Made for You

  The more he speaks, the more I’m grateful that he doesn’t really want a conversation. What he apparently wants is to tell me everything. He even explains that we can “keep” Grace at our home after this. He has a plan for this too. “I’ll let you shoot Bouchet, and then you and I can get married,” Reid explains. “Grace is like a sister to you, so she can be your sister-wife. The way my father did it was wrong. He tried to hide things from my mother. That’s why it all went wrong.”

  We pull off the road onto a dirt path, and the bumps shake me enough that it’s hard to keep the gun trained on Reid. “She’s unhurt though, right?”

  “Of course!” He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I was careful because I knew you’d want that. That’s what no one else understands: I’ve only done things you’d want or that would teach you. Everything has been for you, for us. They just don’t understand us. They never will.”

  I feel like throwing up, and I’m certain I may never sleep without nightmares after this is all over. Right now, though, I need to get to the point when it is over. I need to get to Grace. Then, I can deal with coping with the after.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  DAY 15: “THE PIPE”

  Grace

  I WAKE ALONE. AT first, I think he’s in the other room, but when I get out of the bed and walk around to see if I can find some sort of weapon, I notice that the padlock is no longer on the hinge inside the door. I’d love to believe that means he decided to leave the door unlocked and leave, but I suspect it simply means that the lock is outside, where it was when we arrived here. I start to walk over to check, but I can’t reach. My leash isn’t long enough to reach the door.

  Tears fill my eyes at the reality of where I am now and what will happen if I can’t get free, but crying isn’t going to help me. I need a weapon or a way to escape, preferably both.

  This could be a trap of some sort, a test to prove I’m not trustworthy. He seems a little obsessed with building trust. How he expects to do that after kidnapping, chaining, and drugging me, I’m not sure, but I don’t want to know how his mind works. He killed three girls. I’m not going to become number four.

  “Reid?” I call out. I stay still and listen. No sounds of any sort greet me. That’s about the best I can do right now. If he’s here and watching, I guess I’ll deal with it when he reveals himself.

  “Right then,” I mutter. Somehow talking to myself seems to help keep back the weight of the silence.

  I start by feeling the collar around my throat. It takes only moments to determine that it is, in fact, padlocked onto me. I won’t be getting that off easily. I follow the chain to the water heater. The end of the chain is looped around a thick pipe that stretches into the ceiling.

  “Don’t suppose you left a saw anywhere, Reid?” I force myself to snort at the ridiculousness of that possibility. I won’t cry again. Sarcasm is better.

  I push on the pipe, examine the chain—which is looped around the pipe and padlocked—and don’t see any solution there either. The chain slides up and down the pipe, but I don’t think that’s helpful.

  I sit, grab the chain with both hands, brace my feet on the water heater, and tug. It feels like it bends a bit, but bending it doesn’t help. Bending isn’t the same as breaking.

  “Next?” I study it. There are no rings I could try to twist open, no rusted spots that look prone to breaking. I kick it as hard as I can at the base. Nothing happens. I do it again kicking as hard as I can. All that happens is that dust falls on me from the ceiling. Rust not dust, I realize. I stare up and kick again. It’s not a lot, but there is some give where the pipe connects to the ceiling.

  Maybe there was another level or a loft or something up there at one point. Whatever it is, the connection seems to be weak or broken on the other side of the ceiling. That’s where the weakest part is.

  I jump up and get the rocking chair so I can stand on it to reach higher. Then I slide the chain up as high as I can, grab it, and hop off the chair, using the force of my jump to add to the pull of the chain. I keep it held taut, so the chain doesn’t slide back down, and wrap it around my whole body so it’s my whole weight pulling against the pipe.

  It creaks. The pipe creaks. It’s a nails-on-chalkboards noise, but it sounds utterly and completely beautiful to me.

  I keep working on the pipe—frantically because I have no idea how long Reid will be gone. Rust is raining all over the floor, and sweat drips down my neck. The pipe is working loose of the ceiling. After about twenty minutes, a loud clank sounds as the pipe comes free of whatever it was attached to above or in the ceiling.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” I climb back onto the rocking chair, stretch my hands up, and grab the pipe. I pull and it gives until there is a gap between the pipe and the ceiling.

  Again, I stand on the chair, and this time I slip the chain through the gap. It works, and the heavy loop falls to the floor with a clatter. I smile and mutter, “Screw you, Reid.”

  I drape the chain over my arm. The last thing I want is for it to snag on something. I have no idea how long I have until he returns. It could be minutes, or hours, or days.

  I rush to the door and try to open it. I hear the clank of the lock straining against the hinge.

  I try the plywood on every window, but without a crowbar, there’s no way I’m getting out of those. My heart sinks. I’m free of the chain, but that doesn’t mean I’m free of the cabin.

  “Weapons,” I announce. “Or cell phone.”

  The first thing I check is the black bag. There are a few clothing items, some snacks, and a bottle of water. I’m dry mouthed, but I don’t know if the water is drugged. Luckily, a can of soda is in the bag too, so I pop the top and drink. Whatever Reid used to drug me has left my mouth feeling worse than a hangover does, and my head throbs. I chug about half the can while I search the bag. There’s nothing useful in it though.

