Page 80 of Ghost

So, I just stood there and awaited my fate.

I heard a loud thud and then another. The door creaked and groaned, and after one last blow, it burst open, and Dylan came stumbling into the room with a gun in his hand. He looked awful.

Both of his eyes were dark, with old bruising beneath each. There were more bruises along his jaw that were turning a greenish-yellow, and his hair was oily and matted. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty, and his laces weren’t tied. He reeked of alcohol. It was odd. Dylan had always taken great care in his appearance, and even though he was wasted, it didn’t explain why it looked like he hadn’t bathed in days.

His dark, beady eyes fixed on me with an unsettling glare that sent a chill down my spine. “There’s my girl.”

“Dylan, what are you doing here?”

“I came to find you.” His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know why you’re surprised. I told you I would, and I always keep my word.”

He was right.

He’d told me he was coming for me, but I’d let myself forget. I’d gotten comfortable, let my guard down, and now, he was finally going to finish what he’d started. He stepped over to me and ran his knuckles down my cheek. “I missed this pretty face.”

“Please don’t do this.”

“This is you. All you.” His eyes were glassed over, and his hands were trembling. This was more than booze. He was on something. “I just wanted to love you and take care of you.”

“This isn’t love, Dylan. This is sick... You’re sick.” I kept my voice calm and steady as I told him, “You need help.”

I saw the anger flash through his eyes and knew what was coming even before I saw his hand moving towards my face. His palm connected with my cheek, causing my head to rear back, but I didn’t stumble or fall. I kept my footing and managed to look back at him, trying to appear unphased.

“I’m not scared of you, Dylan. I’m done being scared.”

“We’ll see about that.”

He pulled out a set of handcuffs, and I held my breath as he used them to secure my hands. It was hard to believe that I ever cared about this man. He was so cold and cruel. I hated being so close to him. And the stench of him brought bile to the back of my throat, and I had to turn my head and take a deep breath to keep from getting sick. “Where’s the kid?”

“He’s not here.”

“Don’t lie to me, Casey. You know I hate it when you lie.”

“I’m not lying, Dylan.” I swallowed, trying to stop my voice from shaking. “He’s staying at a friend’s house tonight.”

“Is that right?” He leaned down and looked under Toby’s bed, and when he didn’t find him there, he walked over and pulled the curtains back. Becoming frustrated, he turned to me and warned, “Tell me where he is, or I’m gonna hurt him when I find him. And I’m gonna hurt him bad.”

“He’s not...”

The closet door opened, and my heart dropped to the pit of my stomach when Toby stepped out and announced, “I’m here.”

“There he is!” Toby’s eyes darted over to me, and pure panic marked his face when Dylan slipped his arm around him. “You know, I’ve spent a long time looking for you and your momma.”

He took hold of Toby’s arm, then grabbed mine and tugged us out of the room and down the hall. “I’d almost given up on finding you until your mom’s boyfriend showed up at the house.”

Stunned, I looked up at him, and he snickered when he saw the surprised look on my face. “Oh, you didn’t know about that, huh?”

I glanced up at his face, and when I saw the bruises and scabs, I started piecing it together. Sutton’s hands and the bloody t-shirt. He’d gone to see Dylan while he was out on his run, and from the looks of it, he’d done a real number on him.

When we reached the living room, Dylan shoved me and Toby down on the sofa as he rambled on, “Well, your guy thought he was clever. He came late at night and parked down the street, but there’re cameras on every street, and I have access to every single one of them.”

He sounded so smug as he went on to tell me how he’d used the license plate to track Sutton down, because he knew he’d find me if he found him. I wasn’t exactly shocked that Sutton had gone to Dylan’s and beat the hell out of him. I’d seen the look in his eyes every time I had a nightmare or jumped at an unexpected noise. It was the same way when he looked at my scars.

Dylan went on to tell me that he’d watched the house for hours, waiting for his chance to come for us. Apparently, he spent most of that time with a bottle in his hand. “What do you want, Dylan?”

“I want what’s mine, and I’m here to take it.”

“Then, take it.”

---