Nothing happens.
I nudge the door again, this time harder. But it doesn’t even jiggle in the frame like it does when it’s locked. It’s as though the door is frozen shut. I push harder, finally leaning back and slamming my shoulder into it with no effect. I take a step back, staring at the door for a few moments with a renewed sense of foreboding.
What the hell did he do, nail the door shut? I didn’t hear anything…
I made sure he couldn’t get in. And now, he’s made sure I can’t get out.
Suddenly, I’m alert and focused. A cold feeling seeps over my skin as I remember the events of last night. There’s no time to debate or analyze, only act. With a renewed sense of urgency, I grab my duffel bag from next to the door and empty my work clothes from the previous day onto the floor. Then I fly into the closet and start grabbing new clothes, stuffing them into the bag along with anything else that seems vaguely important, changing into a new pair of jeans and a t-shirt as I go. I make a sweep through the bathroom before zipping up the bag and dropping it next to the bedroom window.
If I can’t open the door, I’ll go out the window. I can open the garage from the keypad, get the extra key hidden in Bowen’s tool chest, and go inside to grab my work bag with my phone and my keys. Throwing the curtains open, I twist the lock open, grab underneath the lip of the window, and pull.
Again, nothing happens.
Tugging frantically, it feels like the window is frozen shut, too. I try the other one next to the bed with the same result. My breaths become shakier and more erratic, the panic rising with every second. The voice guiding my actions suddenly becomes louder and louder.
Find a way out.You have to get out.Now.
Spinning around, I scan the room for something heavy. The night stands? Maybe, but they’re unwieldy. The vanity stool seems too light. I head for the bathroom, eyes darting around each wall until they come to an abrupt halt on the lid of the toilet tank. I blink once and then lunge for it. It’s heavy, but easy to hold and maneuver.
I return to the window, looking it up and down. I’ve never broken a window before. Do I really want to do this? Should I do this?
He said he’s going to gang rape you with Jay and Wells—Jay’s goddamn brother—and then he locked you in the bedroom!
With a deep breath, I reel back and swing the porcelain slab at the glass as hard as I can.
It slams into the panes near the bottom right corner and cracks in half, sending fissures shooting through the glass and shattering it onto the sill. The noise wakes up Waylon and he starts barking in the hallway. Using the larger chunk of porcelain, I knock the remaining shards out of the window and then I start ramming it into the screen.
After a few hits, the screen pops out and falls to the ground. I grab my bag and chuck it out the window into the grass, then carefully step through the glass-laden carpet, hoping to God a shard doesn’t get stuck in the bottom of my Vans and slice into my foot. There’s no graceful way to do it. Head first, I reach out the window to the exterior portion of the sill where there’s no broken glass and grab the edge of the siding. Then I bring one leg up and try to step out onto the same ledge. Keeping crouched so I don’t bump my back against any remaining glass on the top of the frame, I half jump, half roll out the window.
I land and stumble over onto the grass, but escape without any cuts. Whipping my head around, I scramble up, grab my bag, and run as fast as I can to the driveway. I ditch my bag next to the driver’s side door and hurry to the garage keypad. Waiting for the door to go up, I glance around with my head on a swivel, making sure there’s no one around. The extra house key is hidden exactly where it should be and I’m back inside the house in seconds.
Waylon stares at me with curiosity as I run to the front door and grab my bag, making sure my keys and phone are still inside. I swing the bag over my shoulder and then skid to a stop. My personal laptop is sitting on the island. I rush over and grab it, sliding it into my bag, and then pause again.
You might not be coming back here. Ever.
Gazing around for a few seconds, I make my way to the bookcase and scan the second shelf. The worn-out paperback copy of The Outsiders sits next to an even more worn-out and older copy of The Sun Also Rises. I grab both from the shelf, lamenting the fact that I have to leave all my other books behind. Then I reach again and grab the first edition of Carrie, a lump rising in my throat. At least I remembered these—my favorite book that made me want to be an author, my mom’s book she picked my name from, and the one from Colson…
I slide them into my bag and then look around again, my gaze falling on the closet door next to the entryway. There’s a safe box on the top shelf of the closet that contains all of our important documents. I drag a chair over from the kitchen and climb onto it, reaching for the box, big enough to hold file folders. I assume it’s heavier than it is, and when I lift it, it slams into the ceiling and dislodges the hatch to the attic crawlspace.
