Page 111 of The Souls of Lost Lake
“No!” Pippin exploded, his index finger in her face. His expression darkened. “No.Momwas your mother. And Dad saw it too. He was going to take you—return you—but Mom knew what I was trying to do for her. She understood. She begged. Pleaded. Dad knew you were the only thing that was going to keep Mom alive. She was wasting away before I brought you home to her.”
“Pippin, youstoleme.” Wren stumbled back into a tree. She leaned against it. Her breaths came in short incredulous gasps. “You literally stole me.”
“I re-homed you.” Pippin was sincere. She could tell he honestly believed his good intentions. “And Dad, after a week or two, accepted that. It was touch and go for a bit, but then Mom persuaded him until Dad did what needed to be done. He resigned from the university, and we got the heck out of Dodge. With you.”
“You all kidnapped me.” When she stated it out loud, it sounded so trite. So simplistic. But the complications that were intertwined among it were monumental.
Pippin waved her ahead. Wren didn’t bother to resist. She continued to reason through the stunning admission from Pippin. Mosquitoes landed on her arm. Wren couldn’t swat them away. She could feel the itching sting as they bit into her skin, leaving red welts in their wake.
Minutes later, Pippin urged her to the left. The trail had disappeared, and now they ducked and wove through the undergrowth. Sweat trickled down the sides of her face onto her neck. A black fly dodged at her nose. Wren lifted her hands and tossed her head to discourage it. It surprised her when Pippin noticed and batted it away.
“What?” He responded to her look of shock. “I’m not a monster.”
Wren had no reply. Her mind swirled with possibilities. With questions. She was the baby in the California newspaper. She was the reason her father had downgraded his position to move to Wisconsin, far away from questions.
“My birth certificate that Dad said Mom used?” Wren asked.
“Faked.” Pippin gave her a small shove forward.
Her mother was most definitely unstable, that had been clear, but this? And her father complying? The charade of caring for and raising an abducted child? It blew Wren’s mind.
Wren stumbled to a stop, her chest heaving, out of breath and parched. “I need water,” she gasped.
“Soon.” Pippin gave her shoulder a nudge.
They ducked under more growth and wriggled around a sapling. Wren’s bare legs were burning from scratches and cuts. Her wrists were throbbing from the zip tie.
“There.” Pippin pointed ahead.
She saw nothing but trees. Lots of trees. What looked to be a downed pine tree was crossed over a long-dead oak. Wren started to walk around it when Pippin stopped her.
“Here.”
“Here what?” She surveyed the area. There was nothing.
Pippin pointed at the pine tree. Wren let her eyes focus on the area, and slowly realization dawned as she noted that some of the brush wasn’t brush at all, but a camouflaged pattern on canvas with branches covering the majority. Pippin approached it and bent low, fumbling for something. Wren heard a zipper like on a tent as Pippin opened the flap. He looked over his shoulder at her and smiled as if she’d be interested in what he had to say.
“It’s a deer blind. I bought it a few years ago. Works great out here. Waterproof and everything.”
Wren stood, refusing to approach it. She did not know Pippin’s intentions, but hers were to stay far away from that blind. From the covering of the surrounding trees.
“Come on.” Pippin waggled his fingers at her.
“Heck no.” Wren shook her head and took a step backward.
He launched from his crouch, reading her mind and thwarting her instinctual plan to flee. Gripping her arm, Pippin pulled her toward the blind.
“No!” Wren dug in her heels and pulled against him.
“You’ll be safe in there.”
“I’mnotgoing in that thing!” Wren kicked at him.
Pippin pressed his lips together and shook his head in irritation. Before Wren could react, Pippin’s hand smacked her across the face, cutting into her lip. She tasted blood. She felt her tears. He shoved his face into hers.
“Look what you made me do. Mom would be upset.”
“Mom’s dead,” Wren cried, the salt of her tears mixing with the iron of her blood.
