Page 19 of Killing Emma

Irritation burns in my chest. I should just finish her, and I’m pissed I know that I won’t. I set the plate of foot on the nightstand beside her, unsure if she can reach it. I glance over to the bathroom, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out she can’t get to the bathroom if she’s chained to the bed.

Fuck.

What a dilemma. I chew the inside of my cheek, knowing the answer. I can let her roam free in the basement if I kill the breaker. But then, she’d have to live in darkness—other than the light from the stairwell.

I play with the idea for a moment. I guess it’d be a good test, see just how much it unnerves her. She stirs in the bed, and flips over to face me, whimpering as the chain grows tight.

And I feel something when her eyes flutter open.

I clear my throat. “Food.”

She sits up slowly, wincing as if she’s in pain. Her hair is messy, but if she wasn’t trapped in my basement, I might find the sight endearing. I pick up the plate and hand it to her.

“There’s no fork.”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “It could be used as a weapon.”

She makes a face, picking through the food. Her apparent distrust or disgust—I can’t tell which—annoys me. I made her food. I don’t make anyone food, and she’s going to sit here and pick through it like it’s disgusting.

Privilege at its finest.

She might change her mind once she has to piss the bed because she can’t get to the bathroom. I clench my fists as I linger above her, watching her carefully pick up a piece of egg and put it in her mouth. Her eyes close and her shoulders drop, her expression morphing in a way that leaves me feeling guilty.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, looking up at me.

I can’t respond to her thanking me. In fact, it leaves me so fucking disturbed that I turn around and leave her there, cooling off in the stairwell. Why the hell would she tell me thanks just for meeting her basic needs? The woman knows I’m going to kill her.

Don’t show me fucking gratitude for it.

Chapter Nine

Emma

Thank you.

Even with the mask, I could tell the words affected him. I don’t know why, and as I stare at the empty plate of food, half wondering if it’s going to kill me, I ponder the reasons. Then again, there could be none at all. Maybe he’s just getting tired of me. Hell, I get tired of me pretty quickly, too.

I take a deep breath and scan the room. I don’t think the guy will be back—if he’s even left, but I do know I’m going to need the bathroom sooner rather than later. There’s no way I’ll be able to reach it with the chain around my ankle.

“Wait,” I call after him, not having heard the basement door shut yet. There’s no reply, and he doesn’t reappear, and so maybe in the middle of eating, I missed it. “I can’t reach the bathroom.” I almost throw out a plea, but the heavy sigh from him is enough. And just when I think he’s coming back, the basement door slams.

What the hell? So me thanking him pissed him off? I breathe out in irritation, feeling the urge to cry. After everything that had happened with Jared, I had rarely shed a tear, but this lunatic locks me in his basement and I’m nothing but waterworks. Ugh.

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling beams above me. Would the guy still have chased me and taken me if I had let Jared in? I consider the thought, wondering if Jared would’ve been a buffer of some sort… Or if the big bad wolf, as he called himself in the woods, would’ve just killed my husband, too.

Almost ex-husband.

I roll onto my side, trying to tuck my leg underneath me, but I can’t, the chain hitting its limit. I let out a frustrated groan and tug at the quilt, pulling it up to my chin. As much as I don’t want to admit it, the scent of the blanket brings some sort of comfort. It reminds me of a familiar woodsy scent, and while I know the psycho holding me here smells similar, this time it draws me into my past.

I shut my eyes and let myself mentally escape, going back to a time when I was a kid, running loose on my parents’ estate in Vermont. The horses, who dotted the lush fields in color, provided me a way to feel like I could escape. I didn’t excel in the show ring, much to my mother’s dismay, but I loved galloping down the trails, breathing in the fresh forest air. I'd pretend like I was a royal, running away from the oppressive castle and its evil occupants. It never lasted, but it helped me forget how toxic my father’s drinking habits were.

The man blew through money on alcohol, and then subsequently medical bills. My mother had married into his wealth, and never complained about shielding me from his drunken rage—though in hindsight, I always wonder what she dealt with behind closed doors. He never touched either of us, but he’d shout and curse, his anger echoing through the halls of the house.

Until they suddenly didn’t.

My stomach tightens at the memory; my mother running down the hallway with wide eyes, turning me around and pushing me toward the door. I remember her screaming for someone to call for an ambulance, but I didn’t know what happened to him until a police officer slipped up and mentioned the noose.

But despite my father’s inability to cope with life, my mom seemed to change for the better. She inherited his fortune after my grandmother passed, and then she sold the place in Vermont. We moved to Georgia, where she was from.

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