Page 55 of Drowning Her

Behind the desk, he scanned his ultrawide computer monitor.

“She’s not here,” he said, already anticipating my words. I waited for him to attack or give some clever response, but he continued scrutinizing the monitor. A full minute passed before he spoke. “What do you want?”

“Who has her?”

“What do you think?”

My instincts had been to go to the Dairy Barn because if my father or brother had captured her, they would have made her death a show. I had checked both of their houses on the off chance that they were keeping her a secret.

But if that wasn’t the case, then wherever she was, Maisie had gone there by choice.

A heaviness settled on my chest. I didn’t know which was worse. If they had her, then I would know what needed to be done. But when it came to this—Maisie leaving me, like I told her to—I didn’t know what was the best move: follow and protect her, or let her go? I left Sawyer’s office and found myself under the first shimmers of dawn.

The train tunnel.

I checked the GPS tracking app and confirmed it. I should have checked the app first, but I had assumed she had been captured. It was another example of how she had ruined me. I couldn’t think straight. Nothing about our relationship was easy. Andthat’swhat it was supposed to be: easy to conform, easy to get rid of.

At the train tunnel, I ran to the first safety alcove. She wasn’t there. I went to the second. A figure crouched in the corner, knees against her chest. I could barely see her shape.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Maisie sniffled. My muscles tensed. This was emotional manipulation. It was my weakness. And it drained me of all the rage I had inside of me. I wanted to hold her in my arms.

“Tell me the truth, Wilder,” she said quietly. “If I was gone, would you be relieved?”

I thought about those words. To some extent, I would be. I told myself I hadn’t killed her because I didn’t care about her either way, but now I knew that wasn’t true. If I had killed her in the beginning, life would be easier for both of us.

And there was one truth that I couldn’t deny: Someone would kill her.

My father. My brother.Me.

And if anyone was going to do it, itshouldbe me. She deserved that respect.

I grabbed her hand, trying to pull her up. She didn’t move. I grabbed her by the waist, throwing her over my shoulder. She hit my back. The ground rumbled. Maisie tensed, gripping my shirt. I ran down the tunnel, Maisie bouncing on my shoulder. The train whistle bellowed into the tunnel, and I reached for the light. The air shifted. Past the first alcove. Running down the track. I could have thrown her down. Left her to die.

But we reached the edge of the tunnel and I ran to the side, away from the train, throwing her to the ground. A few seconds later, the train burst out. The two of us panted. Tears streamed down Maisie’s face. She ran her fingers over the scar on her hand as if it calmed her. As ifit reminded her that she was real. That she was vulnerable.

I had saved her again, and I didn’t know why. I didn’t understand why any of this mattered.

In the car, she watched everything go past the window. She must have thought she was heading toward the executioner’s block. And she was.

Once we were in my house, I bound her wrists behind her back, pocketing some extra rope. Tossed a hood over her head. Then I led her through the property, making sure that the staff saw me, hoping that my father and brother would be notified. Onto the UTV. Through the pastures. Down to the pond. My mother had kneeled at the edge, waiting for my father to take her life. Had she known what Forrest was going to do? Or did she think he would let her go?

Maisie stood at the bank of the pond, her shoes touching the murky water. I pulled off the hood. She sucked in a breath.

“Kneel,” I said. She didn’t move.

I pressed my foot into the back of her knee until she fell, splashing into the water.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said.

But there was nothing that could save us. I gripped her shoulder with one hand, my other palm on the back of her neck. My body tensed.

“Wilder,” she whispered.

I shoved her into the water and she threw me back with more force than I anticipated. I pushed her down again. It would only take a few minutes. But each second dragged on. Why didn’t this seem right? She twisted her torso, jerking away from me, and I fell off, distracted, momentarily letting her gasp for air. Mud streaked cheeks. Her pale lips. Theyweren’t painted dark today. Like she knew what was coming. That this was it.

I kneeled down, resting my weight on her back, pushing her down. She whimpered, and I grabbed her head, ready to do it again. The memory of my father leaning on my mother’s back surfaced. Had he felt anything for her in those moments? Had her death felt right to him? Better than it did for me now?

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