Page 38 of Trapped: Until The Darkest Of Night

Without further ado, I decide to make scrambled eggs with bacon; I know how much she loves that. Avery does this for all his siblings every Saturday morning. Its secret ingredient is crème fraiche. Lou once posted a video titled: Avy-best-cook-ever! Thank God I made a note of everything before Lou logged off Facebook, or else I might have forgotten.

I crack the eggs into a pan and put on another for the bacon. Avery-style scrambled eggs with bacon is a science in itself, but I practiced in Los Angeles: start by melting the butter, then add the eggs. Cook over medium heat, remove from heat as soon as firm and still moist, not dry. Keep stirring with a spatula. At the very end, add mineral water and crème fraiche. And salt and pepper, of course. Don’t add salt beforehand or it will ruin the texture, or so Avery explained while Lou pointed the camera at the pan.

When I hear a noise from the back of the RV, I turn around. Through the half-open folding door, I see Lou climbing out of bed.

“Oh, you’re awake!” I call out to her.

She flinches.

I try to ignore it, I’m just in too good a mood. “Breakfast will be ready in a minute.”

“I have to pee.” There is uncertainty in her voice.

I point to the bathroom with the cooking spoon. “You don’t have to ask for my permission.”

She stays in the bathroom for quite a long time, longer than anyone needs for anything, but I’m not getting impatient today, even if the scrambled eggs are getting cold. There’s nothing she can do in there.

I put the pan on the table, lean against the kitchen counter, and look out the window. A few fir branches sway up and down in the wind, are calming and meditative, almost like drawing.

I mentally go through the route again and estimate how long it will take us to get to the leased property.

My land sits right in the heart of Unorganized Canada, areas rarely found on any public map. The occasional trapper shack can still be found there, but almost all are now empty since most of the gold mines have been long abandoned.

When the bathroom door opens, I look at Lou. For a moment, I am startled by the deep black circles under her eyes. They look like shiners after a fight; then again, I didn’t expect her to be Miss Sunshine after five days in a semi-coma.

“Sit!” I point to the kitchen nook.

Lou’s gaze darts past me and lingers on the side door.

She’s thinking about escape, Brendan, all the time. Look out!

I watch as she walks to the table and flops down on the bench. Is she just pretending or is she still exhausted? Or is she apathetic?

Growing suspicious, I pour her coffee and hold it in front of her face so that she can see it too. “Coffee?”

She takes it and I take that as a gesture of concession.

“Black with two spoons of sugar.” I squeeze onto the bench across from her. “I didn’t know what you’d be hungry for, so I just made everything.” For some dumbass reason I’m proud to know everything about her.

I lean back against the bench and feel Lou staring at me the whole time even though she thinks I don’t notice. She hasn’t touched anything apart from the coffee, maybe she doesn’t dare. I think of our encounter at the visitor center when she seemed so shy. Perhaps this anxiety is a trait of hers.

Perhaps she just doesn’t want to have breakfast with the psycho who holds her captive? Not inconceivable!

I quickly dismiss the thought. “You want some eggs?” I ask, deliberately cheerful.

She nods.

“Lemon cookies?”

She nods again.

Relieved that she wants to eat anything at all, I pile a mountain of scrambled eggs onto her plate. “Make sure to eat slowly and chew every bite or you won’t be able to keep it down. And maybe no peanut butter yet, now that I think about it.” It was stupid of me to put that greasy stuff in front of her. The bacon’s greasy enough, she may not be able to keep it down. I push the glass away with the back of my hand, just to emphasize my words.

Lou peers down at her plate again, her hands on her lap. After a while, she starts to eat. Well, she tries, but her fingers tremble so much, the scrambled eggs keep falling off her fork.

Okay, I guess she still doesn’t believe me.

I deliberately grab a donut and examine it more closely so she doesn’t feel like I’m watching her.

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