Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
It's okay.
I'm safe.
I'm not being held somewhere against my will, and Kristoff isn't going to hurt me. He's not going to hurt me anymore.
Breathe. In, out. I take my time, making each breath slow and deliberate. I'm fine. Everything is fine. I'm safe. There's no one with a gun, nobody throwing me into a car. I'm in bed in my new room. It's not a bad room, and the bed is pretty comfortable. From the feel of it, it's also brand new. Like practically everything else in this house.
That's what I need to think about. Anything else, so long as I can distract myself until the nightmare loses its power and fades to nothing the way most of them eventually do. I can think about how strange it is that Romero owns this house yet never visited. How strange it is to smell the lingering fumes of fresh paint hanging in the air. Did he have all of this done for me?
I run my hands over the satin duvet cover and focus on how it feels to ground myself in the present. It’s one of the many things I learned in my online therapy sessions. Soon, the uncomfortable sensation of being covered in cold sweat makes me wrinkle my nose, so I sit up, tugging at my T-shirt to pull it away from my damp skin. I’m too sweaty to get comfortable. There’s no way I can lay back down, not with everything damp and disgusting.
What's the point in trying to go back to sleep, anyway? My nerves are frayed. Another car drives past, and the sound of it makes me jump. I freeze again, holding my breath, afraid they'll stop in front of the house. As if they're coming for me, as if Jeff sent somebody to grab me—or worse, to pay me back for whatever he thinks I did to his precious little boy. The dread and fear gnaw at my insides.
I can't live like this. I don't know how much more I can take before I crack. There's a storm in my head, lightning flashing, thunder rumbling. I can't take the pressure. I can't stand hearing Kristoff's voice in my mind. And when it's not him, it's the men Jack Moroni sent to kidnap Bianca and me.
I wasn't even supposed to be there—they were only supposed to take her, hoping to use her to get money from Dad. Her and the baby she's carrying.
“What is she doing here? She's not supposed to be here.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it's no use. There's no blocking out the memory of my mother's sharp and clear voice when she realized there was a mistake. It's sick, but there have been times in the weeks since that terrible night that I have thought to myself at least she cared enough to say that. She started raising hell before they knocked me out, and I didn't hear what happened after that. I'm glad I didn't, because whatever it was killed her.
All these emotions, pain and sadness, are locked inside me. I carry them with me wherever I go. No wonder my feet are heavy when I stand and cross the room full of furniture nobody had ever used before I arrived three days ago. Three of the longest, most boring days of my life. It's not like I did much this summer, locked in my room most of the time, but that was my choice. And yeah, it was my choice to leave home, but that's the last choice that's been really mine ever since. I'm right back where I was before, at the mercy of people who think they know what I need better than I do.
Then again, I still need to figure out what I need. It seems like no matter what I try, nothing changes. For example, I’m creeping barefoot down the stairs right now, wincing when my foot lands on a creaky board. As if he’s going to fling the door open all at once because he’s always listening, always watching. No matter how I try to avoid him, his attention is always on me. It’s enough to make my skin crawl.
I freeze, listening hard, but there's no sound from the middle bedroom Romero claimed as his own. I'm guessing it was his bedroom when he was a kid, but God forbid he admit it. It might mean admitting he's human, and he wouldn't want to do that.
Eventually, the silence surrounding me is enough reassurance, and I keep moving, rounding the banister and heading for the kitchen. Even in the dark, I can't help but notice how sparse everything is. There's a sofa, a pair of armchairs, and lamps on the end tables. A large flat-screen TV is mounted on the chimney, above the mantle where I placed Mom's ashes when we first arrived.