  I search the cabin, opening the fridge, the crates, and going into the second room—which is a bedroom, complete with a bed and dresser. I stop and stare at it. He didn’t have to force me to sleep next to him like he did. He didn’t need to drug me. I hate him more in that moment. I thought I was full up on hate, but seeing this adds to it.

  By the time I’m done searching, my inventory of possible weapons includes a lightweight pot and pan, the chain itself, a lantern, and the burners from the stove. None of them are great weapons, but it’s better than nothing. My phone was nowhere to be found.

  I gather my weapons beside the door and sit there to wait for his return. I’ll hear him, and then I’ll stand and attack. I can do this. I will do this. If I don’t, he’ll chain me up again, or simply kill me. I’m not letting any of that happen.

  I sit, and I wait. After what feels like at least an hour, I hear him pull up. I grab the lantern. It’s the heaviest of my options. If I bash him in the head, maybe that’ll knock him out.

  My body feels tense and ready like it does before a race. Then I hear a voice. Eva. She found me. It’s not Reid outside. It’s Eva.

  Another car pulls up.

  I can’t see anything, but I know that a second car could be Reid. I’m trapped inside, and Eva is out there with a madman. There’s nothing I can do but wait. If he drags her in here, I’ll just have to be sure I hit him hard.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  DAY 15: “THE KILLER”

  Eva

  WHEN REID PULLS UP outside a small shack, I can’t decide if I’m more afraid or relieved. Nate’s truck is coming up behind us as I steady myself for what comes next. I don’t think Reid understands that no amount of explanation will change my acceptance. He’s a killer. I’m not going to ride off into the sunset with him. The best-case scenario here is that he survi
ves the next half hour.

  “We can’t stay here. I hoped we could for a little while, but that won’t work . . . unless we kill Bouchet.” Reid twists his body so he’s face-to-face with me. “I can do it.”

  “No. Neither of us will kill Nate.” My hand tightens on the pistol, fearing that he’ll try to take it.

  Instead, Reid sighs. “Fine. We can get Grace and then shoot him in the knees or something.”

  My mouth drops open, but I don’t even know how to formulate a reply. After almost an hour of listening to Reid describe killing and the things he did when he was alone in his room with pictures of me, I feel like no amount of bathing will ever get the disgust off of my skin.

  “Grace is in there?” I ask.

  “Locked in safely,” Reid answers. “Do you want me to go get her?”

  “Please.”

  “As you wish.” Reid gets out of the car with his keys in hand, and without a look behind him, he walks to the little cabin. I hear the keys on his ring jangle as he sorts through them.

  Nate is beside my door, opening it. “Are you okay?”

  “I will be.” I turn and climb out of Reid’s car.

  “Don’t touch Eva, Bouchet,” Reid calls back to us. “She’s mine. I explained everything. We’re going to get Grace and go.”

  Nate looks at me and raises both brows, but he says nothing. He doesn’t need to: we both know that I’m not going anywhere else with Reid. He brought me to Grace. That was what I needed. Now that we’re here, I’m staying with her and Nate.

  “Maybe we can lock him in there,” I whisper. I want a solution that doesn’t include another death. “We get Grace, lock him in, and wait for the police.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Nate agrees.

  I still think we might be okay—until Reid opens the door. That’s when everything falls apart. He lets out a howl of pain. Grace is there. I can see her swinging a lantern at Reid.

  “Run, Eva!” she yells.

  Nate runs toward the door to help Grace.

  Reid ducks and grabs a chain that is hanging from around her throat. He yanks, and she stumbles. She’s trying to dig her heels in to stop him from dragging her to him.

  I stare in shock. For a moment, I’m too stunned to react. Grace was chained up.

  “Asshole,” Grace yells at him. She grabs the chain—which Reid is still using to jerk her toward him—and yanks back, but even in her anger, she’s not stronger than him.

  Nate leaps on Reid, knocking him to his knees, and Reid releases the end of the chain that’s attached to some sort of collar around Grace’s throat. She crab-crawls backward and struggles to her feet.

  I’m trying to reach her, but I’m on one crutch and holding a gun in my hand. I move far too slowly, and even if I can reach her, my only way to help is to shoot Reid. I don’t want to do that. I keep thinking of my vision of his death. It’s almost like it’s superimposed on the world around me.

  Just as Grace is passing Reid, he shoves away from Nate and grabs her again.

  Nate takes another swing, knocking Reid into Grace accidentally, and they all tumble together on the ground in a mess of legs, arms, and chain.

  Both Grace and Nate are hitting Reid now.

  Everything feels like it’s happening at once. Grace is screaming; Reid is punching Nate—who is returning his blows.

  “Stop it!” I yell. “Stop!”

  No one listens. Reid has the loose end of the chain and is pulling it around Nate’s throat. This is it: Reid’s death.

  I thought I’d stopped it. I want to stop it.

  This isn’t what I want.

  I have to stop it.

  “Just shove him in the cabin!” I yell.

  Reid is staring at me. “What?”

