police. Don’t get any deeper into this web of fucking insanity. He’s manipulating you. Lisa might already be dead—
But she wasn’t. Tara knew she wasn’t. She felt it deep in her core. Lisa was alive. But she was also buried in a box. And the knowledge of that, the most gruesome form of abduction she could possibly imagine, was like knives punching into her, slitting her, cutting her open and making her bleed, making all the good and pure things run from her in rivers and leaving a blank emptiness inside that could only be filled when she saw her sister again, when she held Lisa in her arms and knew, dear God, that she was safe, safe, safe. And she would do anything, anything, to secure that moment. She didn’t care what it was.
Kidnappers always say not to go to the police, Tara. They always claim to be watching the house. They always threaten to kill the kidnappee. It’s their power, their strength. They have you by the balls and they know it. It’s sadistic, but sadism is part of the sickness… toying with loved ones. You can’t trust a warped mind that thinks that way. You’ve seen those true crime shows… very often the kidnappers kill their victims anyway, regardless of what they say.
“ Fuck you,” Tara said to that voice, banishing it away into the cellar of her mind. Shutting it away there. It was the voice of reason, yes, the voice of common sense and logic speaking, only that voice didn’t have a kid sister who was living out a nightmare, was in dire peril balanced at the edge of some black, hungry pit with a sicko psycho fucked-up kidnapping freak ready to shove her off the edge.
It was a battle of wills… her own and that reasonable voice in her head.
But she won.
She would do what she had to do to safeguard her sister.
12:17 AM
When she first entered the kitchen, that awful meaty, raw stink shoved up her nose and down her throat, she burst into tears and fell to her knees, vomiting until there was nothing but painful dry heaves. The second time she tried, the same. But the third time… knowing there just wasn’t time for any squeamish girly bullshit… she’d wrapped up Margaret’s legs. She wore yellow Playtex gloves, but even so the dead weight and greasy, chill feel of those limbs was repulsive. And when she’d packaged up the arms, one of them, maybe the left one, had slipped in her grasp and Margaret’s cold hand had brushed against her wrist. Dear God, the feel of that… like being caressed by meat.
She gasped and fell away while that dead arm slapped the tile floor.
There was blood in her mouth and she realized it was because she’d just bitten through her lower lip.
Okay. Steady on.
She looked at the clock. She had to hurry.
“ You can do this,” she whispered to herself. “You don’t have a choice.”
12:19 AM
Back at it.
Dead weight. Yes, whoever had coined that term had handled cold cuts like this. Because each arm was heavy, each leg filled with lead pellets. It was no easy bit wrapping them up, taping those obscene black plastic packages shut. But she did it—somehow, some way—her guts doing a slow and slithering crawl up the back of her throat the whole time. Then came the head. Breathing so hard she thought she might hyperventilate, Tara reached out with a hand that shook so badly it was practically whipping back and forth at the end of her wrist. She clenched her teeth and made to grab it by the hair… but as soon as she touched it, she flinched.
A human head.
This was a human head.
“ Do it,” she said. “Just do it.”
Her teeth clenched so tightly she thought her jaw might break. Lisa reached out and grasped Margaret’s head by the hair. Jesus. The feel of it. Like a fistful of snakes. Worse, much worse. Even through the latex glove, she could feel the clotted blood in those gray locks. She gripped the hair, bunched it in her hand, and pulled the head out of the sink. The drying rack came with it because the bad man had not
But she wasn’t. Tara knew she wasn’t. She felt it deep in her core. Lisa was alive. But she was also buried in a box. And the knowledge of that, the most gruesome form of abduction she could possibly imagine, was like knives punching into her, slitting her, cutting her open and making her bleed, making all the good and pure things run from her in rivers and leaving a blank emptiness inside that could only be filled when she saw her sister again, when she held Lisa in her arms and knew, dear God, that she was safe, safe, safe. And she would do anything, anything, to secure that moment. She didn’t care what it was.
Kidnappers always say not to go to the police, Tara. They always claim to be watching the house. They always threaten to kill the kidnappee. It’s their power, their strength. They have you by the balls and they know it. It’s sadistic, but sadism is part of the sickness… toying with loved ones. You can’t trust a warped mind that thinks that way. You’ve seen those true crime shows… very often the kidnappers kill their victims anyway, regardless of what they say.
“ Fuck you,” Tara said to that voice, banishing it away into the cellar of her mind. Shutting it away there. It was the voice of reason, yes, the voice of common sense and logic speaking, only that voice didn’t have a kid sister who was living out a nightmare, was in dire peril balanced at the edge of some black, hungry pit with a sicko psycho fucked-up kidnapping freak ready to shove her off the edge.
It was a battle of wills… her own and that reasonable voice in her head.
But she won.
She would do what she had to do to safeguard her sister.
12:17 AM
When she first entered the kitchen, that awful meaty, raw stink shoved up her nose and down her throat, she burst into tears and fell to her knees, vomiting until there was nothing but painful dry heaves. The second time she tried, the same. But the third time… knowing there just wasn’t time for any squeamish girly bullshit… she’d wrapped up Margaret’s legs. She wore yellow Playtex gloves, but even so the dead weight and greasy, chill feel of those limbs was repulsive. And when she’d packaged up the arms, one of them, maybe the left one, had slipped in her grasp and Margaret’s cold hand had brushed against her wrist. Dear God, the feel of that… like being caressed by meat.
She gasped and fell away while that dead arm slapped the tile floor.
There was blood in her mouth and she realized it was because she’d just bitten through her lower lip.
Okay. Steady on.
She looked at the clock. She had to hurry.
“ You can do this,” she whispered to herself. “You don’t have a choice.”
12:19 AM
Back at it.
Dead weight. Yes, whoever had coined that term had handled cold cuts like this. Because each arm was heavy, each leg filled with lead pellets. It was no easy bit wrapping them up, taping those obscene black plastic packages shut. But she did it—somehow, some way—her guts doing a slow and slithering crawl up the back of her throat the whole time. Then came the head. Breathing so hard she thought she might hyperventilate, Tara reached out with a hand that shook so badly it was practically whipping back and forth at the end of her wrist. She clenched her teeth and made to grab it by the hair… but as soon as she touched it, she flinched.
A human head.
This was a human head.
“ Do it,” she said. “Just do it.”
Her teeth clenched so tightly she thought her jaw might break. Lisa reached out and grasped Margaret’s head by the hair. Jesus. The feel of it. Like a fistful of snakes. Worse, much worse. Even through the latex glove, she could feel the clotted blood in those gray locks. She gripped the hair, bunched it in her hand, and pulled the head out of the sink. The drying rack came with it because the bad man had not
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