Beneath Blackwater River Leslie Wolfe (me reader txt) 📖

body again. That wasn’t why she’d run away from home. That wasn’t why she hadn’t stopped by the hospital, in one more attempt to tell her mom what was happening.

Maybe that time she would’ve believed her.

If she would’ve only taken the chance and asked her mother to see the traces of white powder dusting her abdomen. She would’ve believed her then, and she would’ve taken her away and moved someplace safe, where her stepfather didn’t have the keys to the front door.

She curled up tighter, hugging her knees and burying her face in the pillow. “Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry,” she whimpered, while her heavy eyes released their load.

Soon her tears dried; she was a street-smart kid after all, and if there was any way out of that dust-covered, forsaken hell, she’d find it.

First, she wanted to rid herself of his stink. A quick shower took care of that, even if she cringed using the same shower gel and lavender shampoo he demanded. She blow-dried her hair quickly, then tied it into a ponytail and got dressed.

It was time to explore her prison, to know every single detail of it intimately, and if she couldn’t escape it, then she had to find a way to make it more bearable.

She remembered the fridge and the microwave still had power. She opened the fridge door, and celebrated its weak light by swiping a couple of slices of ham and devouring them in an instant. Then she pulled the fridge out of its place, grunting with effort, and exposed a patch of floor covered in thick dust, and a power outlet with an empty socket.

She tested the spare socket by moving over the fridge plug. The motor kicked back in. She moved it back to the upper socket like she’d found it, then pushed the fridge back in its place, careful to make sure she didn’t leave any traces of disturbed dust or grime. When the night returned, she could unplug one of the table lamps and move it there, by the fridge, and she’d have light.

Then she turned on the stove, happy to see the elements were heating up, turning red. Grinning, she switched them all on, and spent a few moments rubbing her hands above the stove, feeling her blood starting to flow again.

Then she started exploring the rooms, one by one.

Her first stop was the bedroom she’d just left, one of the smallest in the house.

She tried to get the window to open, but it didn’t budge. It was a two-pane vertical, and the lower sash should’ve slid up, but it just didn’t move. There wasn’t any lock on it either, and running her fingers across the entire length of the frame revealed nothing she could grab at, unlock, or use to get the window to open. Finally, she banged against the glass pane with both fists, and later, with the brushed metal leg of the lamp she’d yanked from the bedside table, only to find nothing could break that window. It didn’t even sound like glass, when she pounded or rapped her fingernails against it.

With a long, pained sigh, she gave up on the window and moved on. Opening the closets, she found skirts, tops, shirts, sweaters, and slacks, the majority of them a good fit for her body. Yet they didn’t seem to have belonged to the same woman.

Or girl.

The styles were wildly different, and so was the quality of the fabric and the brand names on their tags. From dollar store and thrift to Neiman Marcus, from brand new to threadbare worn, the closet held it all.

The shoes she retrieved from the small closet in the hallway confirmed her findings. In shoes, not only the quality and wear level varied, but also the size. Afraid to draw the only logical conclusion possible, she chose a pair of sneakers that fit her well, and proceeded to find some socks to go with them.

Underwear was in the big dresser drawer in the first bedroom, from silk to lace to cotton, from girly to trashy to classy. With two fingers, she picked a pair of panties out of the pile and smelled them cautiously. They were clean, the only scents she could pick up were detergent and dryer sheets. She shoved them in her pocket, eager to change out of hers and into clean ones, at least until hers dried after she washed them. The bottom drawer revealed a treasure trove of socks, neatly paired up in balls. She put on a pair, grateful to keep the chill at bay just a little and not feel the cold floorboards under her bare feet.

A noise outside made her heart stop for a moment, before thumping wildly against her chest. She rushed to a window and checked, but no one was coming to the house. It must’ve been a bird landing on the roof or a tree branch scratching against the siding.

He wasn’t back yet. She still had time.

Careful, as if she expected to find someone in there, she opened the main bedroom door and peeked inside. The king-size bed was made, with a silk comforter and countless pillows, arranged neatly by size, welcoming and lush. She touched the cover, then rubbed her fingers together, feeling the particles that had clung to her skin.

Dust.

That bed had not been slept in for years.

Above the headboard, a framed photo showed a couple on their wedding day in a professionally taken portrait. The man was tall and proud, his smile bold, reassured. The woman was beautiful, and reminded her a little of her captor. She had the same eyes, the same mouth, and the same stubborn chin marked with a small dimple. She was young in that photo, twenty-something. The house Kirsten was being held prisoner in must’ve been hers and her husband’s. It was her captor’s childhood home.

The clothes in the his-and-hers closets matched the figures she’d seen in the portrait, and were neatly organized, as if no one had touched a single garment