Page 59 of Turn That River Red

I have to get out of here.

I go to the window first, shoving the curtains aside to get a look outside. All I see is pale, fluttering grass rolling out from the house and a few twists of mesquite trees. I try to open the window, but it only slides up about four inches before it jams. Hot, dry wind blows across my face.

I whirl around and eye the door. He didn’t leave me bound and gagged, but he’s still a psychopath. A monster.

And suddenly I’m thinking about what he did to Deacon Price, slamming his head against the floor while blood splattered up against the wall. I keep hearing the sound of it, crunching and wet, and my stomach lurches, bile rising up in my throat. I swallow it back down.

Don’t fucking touch her.

Ambrose’s voice swirls around in my head. More images come flooding in: The way he chantedDon’t touch herwhile hebrutalized Deacon Price. The way he broke down the door to get at me. Max running up to lick my hand when he was done.He’s the reason I even knew you were in trouble.

I suck down a deep lungful of air, my whole body trembling. I stare at the doorknob. I know it’s locked. Ambrose is a murderer?—

But is hethemurderer? Did he kill Raul? Burl?

I sit down on the bed, my whole body vibrating. Of course he’s the murderer. Who else would it be? I saw what he was capable of. I watched those hands that brought me so much pleasure rip the life out of another human being.

My stomach lurches again, and this time I can’t stop my sickness. I lean over and retch across the floor. When I’m done, I stare up at the door again, tears streaming out of my eyes, my mouth burning.

I have to try it. I know it’s going to be locked, but I have to try it.

Moving in a panic, I surge forward, yanking hard on the knob.

It turns.

I’m so shocked that I release it and stumble back. The door swings open, revealing a dim hallway outside.

I jerk back, frozen with a new fear. This is a trap. A test.

But there’s nothing even close to a weapon in my room. Why would there be? And it’s not like I can fight against Ambrose, anyway. I know firsthand how strong he is. How easily he can pin me down and overpower me.

How easily he could kill a grown man barehanded just for touching me.

I sniffle back tears and take a hesitant step toward the doorway, straining for any sounds in the house—footsteps, breathing, anything. But nothing waits for me on the other side. Just a dim hallway, the walls covered in a faded floral wallpaper from the ‘70s.

I creep out, shaking so badly I can barely walk. The house is quiet save for the persistent hum of an air conditioner. My room is at one end of a hallway; at the other are two entranceways, both glowing with dim sunlight.

Something moves in one of the rooms.

I scream and bolt forward, my fear calcifying into a need for survival. But I don’t get far, because a dark shape leaps out of one of the bedrooms and slams me up against the wall. I scream until I realize it’s a dog—it’s Max, actually, and he’s not attacking me. He’s licking my face.

“Let me go!” I sob, trying to push him away. He whines and wags his tail, wanting to play. I scramble out from under him?—

And run straight into Ambrose’s strong, unyielding chest.

“You don’t need to do that,” he says softly.

I scream again and try to jerk away from him. He’s faster than me, and stronger, and he grabs both of my arms and pulls me up to him, never letting go even as I screech and thrash against his grip.

“Let me go!” I scream. “Let me go, you devil!”

“Can’t do that,” he says softly. “But I told you I’m not going to hurt you, and I meant it.”

He drags me into a living room filled with the same old-fashioned furniture as the bedroom. A couple of ancient recliners. A velour sofa. Bookshelves covered in dust. Thick curtains that block out most of the sun.

“Sit,” he tells me, forcing me down on the sofa. I do, lifting my gaze to take him in.

He towers over me, looking nothing like a preacher. He wears a tight white tank top and cut-off black sweatpants. Faded tattoos crawl over his biceps and shoulders, a melange of shapes that bleed together into smoke. I let this man inside me and I didn’t know he has tattoos because he was always completely covered up. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

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