“Shit!” I shriek as the hatch falls out of the ceiling, throwing a puff of dust in my face.
I drop the safe box and it tumbles to the floor with a crash, along with the crawlspace hatch. Brushing dust particles off my cheek, I jump down and throw open the box, rummaging through it until I find a black leather passport holder that also holds my social security card and birth certificate. I slam the box shut again and throw the documents into my bag.
I’m about to leave the entire mess behind when I look up and see a sliver of a box sticking out over the edge of the crawlspace hole. It's only odd because, to my knowledge, nothing is stored up here because it’s too inconvenient and the basement has ample space. I should just go, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I climb back up onto the chair. If Bowen was here, I think he would’ve made it known by now.
I reach up and slide the edge of the box to the side. It’s surprisingly light and easy enough to pull down, unlike the safe box. When I set it on the floor and tug open the flaps folded in on one another, I’m not even sure what I’m looking at.
There are two plastic bags; a rolled up black trash bag about a foot long and another white one rolled up in a similar fashion. Underneath the bags are an envelope and a few pieces of folded up white paper. I set the bags aside and pick up the envelope. Inside are two photos and two sheets of notebook paper.
When I unfold them, I realize it’s a letter.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Emily
Two Years Ago
(Page 1)
December 20
Bowen,
Last night I was thinking about the first time I met you. It was the first weekend I ever came home with Hildy. We were sitting in your parents’ living room, watching TV, when you came home. You sat down next to me and stayed up with us watching Squid Game until Hildy couldn’t stay awake anymore. Then you stayed with me, just talking, until 3AM. After only a few hours, I felt like I’d known you for so much longer and I could talk to you about anything. And after 2 days, it nearly broke my heart to leave you and go back to campus.
I’ve never felt a connection with anyone like I did with you. You were the one person I could tell anything and you would never judge me. There were times I couldn’t believe that you loved ME and you wanted to be with ME, and only me. I wanted a whole life with you, to do everything with you, and to grow old with you. You made me feel like the most important person in the world and, after growing up in the family I did, I never thought I would find anything close to that.
But then, slowly, I started to doubt myself. I think it started when I began studying for the MCAT. It was so stressful and time-consuming, but you seemed so supportive and excited. I didn’t notice at the time, but that’s when everything suddenly started going wrong. Everything seemed slightly off, but I didn’t know why. I knew it wasn’t my depression or bipolar disorder, because I’ve managed it well and there’s no reason my meds shouldn’t be working. And, more importantly, depression and BPD don’t cause things to disappear and reappear in your house at random times or make you lose your memory and imagine things. And then, one day, I finally realized what was causing it.
You. You are the reason behind everything in my life falling apart.
(Page 2)
When I never heard back from any of the med programs I applied to, I thought I truly had gone crazy and this was culmination of all the stress and all the depression and all the strange things happening around me. But it wasn’t.
I got into medical school, by the way. But you already know that. I didn’t know until I contacted a few of the attendings I interviewed with to ask what I could do to improve my application for next year. Imagine how shocked I was to find out that I DID get in, but none of them ever received a response, so they gave my offer to someone else.
I know you did something, whether I have proof or not. Just like it was you who isolated me and ruined the few friendships I had after college. Just like it was you who gave me fake sugar pills from fuck knows where instead of my medication. Just like it was you who dragged me across the lawn in the middle of the night by my hair and locked me in the barn for an entire day. Just like it was you who told your family I was losing my mind. Just like it was you who gaslighted me every minute of every day. And just like it was you who told me if I ever tried to run away, no one would believe me and you would use our relationship against me in the worst way possible.
