Mrs. Carter paused, searching for the right words. “Not every night.”
Mother squeezed her shoulder. “Well, men will be men. He still has some growing up to do.”
“You think?”
“Sure. When starting out in life, there are so many pressures on a man, on both of you, but especially on him. He bought you that lovely home. I imagine you’ve talked of children?”
Mrs. Carter nodded.
“All those things, they add up like big, heavy weights on his shoulders. Each one adding another pound or two until he can barely walk, barely stand. He drinks to help deal with that, that’s all. I find nothing wrong with a little sauce to calm an edgy nerve. Don’t you fret. When things improve, when the pressure lifts, things will get better. Just you wait and see.”
“You don’t think it’s me?” Mrs. Carter said, her voice almost childlike.
“A pretty thing like you? Of course not,” Mother told her.
“You think I’m pretty?”
Mother snorted. “I can’t believe you’d even have to ask. You are gorgeous. One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“That is so sweet of you to say,” Mrs. Carter said.
“It’s the truth. Any man would be lucky to have you,” Mother told her.
The women fell silent again, and I stole another glance, crawling around the corner as quiet as a mouse.
Mother and Mrs. Carter were kissing.
Darkness.
It swirled around her like the current of the deepest sea. Cold and silent, crawling across her body with the touch of a stranger.
“Em,” her mother whispered. “You gotta get up. You’re going to be late for school.”
“No,” she groaned. “A few more minutes …”
“Now, baby, I’m not going to tell you again.”
“I’ve got a bad headache. Can I stay home?” Her voice was soft and distant, soaked and heavy with sleep.
“I’m not going to make up another excuse for you with the principal. Why do we have to go through this every day?”
But this wasn’t right. Her mother had died long ago, when she was only three. Her mother had not been there on her first day of school. She had never sent her off to school. She had been homeschooled most of her life.
“Momma?” she said softly.
Silence.
Her head hurt so bad.
She tried to force her eyelids open, but they fought her.
Her head ached, throbbed. She heard the pounding of her own heartbeat, the rhythm fast and strong behind her eyes.
“Are you there, Momma?”
She peered through the darkness at her left, searching for the illuminated red numbers of her alarm clock. The clock wasn’t there, though; her room was pitch-dark.
The city lights normally cast a glow on her ceiling, but they too were dark.
She couldn’t see anything.
It’s not your room.
The thought came swiftly, an unknown voice.
Where?
Emory Connors tried to sit up, but a hammer of pain pulsed on the left side of her head, forcing her to lie back down. Her hand went to her ear and found a thick bandage. Wetness.
Blood?
Then she remembered the shot.
He had given her a shot.
Who was he?
Emory didn’t know. She couldn’t remember. She remembered the shot, though. His arm had reached around from behind and plunged the needle into her neck. Cold liquid rushed out under her skin.
She had tried to turn.
She had wanted to hurt him. That was what she had been taught to do, all those self-defense classes her father insisted she take. Punish and maim. Crack him in the nuts, honey. That’s my girl.
She had wanted to spin around with a well-placed kick and a punch to his nose or his windpipe, or maybe his eyes. She had wanted to hurt him before he could hurt her, she had wanted to …
She didn’t turn.
Instead, her world had gone dark, and sleep engulfed her.
He’ll rape and kill me, she had thought as consciousness slipped away. Help me, Momma, she had thought as the world faded to black.
Her mom was gone. Dead. And she was about to join her.
That was okay, that was good. She would like to see her mom again.
He hadn’t killed her, though. Had he?
No. The dead do not feel pain, and her ear throbbed.
She forced herself to sit up.
The blood rushed from her head, and she almost passed out again. The room spun for a second before settling.
What had he given her?
She had heard of girls getting roofied at parties and clubs, waking up in strange places with their clothes askew and no memory of what had happened. She hadn’t been at a party; she had been running in the park. He had lost his dog. He looked so sad standing there with the leash, calling out her name.
Bella? Stella? What was the dog’s name?
She couldn’t remember. Her mind was foggy, thick with smoke, choking her thoughts.
“Which way did it go?” she had asked him.
He frowned, near tears. “She saw a squirrel and took off after it, that way.” He pointed to the east. “She’s never run away before. I don’t get it.” Emory had turned, her gaze following his.
Then the arm around her neck.
The shot.
“Sleepy time, beautiful,” he whispered at her ear.
There had been no dog. How could she have been so stupid?
She was cold.
Something held her right wrist down. Emory tugged and heard the clank of metal on metal. Reaching over with her left hand, she explored the smooth steel around her wrist, the thin chain.
Handcuffs.
Fastened to whatever she was lying on.
Her right wrist was handcuffed to something; her left was free.
She took a deep breath. The air was stale, damp.
Don’t panic, Em. Don’t let yourself give in to the panic.
Her eyes tried to adjust to the darkness, but it was so black, absolute. Her fingertips brushed the surface of the bed.
No, not a bed. Something else.
It was steel.
Hospital gurney.
Emory