Chapter 3

Hank lingered for a moment, his gaze sweeping over me one last time.

I was a mess, covered in mud, my face bruised, my clothes torn.

He probably didn' t recognize me from the few times he might have seen me as a child visiting my grandparents.

"Sheriff John's granddaughter, you say?" he muttered, more to himself than to me, "Don't look much like the Sheriff's kin I remember, they were always so neat and tidy."

He spat on the ground.

"Best not be using the Sheriff's name in vain, girl, folks 'round here don't take kindly to that."

Then, with a shrug, he turned and walked away, disappearing down the muddy track.

The brief flicker of hope extinguished, leaving only cold, bitter ashes.

My mind reeled.

Neat and tidy?

Of course, I didn' t look neat and tidy!

I' d been drugged, kidnapped, assaulted, and was lying in a mud puddle.

The injustice of his casual dismissal, based on my current, horrific appearance, was a fresh stab of pain.

I used to be neat, my hair always brushed, my clothes clean, even if they weren't expensive like Jessica's.

Grandma Betty wouldn' t have it any other way.

The irony was a cruel joke.

The Miller boys, Cletus and the younger one, dragged me into the farmhouse.

The inside was even worse than the porch suggested.

Dark, cramped, and filled with the stench of unwashed bodies, rotting food, and something else, something cloyingly sweet and chemical.

They shoved me hard into a small, windowless room at the back, more of a closet than a bedroom.

I stumbled and fell, hitting my already bruised hip on a rickety wooden crate.

The door slammed shut, and I heard a bolt slide into place.

Darkness enveloped me, thick and suffocating.

For a moment, I just lay there, stunned, the impact jarring through my body.

Then, rage, pure and undiluted, flooded through me.

I wasn't going to be their victim.

My eyes, adjusting to the dim light filtering under the door, scanned the tiny space.

My hand brushed against something hard and wooden.

A broken chair leg, about two feet long, splintered at one end.

A weapon.

I grabbed it, my fingers closing around the rough wood.

When Cletus, or his brother, or even Brenda, came through that door, they' d get a surprise.

I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the pain, and pressed myself against the wall beside the door, the chair leg held ready.

A few minutes later, I heard footsteps outside.

The bolt scraped back.

The door creaked open, and Cletus' s silhouette filled the opening.

"Ma says you're to..." he started, then stopped, peering into the gloom.

He stepped inside.

That was his mistake.

With a yell, I swung the chair leg with all my might, connecting with his side.

He grunted in surprise and pain, stumbling back.

I swung again, aiming for his head, but he ducked, and the wood slammed into the doorframe.

"You little bitch!" he roared, clutching his side.

He lunged for me, but I was quicker, fueled by adrenaline and terror.

I jabbed the splintered end towards his face.

He flinched back, a new respect, or maybe fear, in his eyes.

He wasn't expecting me to fight.

The commotion brought Brenda and the younger son, whose name I now heard Cletus yell was Jeb, running.

They crowded the doorway, their faces shocked as they saw me, wild-eyed and armed, standing over a winded Cletus.

I was bleeding from my lip, my hair a tangled mess, mud streaking my face and clothes, brandishing a broken piece of wood.

I probably looked insane.

Good.

"I told you," I panted, my voice raspy but firm, "I am not going to be your son' s wife, I am not staying here."

I pointed the chair leg at Brenda.

"And Hank, your neighbor, he heard me say I was Sheriff John' s granddaughter, he might not have believed me then, but he' ll remember if I go missing for good."

I was bluffing about Hank, but maybe, just maybe, it would plant a seed of doubt.

The Millers looked at each other.

Even Brenda seemed momentarily unsure.

Cletus was still rubbing his ribs, glaring at me.

Jeb, the younger one, looked scared.

"Ma," Jeb whispered, "What if she is? What if the old Sheriff comes lookin'?"

The fear in his voice was real.

This was a small community, isolated, but news, especially bad news involving someone like Sheriff John, would travel.

Brenda' s face hardened again, but the flicker of uncertainty remained in her eyes.

"She's nobody!" Brenda insisted, but her voice was a little too loud, a little too shrill.

"Just a lying, crazy runaway!"

But the seed was planted.

They were scared, not of me, but of who I might be, of who might come looking for me.

Then, Brenda' s eyes narrowed with a new, terrifying resolve.

She suddenly lunged, not at me, but past me, towards the only other thing in the tiny room – a pile of old sacks.

Before I could react, she grabbed one, a heavy burlap sack, and threw it over my head.

Darkness, suffocating and smelling of dirt and something rotten, enveloped me.

I screamed and swung the chair leg wildly, but I was disoriented, off-balance.

Strong hands grabbed me, Cletus and Jeb, pinning my arms.

The chair leg clattered to the floor.

I felt myself being dragged, stumbling, out of the small room, through the main part of the farmhouse.

I could hear Brenda cursing, "Get her out to the old shed, tie her up good, can't have her making more noise."

The shed.

I remembered seeing a dilapidated structure at the edge of the woods when I' d made my failed escape attempt.

It would be even more isolated, colder, darker.

My heart sank.

They weren't going to kill me, not yet, that would be too risky if there was even a tiny chance I was telling the truth.

But they were going to make sure I couldn't escape, couldn't call for help.

Just as they were dragging me out the back door, I heard a vehicle approaching on the dirt road.

A sputtering engine, getting closer.

My heart leaped.

Could it be Hank, having second thoughts? Or someone else?

The Millers froze, listening.

Brenda hissed, "Get her down, quick!"

They shoved me to the muddy ground behind a pile of junk, Cletus' s hand clamped hard over my mouth through the sack.

I struggled, but he was too strong.

I could hear the vehicle stop near the front of the house.

A man' s voice called out, "Brenda? You home? It's Billy, Billy Coulter, Ma sent me over with some stew."

Billy.

My cousin Billy.

Grandma Betty' s sister' s boy.

He was here.

He was here.