Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
My phone buzzes alerting me to a message. I dig it out of my pocket and see it’s a text from Robbie.
Robbie: Photos from the hospital.
I click to download the first. It’s Wren, I think. Her face is badly bruised, her eyes black, one swollen shut, her hair, which is light blond, is darker here. Dried blood. She looks bad. Really bad.
I click into the next one. This one’s Blue. She’d have been sixteen. Zoë’s age. Her hair is long and dark, not yet blue, and she’s wearing it loose. On her face is a bandage and it’s bloody. There’s a second photo of her and this one is without that bandage.
“Christ.”
I see the stitches. They look as though they were done with a very shaky hand. Her own. I get it.
There are a few more photos and after glancing at them, I put the phone back into my pocket. I want to know what happened. Why did Tommy beat them up so badly? Is this why they ran?
First, I need to wrap up here.
I go back to the living room and lift the folded blanket and pillow, check under the cushions of the couch. I don’t even find a nickel or a crumb of food. The hall closet door is still ajar, and I return to it, lift the blanket off the top shelf and shake it out. I feel up on the shelf which is high for me so it would be too high for Blue to reach. I’m about to close the door when I look at the vacuum cleaner again, at the bag hanging from the back. It’s an old upright and there’s something heavy and awkwardly shaped in the bag. That or it’s so old it’s just lost its shape altogether. I pull it out of the closet and crouch down feel the bag with both hands and have a suspicion what it is that’s got the bag looking so misshapen. I unzip the bag, turning my face from the dust to reach inside. My fingers close over a Ziploc bag. I pull it out, sneezing when dust gets in my nostrils. I look at what I’ve uncovered.
There, sealed in the Ziploc, is a revolver.
11
Blue
When I come out of the bathroom, I find waiting for me a glass of orange juice and a suitcase. My stomach growls but first thing I do is check the door, which is still locked. I’m relieved. After what happened earlier, I’m not in a hurry to engage with Zeke.
I walk over to the nightstand and pick up the juice. It’s freshly squeezed, and I drink it down, too thirsty not to. It won’t be drugged. He has no reason to drug me now. My stomach growls, expecting food, but the juice will have to do. I go to the suitcase which sits open on a rack beside the closet and is full of women’s clothes. They smell like they’ve just come from the laundry and a quick glimpse at a few labels tells me they’re about my size.
I do wonder at the amount of clothes. Where did he get them? Are they trophies? Exactly how long is he planning on keeping me? I put the thoughts out of my mind as soon as they come and get to work. I’m still here. Still alive. And the way he was after what happened in the bathroom, when it came to my message to Wren, it gives me some hope. Maybe that’s stupid but it’s all I have.
I rummage through looking for underthings, tearing the suitcase apart, but come up empty. No panties and no bras. Is that by design? I also realize everything in here is either a dress or a skirt with a top. Not a single pair of jeans or pants at all. I’m suspicious as I choose an A-line skirt and a light top in pretty lilac, again, nicer than anything I own or have ever owned, and slip those on. It all fits like it was made for me. I tuck my leash underneath the top but am very aware of it rubbing up against my bare clit beneath the skirt, so I tug it back out and slip it into the pocket of the skirt. No one will see me in here anyway.
The ballet slippers are comfortable although they’re half a size too big, but they’ll work. Once I’m dressed, I look through the suitcase to see if there’s a brush or makeup. I’m very aware of the scar on my face. It’s not for the sake of vanity and it’s not that I care how I look to Zeke, I just hate the scar and usually hide it beneath layers of foundation. But there’s nothing like that in the bag and so I go into the bathroom to finger comb my hair. When I hear the key turn in the bedroom door, my heartbeat picks up and I grip the counter, looking straight ahead at my reflection. I take a deep breath in.