Page 22 of The Plunge

I shake my head. "No, you're not."

"So I am your captive then?"

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Fuck if I know."

The tense silence stretches between us. I avert my eyes from her, latching on to the sunset instead and hoping she will do the same. It really is a beautiful sight, accompanied by the sounds of birds instead of gunshots. I haven't been surrounded by this much peace and quiet in years. Too many years to count.

I can feel her eyes on me, probing, waiting. She has questions I've refused to answer for days, and I know I can't continue like this, especially if I want her to cooperate.

The problem is, I don't know what to tell her. The truth? That I work for an organization whose current goal is to make the Abbott family vanish entirely, meaning not only that her uncle is still being hunted by us, but also that her own life is in danger. That I've taken her with me because I don't know what to do with her? That she's safe with me right now, but I can't promise her it will stay that way?

I told her that she should trust me, but I'm the first to know she can't trust me.

She's burdened with an abundance of questions, all weighing heavily on her small frame, and I don't know how to answer a single one of them.

Except for the one she throws at me next.

"Are you the Bridgewater murderer?" she asks with a thin voice, quivering with a taste of fear.

Her inquiry comes out of nowhere, surprising me enough to make my head turn and meet those incredible blue eyes of hers with a frown on my face. "What?"

"You know," she says, assuming the look of a person who is entirely cool and not worried by the response they might receive. "That guy who steals girls, locks them away, tortures them, and then kills them. It's been on the news all over. And he operates in this area."

I know what she's talking about. I've heard of the so-called Bridgewater murderer, but I'm appalled at her suggestion that I could have anything to do with that disgusting animal.

"This area?" I repeat. "You don't even know where we are."

"We're still in New England, aren't we?" she says, sounding bitter. "We only drove for a few hours and never boarded a plane. So, yes, I may not know where exactly we are or what state we're in, but I know that this is an Indian summer sunset. We could be close to Bridgewater, for all I know."

"We're not," I tell her. "And I'm not that guy."

"Well, he never asked for ransom money either, so—"

"I am not that guy!" I yell, causing her to flinch.

"Fine," she whispers. "You leave me no choice but to assume things. Since you're not talking to me, Keane."

Her emphasis on my name doesn't sit well with me.

"Fine," I respond, aggressively raising my voice. "You wanna know the truth?"

Her eyes flicker with anxious curiosity, and she hesitates but then nods. As eager as she is to find out the truth behind the horror that has befallen her, she must suspect that the answer could be even more frightening than not knowing at all.

Yet I know she will keep pushing. Despite the apparent worry that comes with her questions, she won't let go of it until I give her something.

But all I can give her is a part of the truth. A truth that could be too much to handle for a girl like her. Just like many other things in life, this is all about moderation. I won't give her all of it, but I will give a crucial truth that has led every single one of my decisions when it came to her.

"You're here because I don't want to see you dead."

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