I watch motionless, my entire body ridden by paralyzing fear.

  “What happened to the girl?” I utter, my voice so low that it’s barely audible.

  He doesn’t react to my question at first, his focus remaining on the clasp until he has unfastened it from the hook. My eyes are locked on to him with tense anticipation as I watch him rise up to his feet. He turns around, arching his eyebrows in surprise when he sees that I haven’t done what he told me to.

  “Get dressed,” he repeats, pointing at the pile of clothes next to me. “Now.”

  “Where’s the girl?” I insist, my hands curling into fists as I hold him in place with a demanding gaze. “Why won’t you tell me what happened to her.”

  The expression on his face changes and he looks confused for a moment before he shakes his head, a crease appearing between his eyebrows.

  My breath hikes when he takes a step forward, holding the leash in one hand while he raises the other toward me. I jump back on instinct, succumbing to actual fear for the first time in a while, when we are interrupted by a sound that is new to my ears.

  A violent knocking at the heavy front door.

  Chapter 31

  J

  Her face had turned from blushed to downright pale while I was upstairs to fetch the clothes I had prepared for her to wear tonight.

  It was negligence on my side to not bring them downstairs right away, but my head has been so clustered these past few days that a detail as minor as this one had a good chance at slipping through. It shouldn’t matter. I trusted her to stay where I left her, not worrying for a moment that she might use the chance to escape, just when everything was about to end anyway.

  Of course, she doesn’t know about that last part. I didn’t want her to.

  I knew I had to take action after talking to Christopher at the police station a few days ago, so I did. I knew we’d have to deal with the police sooner or later, but I didn’t expect for things to go down this route.

  I had to adapt and act quickly.

  And I was forced to step up my game even more when Malia left the house. Things moved so fast, too fast, for me and for Petal.

  And I hope to God that it will all work out in the end. A lot of things have to fall into place from now on, to make sure that Petal is safe and I save my own neck.

  We both startle at the loud hammering at the front door. She already looked unhinged when I first came back to the room, insisting on asking about Malia instead of following my instructions. But now, she looks outright terrified.

  “Who is that?”

  Her voice is trembling, as are her lips.

  “Get dressed,” I hiss at her. “Now.”

  She hesitates for a moment, before apparently deciding that no matter what, it’s better for her to face the intruder while being fully dressed instead of being seen as a naked sex slave by anyone but me.

  I make it easier for her by removing the leash from her collar, staying close while she hurries to slip in the clothes I brought, while the violent knocking continues. A muffled voice has joined the hammering sound, but the door is too thick to reveal what exactly is being said as the person continues to work the door with his fists.

  I don’t need to hear the words to know who is attacking my door like this. I knew he would come, but I’m still surprised at the hurry with which everything is happening.

  I don’t give her any time to ponder once she’s dressed, ignoring her quizzical face as I grab her wrist and drag her with me toward the door.

  “Who is that?” she presses, fidgeting but not giving me an actual fight as I force her to follow me.

  “Jayson, please, talk to me! Who is that at the door? What’s going o—”

  “Police!” the voice roars from the outside, and I cast her a quick glance over the shoulder.

  “There’s your answer,” I say, coming to a halt in front of the door and turning to her. We only have seconds, but I need to make sure to use them wisely.

  “Listen to me, Petal,” I hiss. “You’ll be okay. You have to trust me on this. We’re about to—”

  “Open the fucking door right now!”

  She jerks, casting a worried look to the door that is shaking in its hinges.

  I wanted more time to assure her, more time to prepare both of us for what is about to happen, but it doesn’t look like we’ll be granted that time. And I sure as hell don’t want to give them a reason to break my door in and take control out of my hands entirely.

  So, I open it for them.

  It’s not a conscious motion, but I’m holding Petal’s hand as the door swings open before us, revealing the rude intruder and his entourage.

  Christopher builds himself up like a fucking bulldozer, only hesitating for a split second before he barges inside, pushing me to the side and heading toward Petal. Our hands are separated as she backs off, raising her hands in defense as he marches to her. “Liliane!” he exclaims, grabbing her by the shoulders to keep her in place while she stares up at him through wide and horrified eyes.

  “Detain him!” he yells at the other two policemen, not taking his eyes off of her for a split second, while the other two guys, both not much older than him, but a lot smaller in stature, approach me, one grabbing my arms and crossing them behind my back while the other fastens a set of handcuffs around my wrists.

  Petal’s eyes dart back and forth between Christopher and me, an expression of desperate confusion painted all across her face.

  “Liliane, are you okay?” Christopher asks, shaking her by the shoulders to get her attention.

  She looks at him, shaking her head with a lack of understanding.

  “Who...,” she utters, neither recognizing her own name nor the man who used to be a close friend for most of her youth.

  Christopher growls, throwing me a hateful look from the side.

  “What did you do to her?” he barks at me. “Did you do it again? Did you erase her memory?”

