I wake up feeling extremely groggy and immediately notice that I'm strapped to the bed. Panic surges as I try to free myself, but the tight ropes cut into my wrists. I glance over and see that Brock is still asleep, his hands also bound to the bedpost. My feet are tightly bound as well, but thankfully, there's nothing in my mouth, though it feels parched, like I could down a large glass of water in seconds.
"Brock," I whisper, trying to get his attention. When that doesn't work, I say it louder, and finally, he opens his eyes, his expression filled with shock as he struggles against his restraints.
"It's no good. The rope is pretty tight," I tell him, trying to stay calm.
"Trice, w-what happened?" he stammers.
"We were drugged at breakfast, and Jeff tied us to the bedposts. It's a safe bet to say he knows we know the truth."
"Damn, that bastard." Brock's jaw tightens, and he flexes his neck muscles.
"I knew I should have listened to my intuition."
"I should have listened to you—again. I'm sorry. We left Utah to be safe, and now, we're trapped in a psychopath's home." He attempts to move his feet back and forth.
My arms start to ache, and I wonder how long we'll be stuck like this. "I don't think Jeff is a psychopath. I think he's been deeply hurt and is trying to protect his family." I recall the genuine concern in his eyes when he talked about his kids, especially Ian. The special bond he has with his son. If our family was in danger, Brock might have also taken drastic steps to protect us.
"He's the one that put his family in danger when he got Troy killed, paid off the killers, and lied to cover it all up."
I nod. "That's true. But now, he's been backed into a corner, and unfortunately, we played right into his hands."
"But how did he know we knew anything?"
"His goons. They've been casing out the house, the ones who were in the garage and in our backyard months ago. The ones who sent the threatening letter. They know who I am because of my YouTube channel."
Brock closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Of course they do."
"Listen, I'm sorry this is happening, but it's not my fault."
"I didn't say it was, but you are well-known in the YouTube community. It's not hard to figure out everything about you, our family, and our home. And since we live right next door to where they dumped the body, they were going to keep an eye out."
I had forgotten about that. Even though Grant confessed, there was no direct evidence linking Jeff or his accomplices to the crime. Sure, Goldie said the five were involved, but what proof did she have now that she's dead? The recording was the only thing we had; well, Gray has it now.
"Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry I put you and our family in danger."
Brock looks at me with understanding. "It's not your fault, Trice. Goldie is the one who contacted you and put you in the middle."
"I know, but if I didn't know anything, no one would have had her recording. She went through a lot before she died. They nearly killed her twice before when the smoke grenade went off at the police station, and then someone broke into her home, and if Grant hadn't shot him, they both might have been killed to protect the secret."
"So now what? We can't stay like this. We have to try and get loose before he comes back. I don't know how long we've been here, but by the looks of it, hours." I see him peering out the window, and I turn to notice that the light is fading. Whatever he put in our coffee was pretty potent if we've been asleep all day.
"I don't know how to get loose. Every time I try, the rope cuts into my wrists and feet, and it burns."
Brock attempts to free himself again, wriggling his wrists side to side in the hope of loosening the ropes. After a few minutes, he stops, sweat accumulating on his brows. "Damn, he tied them good," he says, breathing fast.
I hear a noise outside, and both Brock and I instinctively turn our heads toward the door. If it's Brock, yelling won't help, but what if it's not him? Should we try to get their attention? We remain silent, my heart pounding in my chest. Slowly, the doorknob turns, and the door inches open, revealing a child's hand. It's Kirsten. I bring my hands to my lips and wave her over. She cautiously approaches and sees us. Her hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock.
"Are you guys OK?" she whispers.
"No, sweetie. It looks like someone tied us to this bed. Can you help us? But, you have to be very quiet, and no one can know you were here. Can you do that?" My voice is soft and reassuring.
She nods.
"See if you can find some scissors," Brock adds.
"Okay." She takes a step back.
"Remember, be very quiet, and don't tell anyone about us," I repeat.
Kirsten goes to the door, quietly closes it behind her, and leaves. I exhale a sigh of relief, though I can't help but worry about her getting caught.
"I hope she can get the scissors without Jeff knowing. It's weird, though, that she was on this floor when it's usually empty," I muse, suddenly suspicious that Jeff might have sent her up here to see what we would say to her.
"Yeah," is all Brock mutters.
