Page 85 of The Thinnest Air
Everything blurs together.
Everything’s one infinite, endless nightmare.
“I’m leaving in a little bit so you need to eat,” he says. “I’ll untie one of your hands, but I need to know you’re not going to try anything.”
Ronan’s eyes shine in the dark. I nod.
“Trust me,” he says, his voice gentle and sweet. “I don’t want to hurt you, Meredith, but I will restrain you if I have to.”
A few seconds later, he heads toward the hall, leaving the door open. Light spills in from a vintage globe, illuminating an iron bed frame and an old pine dresser. The walls are covered in decorative maps, and an empty gun rack is mounted next to the door.
The sound of silverware clinking and a faucet running fills the silent cabin, and a few minutes later, Ronan returns with a tray.
“Chicken soup,” he says. “And a London Fog.”
His eyes smile, as if he’s proud of himself for remembering my favorite drink.
Placing the tray on the nightstand beside me, he retrieves a knife from his back pocket and clips the zip tie on my left, nondominant hand. When he positions the food over my lap, he places the spoon between my fingers and takes a seat beside me.
“They’re going through your phone right now,” he says with an amused huff. “As soon as they link you to me, they’re going to place me on administrative leave. Lucky for us, there’s no body, not a shred of evidence. They won’t be able to pin any of this on me, but they’ll probably fire me for misconduct. The case’ll go cold. I’ll go on my way. Eventually you’ll be a forgotten headline, maybe a cold case people bring up on Reddit every now and then.”
Ronan shakes his head, smirking ear to ear, like he can’t get over how well his little plan seems to be playing out.
“You’re not eating.” His expression fades. “You haven’t eaten in days, Meredith. I don’t need you getting dehydrated. We’re hours from the nearest hospital. We’re hours from anyone, really.”
I lift the spoon to my mouth. It tastes like salt water, the noodles soggy, as if the can had been sitting in the cabinet for decades. My appetite is nonexistent, but my baby needs to eat, so I choke it down.
“You’ll like it up here,” he says. “It’s really quiet. Peaceful. You know how I told you once I like to hunt? And I’m an avid survivalist?”
I nod, vaguely recalling a conversation we’d had over hot chocolates on one of our many late-night drives together. I hadn’t given it another thought. In fact, when he told me, I thought it was cute. And fitting. My all-American Boy Scout, I’d teased him.
“Figured we could live off the land,” he says. “Off the grid.”
My body begins to tremble. The more I try to still the tremors, the worse they get.
“You’re shaking.” Ronan places his hand over mine. “You’re going to spill. Here.” He takes the spoon from my hand, feeding me like an infant. “See, I can take care of you. And I don’t need a Maserati and a giant bank account to do it.”
We’re swallowed by silence for a moment, each spoonful of soup followed by the clink of the silverware against the bowl. The liquid has long since grown lukewarm, but Ronan seems intent on making sure I get every last bite.
“If this baby happens,” he says, his words stopping my heart cold, “we’ll have to figure something out. Find it a decent home. Something like that.”
“Ronan.”My teeth grit when I speak his name.
He sniffs, his mouth pulled up at one side. “You can’t expect me to raisehischild as my own. That’s just insane. Besides, we’ll have a bunch of our own. You’ll forget all about this one eventually. Anyway, I’m trying to get my hands on one of those pills.”
A thick tear slides down my cheek.
He removes the soup and places a mug of tea in my hands. It’s barely warm, but my throat is parched, my tongue like sandpaper. Lifting it to my lips, I swallow the milky liquid, downing the entire cup in one go.
Ronan takes it from me when I’m finished, inspecting the bottom to ensure it’s empty.
“You drugged me, didn’t you?” I ask.
He laughs, reaching for my face, tilting my chin up until our eyes hold. “I’m not a bad person, Meredith. I may do bad things, but I’m a good man with good intentions. My means always justify my ends.”
“It was you, wasn’t it?” I ask. “There was never a stalker. It was always you.”
He releases my face from his grasp, gathering the dishes and lifting the tray, his back toward me. I find my answer in what he doesn’t say.
