“You did this for me?” She smiles.
It never bothers me that they think that. But Ava thinking it, it causes a knot to form in the pit of my stomach. I can’t tell her yes, so I nod.
“Why?”
“Because…” I shift my gaze to the floor. “You’re special to me.” And that is not a lie. She rushes to me, wrapping her arms around my waist and holding me tight.
“Thank you, Max.”
I can’t do this any longer, so I excuse myself, locking both deadbolts behind me. When I turn around, I find Earl propped against the wall, his legs stretched out blocking the narrow corridor.
“She’s been here a good while, ain’t she?” he asks, a sick smirk plastered to his face.
“Well”—I brush past him—“she wasn’t a fucking whore, now was she? What do you expect?”
“Don’t know.” He follows me up to the kitchen.
I go to the fridge and grab a beer, popping the can and immediately chugging half of it. His beady fucking eyes never leave me, and the harder he stares at me, the more I want to knock him the fuck out. “What the fuck are you staring at?” I ask.
He laughs. And when Earl laughs at me, my blood pressure shoots through the damn roof. “You’re in deep shit, boy.” Another chuckle. “Deep,deepshit.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
He holds his hands up like he’s surrendering and shrugs. “I’m sure you know what it means.” He crosses the room, opens the fridge, and stops, staring over the top of the door. “She’s stolen goods, boy. So whatever you’s thinking, better get rid of it. You can’t keep her.”
I polish off the beer and crumple the can in my palm. “Fuck off, would you, Earl?”
“Ah, don’t go gettin’ your panties in a bunch.”
I don’t even look at him when I walk out of the kitchen and up to my room, slamming the door closed behind me. I pace. I pop my neck. And when that does nothing to ease the tension, I slam my fist through the wall like a fucking teenager. This is not fucking fair. It’s not right. Honestly, I don’t think I can let her go. How in the actual fuck am I supposed to breakher, havehertell me she loves me, and then give her to another man when I can only see her as mine?
I take a seat at the desk and turn my MacBook on. This has become habit, reading the news every night, checking her Facebook to see what people are saying. Everyone is looking for her. She is not a prostitute or criminal; she is not one of the easily forgotten, as are the other women that have come through here. And the repercussions of this will be severe.
Trust me, I’ve thought about possibly taking her and running, just leaving in the middle of the night…but if Iset footout of this fucking place with her and I’ll be in jail, or fucking dead, within a matter of hours.
I read article after article. The fact that they have no leads, well, it does settle my nerves a touch, and just when I think maybe I can let her go, I read an interview with her piece of shit brother.
My sister, Ava, was the most important person in my life. She was so happy and vibrant, bringing life to all of those around her. Whoever took her has no idea what they have done to our family. All I can ask is that they bring her back. That is all we want, to find her alive and safe.
Lying motherfucker! I shove away from the desk, gripping the edge with my hands. My eyes land on the nightstand, and I nearly knock the chair over when I stand to make my way to it. I yank open the top drawer and grab my gun, pulling the slide back to make sure it’s loaded. Tucking it inside the waist of my jeans, I leave. I get in my car and I leave, making the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Birmingham, Alabama.
Some people don’t deserve to fucking live—to breathe my goddamn air. And Brandon Donovan is one fuck that I’ll gladly watch draw his last breath.
19
Ava
Day 59—date unknown
Every daywhen Max comes in, he tells me what day it is. Today is day 59. The days and nights blur together… Actually, I don’t even know what those things are any longer. I sleep when I am tired. I pace when I am awake and alone. But when Earl is gone, Max takes me upstairs. He’ll take me for walks through the fields, only if it’s night though, and we talk. It’s almost like we’re in a relationship—a twisted, messed up relationship, but he cares for me. I know he does and in a world such as this, labels do not exist. Friend or foe? None of that exists because he is all I have, and when all you have is one person, well, there is no need for definition.
More often than not, I find myself fantasizing that one day he will fuck me. It sounds crazy, but he goes out of his way to make me comfortable, to spend time with me, and there’s something in his eyes when he looks at me that makes me believe—I’m not even sure—maybe this is love... As fucked up as that is, there is something deep and electric, like a pull, between us. That sounds so stupid, doesn’t it? Murder. That is what our connection is—our fathers. And what a connection to have, one of hatred…
I lie here for the hours I’m alone and think that maybe this is fate. Maybe he is my person and the only way we would find each other is through this nightmare. Because then this is all worth it, right? Love. Something that is worth any cost, any sacrifice?
I play out the scenarios of how I can save him, how maybe I’m the girl who will ignite the conscious I know lurks somewhere deep within him and then he’ll save me. And even though he’s a bad person, even though he has done me wrong by keeping me here…it is, after all, only a job. He’s following the rules, and if I am the one who makes him break those rules—well, isn’t that the type of thing romance stories are based on? Isn’t that what every woman dreams of? Having her love be something so special and pure that it can turn a beast into a man?
I close the book and toss it to the floor before flopping back onto the bed. There’s anactualbed in here with a pretty lavender comforter and fluffy pillows. There’s a ceiling fan and a closet, a dresser with a mirror, a bookshelf. Every week he brings me more books. The last one I read wasDark Placesby Gillian Flynn. He said it was one of his favorites, so of course, I devoured it. There is so much you can tell about a person by the types of books they read. I wonder why he likes it so much, is it the murder, the shitty upbringing, the abuse? I desperately want to know what happened that led him to where he is in life—what made him like to kill. Men who are as cold as he should be, you see it in their eyes, there is an emptiness that tells you they will snuff your life out in an instant. But Max’s eyes, while they are cold, and black, andpretendto be empty, there is a flicker of something I believe only I can see. A brief flare up of life and loss and love that I think is quickly dying out.
