer. With gratitude, I have to thank all
who made this book possible.
My cover designer, Sarah Hansen, you never let me down. I’m more in love with this cover than
any other.
Traci Finlay, my editor, I’d be lost without your incredible feedback and direction. This book would
be so much less if not for you.
To my beta readers, Angie Craft and Jo Pettibone, so lucky to have you and your willingness to
read my work before it’s full-fleshed out. All the love, ladies.
Michele G. Miller, I would be less of a writer without you. Thank you for always being willing to
work through plot holes and characters, and talk me off the ledge during my mental breakdowns. I’d be
lost without you.
My favorite people, Ryan and Zoey Sue, your patience and support mean more than anything. I
appreciate your willingness to be wifeless and motherless when my brain can’t do anything but write. I
love you most.
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MINDY HAYES is the youngest of six children and grew up in San Diego, California. After
graduating from Brigham Young University-Idaho, she discovered her passion for reading and writing.
Mindy lives in Utah with her husband and beautiful baby girl.

She is the author of Stain, the Willowhaven series, the Faylinn Novels, and The Day That Saved Us.
Mindy is also the co-author of the Paper Planes series, the Backroads Duet, and the Seaside Pointe
novels, which were co-written with Michele G. Miller as Mindy Michele.

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