"Do you think Jeff told her to come up here? I mean, no one is on this floor, and then suddenly, she shows up."
"It does seem suspicious."
"If he told her to come up here, we just played into his trap—again."
"Trice, stop thinking of the worst-case scenario. Let's just wait." I sense Brock's growing frustration from the furrowed brow and his curt tone.
"Okay." I know better than to push him when he's like this. He's patient, but everyone has their limits. I'm more of a problem solver, eager to tackle things head-on. We wait what feels like an eternity when I suddenly hear the door turning again. Kirsten's back.
She cautiously peers in, glances over her shoulder, and then enters, gently closing the door behind her. In her left hand, she holds a pair of scissors. Thank goodness! "Oh, good, you found some," I smile. "Was it difficult?"
Kirsten's demeanor has shifted from earlier, and she climbs onto the bed. "No. Dad is working and never knows or cares what we're doing when we get home from school. I found the scissors in the junk drawer in the kitchen. He didn't even see me." Despite being only seven years old, she exudes a surprising level of maturity and composure.
"Can I ask you something?" I tread lightly.
"Sure."
"How did you know we were here?"
"Well, after breakfast and before Jayden and I went to school, we saw you eating breakfast, and then you left and went upstairs. When I came back home, I looked for you everywhere. Dad doesn't like us being up here, says it's not for children. But I was curious, so I heard the bed creaking and you guys talking, so I thought I would come say hi." Her vocabulary far exceeds her age.
"I see. Well, we appreciate you checking up on us." I can't tell her that her dad drugged us and tied us to the bedposts; she's too young to hear that.
"Anyway, why are you tied up?" she asks, curiosity evident.
I have no idea what to say, but Brock steps in, saving the day. "We were playing a game, and it got a little out of hand. Before we realized it, we couldn't get loose. Patrice didn't realize she tied my hands a little too tight, and the same happened with her." It's a ridiculous story, but we hope she'll buy it.
"Oh, okay," she responds, nonchalantly flipping her blonde hair behind her.
"So, can you cut us loose?" Brock says, wriggling his wrists.
"Sure." She comes to the side and starts cutting the ropes binding Brock's wrists. It takes her a minute because the ropes are so tight. Then she moves to the other side and cuts him free. He shakes off the ropes and rubs his wrists.
"Thank you so much, sweetie," he says, relieved. "Here, I'll do the rest." Kirsten hands the scissors to Brock, and he cuts the ropes from his feet and then unties me. My wrists are marked with red burns, and as they're released, they flop limply to the bed. I feel utterly drained. Brock then moves on to cutting the ropes from my feet.
"Okay, now, you need to go back down and replace the scissors where you found them, and don't tell Dad what you did. He's part of the game, and we don't want him to ruin the surprise," I say, improvising as I go. It's a good thing I've watched plenty of true crime stories.
"All right." She takes the scissors and leaves as quietly as she comes in.
"We have to leave – NOW," Brock says, emphasizing the word. He goes over and locks the door, then starts tapping on his phone. "There has to be some way to get off this island." I watch him scroll through his phone, and then he heads into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. I assume he can talk without whispering, but I can't sit still. I walk over to the window and peer outside. The snow has melted quite a bit. There's no reason we can't leave.
A few minutes later, Brock reopens the door. "I've got a driver to meet us on the main road in ten minutes. If he shows up at the door, Jeff will know. That means we'll have to sneak out of here and get to the main road as quickly as possible." I mentally calculate how long it would take. Jeff's home is situated at the end of a winding road. We might make it, but we'll have to walk quickly, and that won't be easy with the remaining snow. As it is, darkness is starting to creep in.
"Can you make it in ten minutes?" I turn away from the window. "It's getting dark, and we still have to find a way out of here. What if he's locked the doors, and we can't escape? And don't tell me I'm being too negative," I warn him when he starts to speak. "I'm being realistic."
"I know. We're on the fourth floor, and Jeff is working on the first level. We'd have to take off our shoes and quietly but quickly get down the stairs and find a door that isn't locked. It's going to be tricky, but we have to do it."
I feel tears bubble up, but this is no time to cry. Brock needs me to be strong. "Okay." Then it dawns on me that I don't have my purse and can't find it anywhere. Jeff must have taken it. "I can't find my purse." I search everywhere: on the bed, the floor, the bathroom, behind the computer, under the bed. Panic rises. "Do you have your wallet?" Brock reaches behind his back and pulls it out.