  I don’t deign him with a reply, only reciprocating his spiteful look with a quick glance before my focus returns to Petal.

  “It’ll be okay,” I promise her, tuning out the raging asshole and the policemen who keep me in a tight lock. “Trust me, it’ll—”

  “Trust you!” Christopher cuts me off. “You fucking maniac!”

  He nods to his colleagues. “Take him to the station. She’s coming with me.”

  My chest tightens. I knew it. I knew this is how it would go down. I saw it coming.

  And I let us walk right into it.

  Petal’s face is white and pained with confusion. She’s visibly uncomfortable in Christopher’s molesting grasp, but he ignores her disposition entirely.

  “Come,” he says, lowering his voice to a soft and loving tone as he slowly turns, letting go of her shoulders only to move his hand to the small of her back, giving her a gentle push as he leads her out of the house, while her eyes remain glued onto me.

  I watch as he leads her down the driveway toward one of the two cars that are parked in front of my house, while I stay behind, fighting the urge to come after them, to protect her, to take her away from him.

  My girl. My Petal.

  It hurts to see his hands on her, and it hurts even more to see her this distraught. I only find solace in the knowledge that this horror will be short-lived and over very soon.

  He opens the door for her, nudging her when she hesitates, her eyes searching for me still. I suggest a nod, moving slowly as the policemen guide me through the door.

  Her eyes remain latched onto mine, never breaking eye contact until Christopher turns the car around, leaving my property with irresponsible speed.

  As soon as the car is out of sight, I’m met with the questioning gaze of one of the policemen, whose name I know to be Carlos.

  “Get me out of these.”

  He beckons for the other guy, whose name I don’t know, to unlock the cuffs around my wrists.

  “You sure about this?” he asks, hurrying next to me as I jog to the car.

  “I am,” I reply, exchanging a short glance with him as I get the driver’s door. “But it’s still a risk. We have to hurry.”

  My eyes trail to the street, my chest racing at the knowledge that she’s out there, with him.

  My Petal is in danger, because of me.

  But soon this will all be over. For good.

  Chapter 32

  Malia

  He doesn’t look like the man I expected to see. I was prepared for the worst, ready to face a broken man, guilt-ridden and pained by the despair her disappearance must have caused him.

  I had my first words laid out, a little monologue that was supposed to offer him consolation when nothing else could. I thought I’d have to face the anguish of guilt, knowing that I’m partly to blame for his current terror.

  I felt sick to the stomach as I stood in front of his door, bracing myself as I waited for him to open it for me.

  My concerns were washed away and replaced with something else when he finally did.

  “Malia,” he said, his eyebrows flying up in surprise. “What brings you here?”

  I’m struck by the ease in his voice. That’s not how I expected to find the man whose daughter has recently disappeared into thin air.

  “I… I just wanted to check up on you,” I stutter. “To see how you’re doing. Since Liliane—”

  “Abandoned her only living relative? Turned her back on the man who raised her, who did everything for her?” he cuts me off, anger lacing his stance as he crosses his arms in front of his chest as he leans against the doorframe. “You were in on it, weren’t you? I’m sure she told her best friend about her plans.”

  I swallow hard. So, he found the letter. “Excuse me, what—”

  “Oh come, don’t play dumb with me, Malia. I read her letter. I know what she’s up to. She probably went back to that boy,” he bellows. “She never listens to me, never has, never will. Ungrateful and wayward, just like her mother. I’m done trying with her.”

  I stare up at him, appalled at his reaction. Even when factoring in the letter, I expected him to worry about her, to be sad about her leaving, and to feel pushed down by the guilt of driving her away with his overbearing behavior.

  But this?

  “Aren’t you worried about her?”

  He scoffs, lowering his gaze, and for a split second, I see the sorrow cast over his face that I expected to find.

  “I was always worried about her,” he says, sounding offended. “Day and night I worried about her, because I know what’s best for her. But where did that get us? She ran off. Just like her mother did back then. She doesn’t deserve my concern, not anymore.”

  “You don’t really mean that,” I utter.

  But Robert just shakes his head, the expression on his face hard and unforgiving.

  “I meant it,” he insists. “This time I really do. She’s abandoned me once before, and I came after her. I won’t do that same mistake again.”

  Violent pain throbs through my chest, reeking of guilt and regret. I was so sure to do the right thing, but with just a few words and eyes that lack the sorrow I needed to see, Robert managed to make me doubt everything.

  Did I do the right thing?

  Was Jayson right all along?

  Did I not see her, not listen to her—just like her father never did?

  Did I just make a very big mistake?

  Chapter 33

  Petal

  “You don’t remember who I am, do you?”

  The man sounds bitter as he asks that question, casting me quick glances from the side while he drives us away from the house. He’s a tall man, almost as tall as Jayson, and he seems to be about the same age. I study his face, the light eyes and the blond hair that flees in thin ruffles from his head. He seems familiar, but I can’t place him at all.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “My memory—”

  “Has been erased. Yeah, I know that,” he interrupts me, while his hand tightens around the steering wheel. “I can’t believe he did that, again.”

