Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Finally, after what felt like an hour, he moved. He stood and strode out of her line of vision. This was it. Something was going to happen now. She quaked internally, waiting for his touch, his fingers on her back, her shoulder, anywhere—but it didn’t come. Instead, she heard noises behind her—clothes shifting. Perhaps he was preparing the bed? But a moment later, he was back. Crouching in front of her. Fully dressed.
What had she done wrong? Tears sprang to her eyes. If he was dressed, that meant . . . that meant he didn’t want her. He’d sat there, judging her nearly naked, and his response was to get dressed. She wasn’t attractive enough, of course.
He reached toward her, cupped her cheek. His warm, big hand on her skin felt like a relief, and she leaned into him.
“You’re a good girl.” He moved closer, pressed his lips to her forehead. Then he pulled away and tossed her clothes at her. “Get dressed.”
She hurried to do so, swiping angrily at the stray tears descending her cheeks. She wanted to turn, to ask what she’d done wrong, but she was also afraid to.
“Jocelyn?”
“Yes?” she squeaked. She stood hunched, looking down at the ground, her clothes on but askew.
“Look at me.”
She raised her gaze just in time to see the back of his hand come up and slap across her face. Her head turned from the force of it. “Don’t dress like a whore next time,” he bit out. “Same time next week. Wait in the woods.”
CHAPTER
25
Ibarely make it to the bathroom before my dinner is coming up.
Slumped over the porcelain toilet, knees pressed to the cold tile, I’m heaving. I reach for toilet paper to wipe my face, but more races up my throat. I’ve never been so violently ill before. It came on with no warning, no queasy belly or overwhelming nausea.
I remember that hotel room Hannah described. Insipid beige walls, heavy, moss-colored curtains that hide what goes on inside, the musty odor from years of neglect. The way the dim lighting couldn’t seem to catch on anything to reflect, and the worn, cheap carpet that was damp from more than just blood.
I’d only been inside that room once. That night. The night Jocelyn called crying and told me she needed help. Yet the images in my head are so vivid from the descriptions in the chapter I just read, and the picture Jocelyn had painted in my mind when she’d finally come clean and told me what had been going on for months.
I flush the toilet, drag my body up to the sink, splash some cool water on my face, and rinse my mouth. A face I barely recognize reflects back at me from the mirror. I look terrible, gaunt, with hollowed cheeks, dark circles ringing my glassy eyes.
This bathroom is too small, tightening around me, so I go out to the living room, open a window to let in some fresh air, and pace back and forth across the Persian rug I couldn’t afford but bought anyway, because I wanted a real one—unlike the knockoff in my mother’s living room.
I can’t live like this anymore, in a state of limbo, waiting to be exposed. I just want whatever this unknown person has planned for me to be done with. Turn me in, if that’s the ultimate endgame. At least then I could formulate a plan and figure out next steps. But this waiting, not knowing, being left to my own devices to imagine a dozen different scenarios of what might be going on, leaves me feeling helpless. Without control. And I need control. Otherwise, I have nothing.
I keep walking. Ten feet. Back and forth, the length of the rug underfoot, each journey only five steps before I turn around. Maybe if I keep moving, keep pushing, my mind will eventually follow along. Because right now it’s stuck. Stuck on that room. Stuck on where the hell Jocelyn is.
My head hurts. I try to conjure up a picture of her that night when I found her, but it’s fuzzy—like I’ve been drinking and have to squint to make out her features, only squinting makes her face blurrier. Yet I can see that damn motel room clear as day. The same thing happens when I try to visualize Mr. Sawyer. He’s a blur, too, though I saw a picture not long ago at Noah’s. My brain is probably trying to protect me, considering what happened the last time I saw the two of them together, but I desperately crave seeing their faces.
A thought hits. It halts my pacing. I can see their faces. In my yearbook. It’s buried in one of the boxes on the top shelf of my closet, along with other shit I don’t need but couldn’t bring myself to toss out when I moved. Like the Bible my mother gave me when I was a little girl.