Page 20 of His to Save

But the one that follows is worse:what kind of man keeps his suspicions to himself for years?

Who’s the real monster, him or me? Could I have prevented this if I’d have spoken up all those years ago?

“Fuck!” I pound my fist against the wheel, causing it to jerk in my grip. Briefly, my tires leave the road, but I’m able to get the truck back under my control before any real damage can be done.

“What-ifs won’t solve anything,” I mutter to myself as I turn down the unmarked road that leads to our hunting plot. “Just focus on the here and now. Figure out what needs to happen and handle that shit.”

I hold my breath as the cabin comes into view, only to let out a disappointed exhale when his SUV’s nowhere to be seen.

Still, I throw my truck into park and hop out to take a look around.

On silent feet, I creep around the rickety structure, listening and watching for any signs of life. But everything is silent and still.

If the layer of dust covering the windows is anything to go by, no one has been here in a while. But if I know anything, it’s that looks can be deceiving.

Which means I won’t be able to let this go until I check out the inside of the cabin—until I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she’s not here, chained up, or worse.

I try the front door first, but it’s locked up tight. Defeat presses in on me from all sides. I don’t know where my dad is, I don’t know where Nora is, and because I spent the last three years with my head up my ass, I don’t have the slightest idea of where to look.

“Oh, shit!” I hop down from the small porch and scramble around to the back of the cabin. To the best of my knowledge, the back door doesn’t have a deadbolt. Or at least it didn’t the last time I was here.

If that still holds true, it should be easy enough to get inside.

This time, I don’t bother being quiet; I’m far too anxious for soft steps.

A quick jiggle of the knob tells me that I’m right—there’s no deadbolt—and so, with a quick swipe of a card from my wallet, the door is open and I’m caught between hoping to find Nora and praying she’s far, far away from here.

Stale air greets me as I step into the house. If it wasn’t clear from the smell alone, the sheets still covering the sparse furniture tell me no one’s been here in a long while.

I still do a quick walkthrough, finding each room as empty and untouched as the one before it.

They aren’t here, which means I’m back at square one.

“Where else could they be?” I ask as I retrace my steps, making sure there’s no sign of my visit as I head back for my truck.

Without knowing where else to look, I start for home, hoping like hell that Nora’s diary has something—anything—that will point me in the right direction.

DIARY ENTRY, AGE 15

Dear Diary,

Something’s wrong with Mama. I don’t know what, but I know it like I know my own name. She’s not right, but anytime I mention it, Mama and Rand act like I’m crazy.

I think they’re gaslighting me, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not crazy. There is something wrong with her, and I’m the only person who cares.

She’s been going downhill ever since she and Rand got together. It’s like his presence alone sucks the life out of her, and now her health is going, too.

It started off with a stomachache. “Just cramps,” she said. But then the cramps turned to full-on nausea that hasn’t let up. I’m talking weeks of feeling so sick and dizzy that she hasn’t been able to eat.

But you better believe she still cooks and serves Rand a feast each and every night. He even makes her sit at the table with him while he prattles on and on about God knows what, not even caring that she’s literally wasting away before our very eyes.

I know I sound dramatic, but she’s lost enough weight that I’ve got more meat on my bones than she does—andthat’s saying something, seeing as Dad always called me his bean pole.

Things have changed a lot between us these last few months, and not for the better, but she’s still my mom and I still love her… Even if it feels like she doesn’t love me anymore.

Rand doesn’t allow me out of my room any time after seven, so I had to sneak into the kitchen to confront her while she was cleaning up. She was swaying on her feet, struggling to load the dishwasher, so I took over doing it for her.

As I was scrubbing the pots and pans, I told her we should go to the doctor tomorrow to make sure she was okay, but she refused. She swore up and down that she was fine, that it was probably just a virus, and that she’d be better in no time.

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