  He’s said that before. Again.

  “Was this not... the first time?” I wonder out loud.

  The man huffs. “No. With you, he has done it before.”

  “When?”

  “Long time ago.” He grimaces, moving his lips as if he was trying to stop himself from saying something wrong. “You were a human guinea pig for him. He erased something from your mind, and when word got out about it, people fell on their knees in front of this lunatic. Suddenly, everybody wanted a piece, and he was all too happy to provide.”

  My mouth falls open as I listen, unsure what to make of his words, let alone how to respond.

  “Jayson Bowlan took advantage of you,” the man continues, arching his eyebrows with intent as he throws me a look from the side. “What he did to you was wrong on so many levels. He changed you; he messed you up. You were a different person when you came to, and instead of punishing him, those idiots rewarded him with fame and money.”

  He scoffs with disgust, shaking his head while the street lights cast changing shadows across his strained face.

  “He’s a murderer, you know,” he hurries to add, giving me no chance to follow up on his former statement. “He kidnaps women, locks them away like he did with you, and then he kills them. That’s what he does.”

  A tight clamp closes around my throat. I feel like I’m being pushed underwater, unable to come up for air.

  No, it can’t be. I don’t want to believe this.

  “The Bridgewater murderer?” My voice is so weak that I’m not even sure he could hear me, but the guy nods emphatically.

  “Exactly,” he says. “That’s what they call him.”

  The newspaper headline flashes up before my eyes, and my busy mind is connecting dots before I know it. The sedative, the time frame. Four years since that mysterious evening at his house. The evening that I can mostly remember in the form of emotions and fragmented images, but I know it didn’t end well.

  Four years since that murderer was striking terror in this area. Using sedatives to control his victims, just like Jayson does for his job.

  It all makes sense.

  But on the other hand, it doesn’t.

  “I got you out right in time,” the man says. “You’re lucky we got there before he...”

  His voice breaks off, and he shakes his head as if to cast away a dark thought.

  “You know, you and I, we go way back,” he says now, meeting my questioning gaze with a reassuring smile. “We were close, very close. Went to school together, graduated together. We were friends, Liliane. Very close friends. And even more than that.”

  Liliane. Is that my name? Why does it not touch anything within me? It was different when Jayson told me his name. I felt something, a reaction, a foggy memory dancing around inside my head while teasing me with images I couldn’t place.

  But this name, the one that the man uses to address me, it doesn’t do anything to me.

  I turn to him, narrowing my eyes with focus. “What’s your name?”

  “Christopher,” he replies with such implicitness that I feel instantly ashamed for asking.

  “Christopher,” I repeat, tasting the name just like I did with Jayson when he first shared it with me. “Christopher.”

  He side eyes me, looking slightly annoyed as I keep repeating his name. There’s a spark of familiarity every time it rolls over my tongue, but nothing more than that. A spark, short and not bright enough to provide a light I could follow. It may be true that I’ve known this man before, but is he saying the truth about us being close?

  “Why are you doing that?” he wants to know, sounding bothered. “Why do you keep repeating my name like that?”

  “It... it helps me remember,” I reply, lowering my gaze as I’m washed over with a wave of shame. “Names, things, words—if I focus on them long enough, I sometimes manage to remember.”

  He nods. “So, it’s not all lost then? You can access your memory if you just try hard enough?”

  “No, it’s not like that,” I say, shaking my head. His words hurt. It sounds like he’s blaming me for this, as if the ability to remember just depends on my sheer will to do so.

  If only it were that simple.

  But maybe there is some truth to it? After all, there was a way for me to look behind the wall that’s been erected inside my head. The images were hazy and lacked detail, but they were still, still providing hints to the things that have been taken from me.

  Taken, because I wanted them gone.

  Maybe it is true that I’m denied access to most of my memories because I don’t really want to remember.

  But why would I want to forget someone who has been a close friend to me all my life? Why would I want to forget this Christopher guy?

  And if what he says about Jayson is true, why am I still alive? Why did I never feel like my life was in actual danger? And what was the girl’s role in all of this? I could feel that the connection with her was deep and genuine. If she really was a friend, why would she help a murderer to get me? Or did she simply not know that was what she was doing?

  Is this so hard to believe, because Jayson is a master at brainwashing people or because it simply isn’t true? My instincts tell me it’s the latter, but I don’t trust myself.

  Right now, at this very moment, I don’t trust anything—or anyone, for that matter.

  And that includes this policeman next to me, my alleged savior who claims he rescued me from a murderer.

  “How did you find me?”

  He stops the car at a red light, letting out a sigh as he turns to me.

  “Malia came to the station and ratted him out,” he says.

  “Malia?”

  His eyebrows furrow as he shakes his head.

  “Malia, your best friend. Oh for fuck’s sake.”