Page 62 of Kylie

Allison shook her head. “We don’t want them to become targets.”

“But he threatened them,” I said, looking between both of them as I recalled one of the last conversations I had with Martin. “He said he was gonna kidnap my daughters.” I glared at Kieran. “He said you were gonna take Kate from school. Did you?”

“Of course not.”

I looked at Allison for confirmation.

“He didn’t.”

“I had to make him believe that I would,” Kieran explained. “It was the only way to keep them safe.”

“Are they? Safe?”

“For now, yes.”

“For now?” I tried to sit up, but Allison put her hand on my shoulder. “What do you mean for now?”

Kieran stood up. “We’ve got eyes on them. I promise we won’t let anything happen to them.”

I looked him in the eye, searching for something that would tell me he was trying to placate me. I saw only honesty. My eyes started to drift shut, the small amount of energy I’d expended too much for my overtaxed body.

“But once I’m back on my feet … I get to go home,” I muttered as I drifted off.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Two weeks later

Thursday, September 8, 2022

Kylie

I wasn’t sure whether it was the praying or merely a medical miracle, but I didn’t die in that shit hole.

I had Kieran and Allison to thank for that.

Then again, I blamed them for putting me there in the first place. Never mind the fact that Martin probably would’ve made someone else do it if they hadn’t, but still. They weren’t absolved of their crimes. Not by a long shot.

Yes, Kieran and Allison had gotten me out of there, and someone had nursed me back from the brink of death—though I wasn’t sure who. Allison had mentioned a doctor, but I didn’t recall ever seeing one. Since neither Kieran nor Allison had a medical degree, I had to assume they brought someone in. Whoever they were, I wanted to thank them because, as I stood on my own two feet now, I felt as though I’d been reborn.

Mostly.

More like a newborn calf with wobbly legs.

Standing on my own two feet required a tremendous amount of physical exertion. More than my body was happy with. While I was capable of getting out of bed, doing anything else was the equivalent of running a marathon. Even taking a shower required a nap afterward. Which was next on my agenda since I’d just gotten the shower part out of the way.

Although I was no longer dying and felt significantly better, I was nowhere near 100%.

Now, as I stood in the steamy bathroom—leaning was a better description, really—staring at my blurry reflection in the mirror, I wanted to cry. The woman staring back at me looked nothing like me. Nothing. This woman with stringy hair and sallow skin was so skinny it was disturbing. My collarbones were prominent, and I could see the knobby bones in my shoulders and elbows.

Noticing a bruise on my forearm, I reached down to touch it. There were others in various places. They were showing up randomly. All I had to do was bump something and a bruise would form. They didn’t hurt, but they weren’t going away quickly.

I reached for the comb on the counter. I hated this part. Watching myself in the mirror, I dragged the comb through my wet hair. As expected, the wide teeth gathered the loose strands. My hair was falling out. According to what I’d read on Kieran’s iPad, it was from malnutrition. Supposedly, it would get better with time, but I wasn’t sure that would be before all my hair fell out.

Sighing, I set the comb down and reached for the clothes on the counter. I knew from experience that I would start to shiver if I didn’t get dressed. No matter how many layers I had on or how many blankets I draped over myself, I was always cold. Enough that Allison and Kieran had to suffer because, although it was August and the outside temps were equivalent to the surface of the sun, I made them keep the thermostat set at a balmy seventy-seven inside.

It took longer than I would’ve liked to get dressed. I had to take a break in the process of pulling on a long-sleeved T-shirt and leggings—clothes that Allison had provided me with—and a pair of socks. By the time I was finished, I was exhausted and my leg hurt.

Limping and slow, I made my way back to the bed. The curtains were open wide, the floor-to-ceiling windows helping to alleviate my claustrophobia. I’d read about that too. According to the internet, having endured a traumatic event that involved confinement, it was likely my brain had been conditioned to see confined spaces as big red flags signaling danger. To avoid triggering my fight-or-flight instinct, we were keeping the curtains open and letting the outside in as much as possible. It was helping. What helped more was sitting outside on the back porch that overlooked the thick trees and the fast-flowing river. I wanted to go down there, to sit on the bank with the water rushing by, but it was taxing enough to make it to the porch. One of these days, though.