"Yes." He quickly checks it. "Everything is still here." Thank goodness. At least we can get out of here. But all my identification and cards are gone, which means I may not be able to travel.
"Brock, if I don't have any identification, how will I get on a plane?"
"We might have to rent a car and drive home." The thought of a long road trip sends a shiver down my spine, but we may have no other choice if I don't find my purse. I can't bear the idea of days on the road. But now isn't the time to search the house. We need to get out.
"Follow me," Brock says, heading to the door and listening carefully. He then turns the knob slowly and opens the door. After checking both ways, he whispers, "We're good. Just take off your shoes and be quiet." I slip off both shoes and hold them to my chest. He does the same, and we tiptoe down the hall. We descend the stairs as quietly as we can, moving with the stealth of a cat. It's eerily quiet – almost too quiet for a house with three kids.
We reach the ground floor, and Brock glances in both directions. "Let's try the back door to the garage. That's the one most likely to be unlocked," he murmurs. Are the kids in their room? My watch reads 6:02 p.m. Dinner should be soon.
Brock peers into the living room and then motions for me to follow him. My heart races and my hands feel clammy. The adrenaline coursing through me and the lingering effects of the pills leave me feeling disoriented. Get it together, Patrice!
We reach the living room, and I quietly follow him into the kitchen. He tries the doorknob, and it turns. He opens the door, and I slip through closely behind him. The garage is shrouded in darkness, and Brock uses his phone's nightlight to illuminate the area. Only one car is there – Jeff's. Melanie hasn't returned home yet. Our only option is to sneak out through the backyard. I quickly slip on my shoes and join Brock outside. The cold immediately pierces my body, and I can see that the clear sky promises a frigid night.
Once outside, I follow Brock to the gate, where a padlock secures our exit.
"Damn," Brock mutters, scanning the area. "Unless we try to climb the fence, we're not getting out of here." Climbing that fence? It must be at least ten feet tall!
"Are you sure we can scale it?"
"We're going to have to try, Trice. There's no other way."
I gulp, silently praying that we can make it over. It's a beautiful yet old, ornate iron gate with sharp, pointy tips that could impale a person; one in particular looks bent too. This isn't good. I just hope it can hold our weight.
"You go first," he instructs me. I hesitate, but I understand he's trying to protect me. He cups his hands. "Climb up, and I'll push you over." I grip his shoulders and place my foot into his hands. With a strong push from him, I manage to hoist myself upward, searching for something to hold onto in the posts that will let me climb. The curly Q of the iron allows me to get a foothold, and when I make it to the top, I have to remind myself not to look down. The pierced tips look like it's waiting for someone to land wrong.
I carefully slide my legs between the spikes to the other side and descend again, using the iron as footholds. Towards the bottom, I slide down faster than I want, and my right ankle twists when it hits the ground. I feel it pop, and a sharp pain shoots through it.
"Ahhh!" I cry out, tears springing to my eyes.
"Are you okay?" Brock asks as he lands nearby.
"I turned my ankle. I can't move it."
"Hold on." Brock looks around. "It's going to be all right, babe." He picks me up, and I clutch onto him, wrapping my arms around his neck.
"You can't carry me to the car," I protest, but deep down, I know he has no choice.
The ground is lightly dusted with snow, making it easier to walk now. I can't see, but Brock keeps the nightlight on his phone to guide us. I turn my head and glance behind us, but there's no sign of pursuit. Yet, Jeff could discover our absence at any moment and come looking for us. Brock walks along the side of the road, staying close to a line of sycamore trees to keep us hidden.
"The last time you carried me like this was over the threshold on our honeymoon. Remember that?" He says, slightly breathless.
"Yeah," I smile, recalling the memory. "You almost dropped me."
"How was I supposed to know there was an extra step from the porch into the house?" To be fair, it was our first apartment, and an unexpected step caused him to stub his toe while carrying me in. He cursed and almost lost his balance, but luckily, he grabbed onto the door to steady himself. That night, wearing my white chiffon wedding dress with my hair in a French twist was magical. It was 1986, and we danced to Bryan Adams' "Heaven" at our reception. I knew then that I would be with Brock forever. As he carries me down the road, huffing and puffing, I know he'll do whatever it takes to protect me.
I just hope we make it.
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