Chapter 3

Ferne Booth POV:

"Ferne! What the hell did you do?"

Daryl' s voice was a roar of fury, instantly at Kenisha's side. He didn't even look at me, his entire focus on my sister, who was now theatrically clutching her face and sobbing.

"I... I didn't do anything," I gasped, my own eyes burning, the world dissolving into a blurry, painful mess. "She threw it at me."

"Liar!" Daryl spat, his face contorted with rage. "I saw you! You knocked it out of her hand! You're just jealous because I'm paying attention to her!"

He lunged at me, grabbing me by the hair and dragging me towards our car. The pain was sharp, but the injustice was sharper. He yanked open the trunk, a space usually reserved for groceries and my portable keyboard, and shoved me inside.

"You're going to stay in here and think about what you've done," he seethed, his voice a low growl. "Maybe a little time-out will teach you some damn manners."

"Daryl, please," I begged, scrambling to get out, but he was already slamming the lid shut, plunging me into darkness. I heard the click of the lock, a sound of absolute finality. I was a prisoner.

He had fabricated a reality where I was the villain, and he was the righteous judge. He saw what he wanted to see, what confirmed his narrative: Kenisha, the pure, suffering angel, and me, the spiteful, jealous shrew.

The trunk door flew open again a moment later, and Daryl's face appeared, silhouetted against the bright sky. He wasn't there to let me out. He tossed something inside that clattered against the metal floor.

It was the can of pepper spray.

"So you don't forget who the real victim is here," he snarled.

The trunk slammed shut again, the sound echoing the snapping of the last thread of hope inside me. The car lurched into motion, and I heard him cooing to Kenisha through the thin barrier of the back seat, his voice dripping with sympathy.

The road was a winding, unpaved mountain path. With every bump and jolt, my body was thrown against the hard-surfaced confines of the trunk. The can of pepper spray became a weapon, its sharp edges digging into my skin, tearing at my clothes.

Then, on a particularly violent lurch, I felt a sharp, searing pain in my thigh. I cried out, reaching down to feel a warm, sticky wetness spreading through my jeans. The nozzle of the can had pierced my skin. The pain was excruciating, a white-hot agony that made me gasp for air.

The drive felt like an eternity. The smell of dust and my own blood filled the small space. My body was a canvas of bruises and cuts. By the time the car finally stopped, I was a trembling, bleeding mess, struggling to draw breath.

The trunk opened. Daryl looked down at me, his face impassive. There was no shock, no remorse at the sight of my injuries. If anything, his eyes held a flicker of annoyance, as if my suffering was an inconvenience.

"Get up," he said, his voice flat. He reached in, not to help, but to drag me out by my arm, his fingers digging into a fresh bruise. He doused me with a bottle of frigid water from the cooler. "Stop acting so pathetic. You brought this on yourself. Now go inside and apologize to Kenisha."

Apologize. The word was so absurd, so grotesquely unfair, that a broken, hollow laugh escaped my lips. He wanted me to apologize for being attacked, for being imprisoned, for being injured. My pain was irrelevant. Only Kenisha's mattered.

I stumbled into the remote mountain cabin he' d rented, my leg screaming in protest. I found a first-aid kit in the bathroom and clumsily tried to clean and bandage the gash on my thigh, my hands shaking too much to do a proper job.

Kenisha appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, a smug, satisfied smirk playing on her lips. She had a small, decorative bandage on her cheek, a theatrical prop in her twisted play.

"Feeling better?" she asked, her voice dripping with false concern. "I have an idea that will cheer you right up. There's a rickety old rope bridge over the canyon out back. It'll be fun!"

My blood ran cold. I was terrified of heights. She knew that.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Kenisha," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"Oh, don't be a baby." She grabbed my wrist, her nails digging into my skin, and began to drag me towards the back door. "Unless you have something to hide? Daryl told me he saw you talking to your ex, Bradley Spencer, the other day. Getting back together with the man who ruined your hands? How touching."

The accusation was a slap in the face. It was a lie, a complete fabrication, but I knew it was meant to corner me.

We stood at the edge of the canyon. The rope bridge was exactly as she'd described it: a terrifying, swaying construction of weathered planks and fraying ropes, stretched over a dizzying drop.

"I'm not going on that," I said, planting my feet.

"Why not?" Daryl' s voice came from behind me. He put his arm around Kenisha, pulling her close. "Afraid your guilty conscience will send you over the edge?"