Page 45 of The Woman I’ve Become

“I did. But he never returned. By nightfall I realized it was time to admit defeat and go home. As I sneaked away someone attacked me from behind. They used something”—I gesture to my face—“to put me out, and the next thing I remember is waking up in hell.”

The perfect way to describe life after that day, even if the journey is a bit embellished.

“I lost count of the days.” I hesitate, steady my voice. “I was raped. You can use your imagination about all the ways I was abused for this evil man’s pleasure. If I failed to live up to his expectations or refused his demands, I was deprived of food and water. Sometimes I was beaten.”

And so much more.

“You were like his slave?”

I nod. “I was.”

The way I dressed, the way I moved, even the way I ate was dictated. My entire world revolved around him and his desires.

“Where did he keep you?” Frown lines have spread across her face again, but her gaze is intent, focused.

“He had a large basement, which he’d turned into a prison.” I start to expand upon the description, but then I realize that is another story. I grit my teeth to hold the details back. So strange, all this time I have never wanted to think about it much less talk about it. Suddenly it wants to come pouring out of me.

My control is not as reliable as it should be. The cold that has leached into my body turns to ice now. The memories bombard me, and I can barely breathe. Being here, talking about this is taking a toll on my hard-earned discipline.

“It sounds horrible.” Acacia shakes her head. “Oh-my-God horrible.”

I gather my composure. “It was. Truly horrible.”

“Thank God you were only there a week.”

I blink. “Yes. A week.”

“You never once saw his face.”

“No.” Fear whips through me now as if I am back there. I struggle to suppress it. “No, he wore a mask and was dressed all in loose black clothing. I have no idea about his build or anything.”

My mind refutes the lie and shows me his face—so cruel at times, so patient at others. His body was fit and strong. I squeeze my eyes shut and replace those images with the ones of him lying dead on the cold floor. Blood pooled around him . . . the knife buried deep in his gut.

“How did you escape? With him watching you so closely, it must have been difficult.”

I jerk at the sound of her voice. Moisten my lips and nod. “That part still puzzles me,” I explain rather than tell the truth. “One day after his routine visit he failed to secure the door. I kept waiting to hear the click. I heard it every day, every time he left. But it never came that last day. Eventually I dared to climb those stairs and see. The door was unlocked. The house above the basement level was empty, so I left. I ran and ran. I can’t tell you how many times I fell. It was raining. I was bruised and scratched and wounded but so thankful to be free.”

“I’m sure your parents were immensely grateful to have you home.”

I manage a smile. “Yes. It was a crazy few weeks with the investigation and worrisome reporters. But I was alive and that’s what mattered.”

“But,” she counters, her expression suspicious now, “they never found the man who took you.”

“They didn’t. The house I escaped from was completely clean when they returned. It was a summer house, and the owners had no idea their house was being used for nefarious purposes.” Not the real story, but one that works for now.

She waits, staring at me expectantly as if she recognizes there is very little truth in my story. Certainly, I imagine, it isn’t anywhere close to the version she has been given if these sorts of details were discussed.

Whatever the case, she wants more. I suppose if I’m going to take advantage of the situation that presents itself, she needs to believe I trust her to some degree. Her certainty that she can fool me is far greater than her common sense, obviously. Overconfidence, just another indication of a pretender.

“It was a couple of days after my escape when my father was watching the news that I saw Wendy’s face on the screen. She had vanished. The police questioned me about whether I had seen her, and I lied. I told them over and over that I had not.”

“Why lie?”

I see no judgment on her face . . . only interest. She is shamelessly fascinated.

“Because she was with Casey. I knew if I told the police that detail, then Casey would be considered a suspect. I didn’t want to get him into trouble. I had this foolish notion that he would come back for me. Besides, I was pretty sure Wendy just went off on her own and never looked back, whether she stayed with Casey or not.”

Except the news showed the other girls—the ones Casey scoped out—and still his secrets were kept. There was no way to pretend Casey wasn’t involved when those headlines hit. But that made no difference. I push the thought away.