Page 80 of Hunted, Season Three

Curtis McAdams.

The man responsible for providing the seed that sprouted my greatest nightmare of all time.

“I know you’re awake, Bunny,” he gingerly announces, tempting me to redirect my attention to him.“I’m glad you’re alive.”

My face thoughtlessly twitches.

“I know you don’t believe me, but…” slight clanking noises are followed by a small thud, “I never wanted us to find you again.”

The thing is Idobelieve him.

I believe him because during a brief second of non-poison clarity he heavily aided in my escape.

Inspired by the declaration and the dropped object, I slightly crack my lids to see a thick blanket on top of orange bedsheets and two small, ugly pillows.Rather than reach for them, I simply shift my gaze to his and note his cloudy crystal stare that rarely changes.

Drugs keep him repressed.

Easier to manipulate.

I used to wonder why and how he could let such atrocities happen under his watch, why and how he could let the woman he chose to love, to marry, to have his child, treathimlike a prisoner tasked with being nothing more than a face the world thought she was fucking, when in reality he was usually just watching his son, his own flesh and blood, fulfill his role in every way possible.

And then I experienced exactly what being chemically controlled does to you.

Not saying I excuse him or his behaviors.

Just saying I understand.

Sympathize.

His wrinkled tanned face attempts to smile and offer solace as he gestures to the bedding below him.“It’s supposed to get below freezing tonight.”

Once more, I opt out of speaking.

Briefly drink in my new surroundings.

Decide to make mental notes while it’s possible.

There’ll be plenty of time for panic and worry and panic again but for now, I have to stay focused.

Determined.

Figure out where the hell I am and how the fuck to get out.

Between the wooden panels surrounding me and the tiny metal bar opening that appears to slide open along with closed, it’s easy to assume my location.

Especially if you also take into account the terrible fucking smell.

Combined that with how many places close to town that actually have these, and the mystery is solved.

We’re on the farthest side of the property that houses the barn they do weddings and host our townhall in.

Findable.

Reachable.

Escapable.

At least for now.

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