“So, now that you’ve caught me again?” I ask.
“Let’s continue our story.”
“How does it end?”
“We’ll have to keep going to see. I’ll resume the role of the villain who enjoys the hunt, and you’ll continue to be my prey. Who will win?”
“Except I don’t want to be hunted. I don’t want to play.”
“Deep down you do. You saw the Jane Anonymous poster. The message spoke to you—the part about going from a victim to a victor.”
“You put that poster in the library.” And lured me here by creating Peyton.
“You logged on that very night. It took virtually nothing to engage you. Now, what do you say? I’ll give you two minutes.”
I grip the stake, trying to hold it all together despite my desire to lash out. “Two minutes?”
“If you agree to play, you might get your way. Then you’ll be free, free, free for eternity. Do we have ourselves a deal?”
“What do you mean? What kind of deal?”
“You got away once. Then you got away twice. If you get away a third time, I’ll have to play nice. If you use the ring to escape into the night, the heroine will win, and I will do what’s right.”
“What’s right?”
“Our story will be done, and the heroine will have won.”
“And if I don’t escape?”
“Then continues our fun and the villain has won. We’ll run away together and spin our tales forever and ever. Tick tock, tick tock. Run, run away or you’ll have to stay. The villain of this story really loves to play.” He sits down on a boulder.
It’s only then I nab the ring and slide it onto my finger.
“Two minutes,” he reminds me, covering his eyes with his hands. He begins to count, like a game of hide-and-seek.
I grip the stake in my pocket, suspecting he’s watching me from the spaces between his fingers. I can’t lash out now. And so, I turn away and run for my life.
NOW
54
I grapple through the woods, swiping branches and brush from in front of my eyes, desperate to get back to the fence, wanting to find my car.
But the brush is way too thick. I’m not on the same trail. The branches scratch my skin. One of them pokes my eye. I rub it, trying to absorb the pain, hoping to ease the blur.
The lantern’s still on; I can’t see without it. Still, I’m tempted to let it go. It’s too heavy, way too cumbersome. Plus, it gives me away.
I struggle through a grove of berry bushes, sure the two-minute mark has already passed. His first instinct will be to go for my car. I squat down, where I am, behind some bushes, click the lantern off, and wait to hear him approaching, hoping he’ll continue past me.
It doesn’t take long. The sound of his body swishes among the trees. His soft grunt makes my insides shiver.
Is he a few yards away?
On the other side of these trees?
I hold my breath, telling myself it’s all a big game, just another role-play with Charley. The metal stake is gripped in my hand.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he sings. “My hero couldn’t have gone too far.”
I inch out, unable to see a thing. He isn’t using a flashlight or lantern. So how is he looking for me? Night vision goggles? Does he have them?
I count to ten inside my head, wondering how concealed I am. Is he able to see any part of me—my shoes, my clothes, the outline of my hair?
“Terra…” His voice sounds so close, just a couple of feet away. It’s followed by the cracking of broken twigs, the scuffling of dirt, and the crinkling of the plastic covering over his shoes.
I picture his step and listen for his breath, able to hear his deep inhalation: the sucking of air up his nostrils. He sounds right at my side now. I clamp my eyes shut as if that will make a difference.
And maybe it does.
Because everything goes quiet.
Even the crickets stop chirping.
Where is he now?
I start to stand up. My knee joint clicks. The sound shatters the silence, echoes inside my brain.
“Well, well, well,” he says, freezing me in place.
I drop back to the ground.
“Look what we have here? A sweet little victim who’s oh-so-near? Does this really mean what I think it might? We’ll spin our tales every day and every nigh—”
I cut him off, stabbing into the darkness, plunging outward with the stake, imagining the cloth dummy from self-defense class. So many nights I spent stabbing Rummy. And kicking sandbags.
And dodging punches.
And ducking from high kicks …
Finally, there was a payoff. He lets out a grunt.
I stand up and click the lantern on. I’ve stabbed him in the gut, through his T-shirt. He’s got a pair of binoculars strapped around his head, over the mask: night vision goggles.
He goes to reach into his pocket. But before he can, I strike out with the lantern. The base clonks against the side of his head. His hands fly up to his face, and he turns to the side.
With both hands gripped on the handle, I imagine the lantern like a baseball bat and slice through the air before he’s able to rebound, knocking his forehead. He lets out a wail and stumbles back.
How far did the stake go in—three inches? Four?
He motions to remove it, and I kick him—hard—aiming for his groin. He goes down on his knees, still trying to pluck the stake free.
I kick him once more—this time, in the chest; the heel of my boot meets his ribs. The base of the lantern smashes against his face as I pummel him once more. He falls back, rolls onto his side.
His eyes appear closed. I can’t tell if he’s breathing.
I scooch to the ground, remembering his backstory—one that was ever changing, thanks to a reality he said was all too grim, way too dark. You don’t want to know was all