  His calm vanishes, and he grabs Grace and throws her to the ground. There’s a sickening thunk as her head hits something, a rock or tree root, I can’t tell. It doesn’t matter though. What matters is that she’s not moving.

  “Grace!”

  At my scream, Nate sees that Grace is motionless. He’s distracted and in that moment Reid takes advantage of his inattention to slam his elbow into Nate’s throat.

  Nate lets out a gurgling noise, as Reid follows the throat-blow with a kick to the groin.

  Nate goes down. He and Grace are on the ground. I’m not sure how badly she’s hurt, but Nate, at least, is conscious. He’s trying to get to his feet, but he’s clearly in too much pain.

  Reid pushes to his feet. “Get in the car, Eva.”

  He raises his foot to stomp on Nate’s throat.

  “No!” I take aim and squeeze the trigger.

  The sound Reid makes is more of a scream than a yell.

  He falls to the ground.

  He clutches his wound. The blood is thick and instant.

  It’s not exactly the same as my vision. In the real moment, I made a different choice: I had aimed for his upper leg, and that’s what I hit.

  I hear a car coming, but I move closer to them instead of turning to see who’s arrived.

  Grace isn’t moving, but her eyes flutter open. She starts to pull herself toward me, farther away from Reid, who is sprawled on the ground, hands clutching his bleeding leg.

  I lift the gun again, aim it at Reid, and ask, “Did he . . . what did he do to you, Grace?”

  “Nothing. I’m okay, Eva,” Grace says in a raspy voice. “I swear it.”

  Nate crawls toward Grace and pulls her into his arms. “Her head is bleeding,” he says. His hand is wet with her blood, and his face is filled with scrapes and the yellow beginnings of bruises.

  I hear car doors closing now. I turn to see who’s arrived.

  My gun arm is partway up again when I hear Detective Grant order, “Lower it, Eva.”

  I swallow a sob and realize that I started crying at some point.

  Then the detective is beside me. She takes the gun from my hand carefully and hands it to another officer.

  Several more officers arrive. One of them is restraining Reid; another is checking on Grace. In a matter of minutes, an ambulance arrives, as do my parents and the Yeungs and Nate’s mother.

  EMTs take over care for Grace, Nate, and Reid. They’ve taken Grace and Reid away from where we all were, but Nate is still on the ground near me. I hear him say, “I can’t stand yet.”

  Officers go into the cabin. I watch it all in a stunned silence. It’s all so fast. I feel like they’re on fast-forward, and I’m moving on slow.

  “Is he going to die?” I finally ask. I look at Detective Grant and say, “I’m the one who shot him. It was only me. No one else knew about the gun.”

  My parents are hugging me, and I see that my mother is crying. I don’t look away from the detective though. “I can make a full statement. I texted him on Grace’s phone, set a trap, and then I brought my mother’s gun. I held him at gunpoint while he drove me to—”

  “Nate called us, Eva,” she interrupts gently. “We know.”

  I nod. I’m not sure how Nate called after he gave me his phone. I glance at him.

  “Backup cell because of . . . the things you told me before,” he says in a still-hoarse voice.

  My visions of Nate and my decision to trust Nate enough to tell him about the vision, that’s what changed everything. He had a second phone; he called for help.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  I want to be in his arms right now, but my mother is clutching me to her. My father gives Nate a wide smile, and then he reaches down and squeezes Nate’s shoulder. Then his arms are around my mother—who is still hugging me.

  When they release me, I turn so I can see Grace. The EMTs are still with her, and her parents are hovering at Grace’s side. When Mrs. Yeung sees me looking at them, she murmurs something to Grace and comes toward me.

  “You’re utterly irresponsible, and I can’t believe you put yourself in this kind of danger, and”—she wraps both arms around me—“you saved my Gracie. Thank you. I’m furious at the risks y
ou took, but right now, thank you.”

  I nod again. I don’t know why I can’t seem to do much other than nod, but I can’t. I swallow, and try to say something, but I’m not sure what it would be so I close my mouth again.

  “Are you charging her?” my dad asks, and I realize that Detective Grant has joined us.

  “Charging her? With what?” Mrs. Yeung asks with a frown.

  “Eva shot Reid.” My mother sniffles as she says it, and then she turns to the detective. “It was self-defense.”

  Detective Grant shakes her head at us. “We’ll sort it all out. Right now, Miss Tilling should see the EMTs. She’s in shock. Then we’ll deal with the rest.”

  “Shock,” I echo. That makes sense. I just shot a boy I’ve known my whole life. I’m in shock. I nod again, and then my parents and I sit down while a very nice man examines me.

  Afterward, my parents take me in their car to the hospital. Nate is with his mother, following us. The police need to take possession of his truck temporarily to collect evidence. He couldn’t have driven it anyhow. He wasn’t injured enough to go in the ambulance, but he wasn’t in any shape to drive either.

  I know that there are things that have to happen, but I need to be there for Grace, as she was for me, and I need Nate with me. I try to explain this to my parents several times, but they aren’t able to help me. Grace, Nate, and I all need to be checked out by the doctors and talk to the police. We’re all in separate vehicles—Grace in the ambulance, Nate with his mother, and me with my parents. After the past few hours, that seems wrong. We should be together.