Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
But I just smile and take her blindfold off. Mostly because I wanna see her face. But there’s no point in keeping mine hidden anyway. She’s seen me several times now.
Clover is so stunned, she stares at me with her mouth open for a few seconds before stuttering out her words. “What… why… what the hell are you doing? Why are you showing me your face?”
I shrug with one shoulder, unconcerned with her panic. “Why bother. You’ve seen me.” Then I grab her arm, pull her up to her feet, and take off the belt around her wrists.
She spins around. “What are you doing?”
“Cutting you loose so you can drink the water.”
“You’re going to leave me down here, aren’t you? That’s your choice? Dead and decaying body found by a construction worker six months from now.”
All I can do is shrug again. “If ya want, I can take the water with me.”
She scoffs, her eyes wide. Then she makes a break for it. I grab her by the waist, swing her around, and try not to body-slam her, only marginally succeeding, as she hits the ground. She grunts and then starts moaning.
“That was a stupid thing to do, Clover.” I growl this at her. “But lucky for you, I’m not the kind of guy who holds a grudge. So I’m still gonna leave the water.” Then I turn and go back up the stairs and flick off the light.
“Wait!” she calls. “What about the bathroom?”
I look down at her, sitting there all pretty and desperate as the darkness threatens to swallow her up. I smile. “You wish.”
Then I slam the trapdoor down and start drilling holes for the padlock I bought at a store in Fayetteville this afternoon.
She screams, pounding her fists on the wood, but the drill mostly drowns it out.
When I’m done, I leave and get back to work.
The sooner I finish up, the sooner I can leave this woman behind.
CHAPTER 7 - CLOVER
As soon as he’s done putting a lock on the trapdoor—that’s what he’s doing, that has to be what he’s doing—I get up, climb the stairs, and turn the light on. Now that my hands are free, I can make a real attempt at an escape. So I work the latch and push my shoulder against the door. It gives, but only about half an inch.
I’m sure whatever lock he used, it’s industrial-grade.
Which means there’s no hope of me busting through. I know for a fact that the trapdoor is made of solid hickory. It’s like three inches thick. The windows are covered with the same wood. And they were bolted on good and tight because they’ve been like that for the entire six years I’ve been renovating because the cabin has always been a family secret. Lowyn is probably the only person outside my immediate family who knows it’s here.
The workmen might come back. Perhaps one of them forgot a tool? But it’s unlikely because I barely had enough to pay them for last month. All of this month’s money went towards that stupid Lincoln Navigator. Which means they have moved on to more lucrative projects and any tools left behind would’ve been collected weeks back.
This SUV feels like one of my dumber purchases right now. If I had stayed on schedule for the reno, none of this would be happening because this man would not have dared use my house as some kind of secret home base for a clandestine job if workers were showing up on the regular.
So basically, my desire for a luxury SUV to pull a fantasy horse inside a horse trailer is gonna get me killed.
How amazing.
I go back down the stairs and stare at the water. There are twenty-four bottles. How long can I live off twenty-four bottles of water and no food?
I don’t know. Two weeks?
What I do know is that however long it is, it’s going to be miserable.
He’s not going to kill me. He doesn’t have to. He’s just going to let me slowly waste away down here. It’s cruel, that’s what it is. It’s evil. And this water is just a way to ease his mind about the whole thing. That’s it, nothing more. Sure, it’s ruthless. But my death won’t happen by his own hand. I guess he can live with that. I guess his conscience is now clear.
I press my back against the wall and slump down, rubbing my scabbed and sore wrists as I think about this.
Because my theory might be flawed.
Maybe his conscience isn’t clear? Maybe leaving me to die isn’t his first choice. Maybe killing me, whatever way that happens, is weighing on his mind?
And maybe that weight is heavy.
He didn’t have to bring me water, but he did. And it’s quite a lot. From my perspective, this amount of water feels like torture because all it’s going to do is prolong the inevitable.