the words over her shoulder, a dirty t-shirt held to the wound on Cole’s neck. She’d stemmed the flow of blood, leaping into action like a medic on the battlefield—and no one was dying on her watch.
When Cole let out a dramatic groan, I decided his stay of execution was not a good thing. “I barely grazed you.”
“Grazed?” Leila repeated incredulously. It was clear she wanted to throw me a look that would nail me to the wall, but she didn’t let go of Cole. She showed him more mercy than he deserved. “If I hadn’t arrived when I did-”
“I’d be getting answers,” I said calmly. Matter-of-factly. I assessed the situation just as calmly and matter-of-factly. My name is Jacob Whitmore. The pissed off woman holding the ratty, blood stained t-shirt? My wife, Leila Whitmore. The man duct taped to the chair and playing up the pain and drama? My brother Cole Summers. Little did he know that I was just getting warmed up. “I haven’t even asked about Brittany.”
Leila jerked her chin in my direction. It was a start. “I don’t even want to know what Round Two would have looked like. Knives? Jumper cables?”
I glanced over at my backpack, guilt seizing me for the briefest moment before I crushed it. My silence was all the answer she needed.
“Oh, Jacob.”
Her voice was soft. Barely above a whisper. I could hear her heart breaking.
I tore my eyes from her, ashamed. She wore the coat I’d left her in. The pale blue would be etched in our memories, her body wrapped in the delicate color in every picture we’d taken in Dublin.
This was a different picture. Her coat sleeve was sprayed with Cole’s blood. There would be no pictures taken in this room, but that image would be branded on my soul forever.
She wasn’t supposed to see this. She’d already endured her nightmare. My coming after Cole was supposed to shield her from pain, not introduce her to a whole new world of agony.
“We need to call for help. A doctor,” she insisted.
“No.” My brother and I killed that option in unison.
Leila finally looked at me, brown eyes wide with disbelief. When she whipped back to Cole, I imagined she was giving him a similar glare. “It’s not a paper cut, Cole. Jacob tried to behead you.”
“Jesus, Lay.” I shuddered, taking offense when that garish image popped in my head. “You must really think I’m a monster.”
“I don’t know what to think,” she answered somberly. She switched the hand she was using to hold against Cole’s wound. She had to be tired...so tired of running from that kidnapping and being dragged back against her will. By everyday items, suddenly turned sinister. By my pleas for her to open up. By therapy. And now, this.
I ripped my eyes from her, the reality of what I’d done to her, to us, too much to handle. Cole’s home worked against me. It took little effort for the walls to change to the peeling, faded wallpaper in the room of some cheap motel. His lumpy mattress rose from the floor, covered by paper thin sheets and stains one could only see with a UV light. I wasn’t in a cottage on the Ireland countryside; I was transported back to the motel room they’d taken my wife to.
The anger was swift and immediate. The fear was a slow acting poison that crept through me. I was frozen in it, sick with a terror of what horrible thing would come next.
I shut my eyes, a painful reality hitting me like a shot to the heart. Just the thought of the kidnapping and what Leila endured was enough to bring me to my knees. Being in the same room, breathing the air my brother breathed was unbearable.
If it was this devastating to me...
Emotion rushed to my eyes and I had to get to her. Apologize. Get her out. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She didn’t face me, her back and attention firmly on Cole, but I felt her words as if we were face to face. And in that moment, her eyes were burning holes through my chest. “Don’t come any closer. I’m right where I’m supposed to
When Cole let out a dramatic groan, I decided his stay of execution was not a good thing. “I barely grazed you.”
“Grazed?” Leila repeated incredulously. It was clear she wanted to throw me a look that would nail me to the wall, but she didn’t let go of Cole. She showed him more mercy than he deserved. “If I hadn’t arrived when I did-”
“I’d be getting answers,” I said calmly. Matter-of-factly. I assessed the situation just as calmly and matter-of-factly. My name is Jacob Whitmore. The pissed off woman holding the ratty, blood stained t-shirt? My wife, Leila Whitmore. The man duct taped to the chair and playing up the pain and drama? My brother Cole Summers. Little did he know that I was just getting warmed up. “I haven’t even asked about Brittany.”
Leila jerked her chin in my direction. It was a start. “I don’t even want to know what Round Two would have looked like. Knives? Jumper cables?”
I glanced over at my backpack, guilt seizing me for the briefest moment before I crushed it. My silence was all the answer she needed.
“Oh, Jacob.”
Her voice was soft. Barely above a whisper. I could hear her heart breaking.
I tore my eyes from her, ashamed. She wore the coat I’d left her in. The pale blue would be etched in our memories, her body wrapped in the delicate color in every picture we’d taken in Dublin.
This was a different picture. Her coat sleeve was sprayed with Cole’s blood. There would be no pictures taken in this room, but that image would be branded on my soul forever.
She wasn’t supposed to see this. She’d already endured her nightmare. My coming after Cole was supposed to shield her from pain, not introduce her to a whole new world of agony.
“We need to call for help. A doctor,” she insisted.
“No.” My brother and I killed that option in unison.
Leila finally looked at me, brown eyes wide with disbelief. When she whipped back to Cole, I imagined she was giving him a similar glare. “It’s not a paper cut, Cole. Jacob tried to behead you.”
“Jesus, Lay.” I shuddered, taking offense when that garish image popped in my head. “You must really think I’m a monster.”
“I don’t know what to think,” she answered somberly. She switched the hand she was using to hold against Cole’s wound. She had to be tired...so tired of running from that kidnapping and being dragged back against her will. By everyday items, suddenly turned sinister. By my pleas for her to open up. By therapy. And now, this.
I ripped my eyes from her, the reality of what I’d done to her, to us, too much to handle. Cole’s home worked against me. It took little effort for the walls to change to the peeling, faded wallpaper in the room of some cheap motel. His lumpy mattress rose from the floor, covered by paper thin sheets and stains one could only see with a UV light. I wasn’t in a cottage on the Ireland countryside; I was transported back to the motel room they’d taken my wife to.
The anger was swift and immediate. The fear was a slow acting poison that crept through me. I was frozen in it, sick with a terror of what horrible thing would come next.
I shut my eyes, a painful reality hitting me like a shot to the heart. Just the thought of the kidnapping and what Leila endured was enough to bring me to my knees. Being in the same room, breathing the air my brother breathed was unbearable.
If it was this devastating to me...
Emotion rushed to my eyes and I had to get to her. Apologize. Get her out. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She didn’t face me, her back and attention firmly on Cole, but I felt her words as if we were face to face. And in that moment, her eyes were burning holes through my chest. “Don’t come any closer. I’m right where I’m supposed to
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