I’m shaking by the time we get off the plane. Shaking to the point where my husband has to support me while I walk.
“Are you going to be all right?” one of the gate attendants asks.
“She’s not feeling well,” Russel answers for me. “I think we need to get her home.”
The worker tells Russel something about our bags, the kids are squirrely around me, Andrew’s demanding to know what’s happening and poor little Annie is confused and thinks we’ve already landed in Michigan.
“Where are Grandma and Grandpa?” she asks.
I can’t focus on any of this. Can’t pay attention to the conversations, the noise. I think about that man in the Hawaiian shirt, about how much he reminded me of Henry. I think about the day I escaped, the same day I discovered what happened to his daughter. I think about Russel, about all the things I should have told him before we got married. I was stupid to think that faith and love alone could erase the memories from my past.
Just like I was stupid to think that I could replace the picture-perfect wife he lost.
We’re both broken, Russel and I, but in such different ways. The shattered pieces of our lives in theory might fit together to make something beautiful, but right now we’re destroying each other with our lies, our trauma, our grief.
I didn’t mean to say it. I should have known better after two years in Henry’s basement. But he was so pathetic, sitting there crying, blubbering.
“You’re lying,” I tell him. I haven’t spoken back to him like this since my first few weeks as his prisoner, posing as his daughter, wearing her clothes. I’ve lost weight, haven’t seen the sun in two years. My muscles are weak, but the hatred I feel for him at this exact minute makes me strong and empowered.
This sniveling old man is nothing to be afraid of. He can’t hurt me. Can’t touch me. Because I know his secret. I’ve figured it out. When I look back, I’m pretty sure I’ve always known but haven’t wanted to accept the truth until now. At this precise moment.
Everything Henry and I have gone through together has led to here. Like destiny.
“I know what you did to her,” I say, my voice calm and even.
His eyes grow wide. He probably forgot I was still a human with the capacity to speak my own mind.
“You got mad at her for sneaking out. You got mad because she hated you, because she knew you were nothing but a pathetic old man, and you killed her. You knew she was growing up. She liked going to parties now. She was interested in boys. You couldn’t keep her home, no matter how hard you tried. And you were terrified of losing her. Terrified that she’d wake up one day and realize what a coward you truly are. You saw it happening, saw the end coming. So you killed her. Because you’re sick and twisted and pathetic. You killed her, and you managed to keep enough evidence away from the police that they couldn’t actually arrest you or anything. You got away with it, but the guilt’s been eating you up inside for years. That’s why you’ve made me pretend to be her. Why you’ve made me say I forgive you. Well, you know something? I don’t forgive you. I hate you. I think you’re weak. Pathetic. I can’t stand another minute in this house with you. And guess what else. I’m not your daughter. I’m not Jennifer. But if she were here, she wouldn’t forgive you either. And she’d be saying the exact same things I am. You’re weak. You’re nothing. You’re a terrible father. And you’re totally crazy. You killed her. Killed your own flesh and blood and now the guilt’s making you even more miserable and pathetic than ever.”
Once the words start pouring out of my mouth, I’m certain that nothing can stop them.
“You say you love her, that you’re sorry for what you did to her, but you know what? I don’t believe you. I know you meant to kill her. I know what a horrible person you are. You’re sick in the brain. She wanted to get away from you. You know that, don’t you? And the only way to keep her from despising you was to kill her before she learned how wretched you really are, what a miserable old man …”
And then I stop because Henry’s face isn’t just contorted in anguish. There’s something else there.
“Stop,” he gasps. “Help.”
I want to keep yelling, telling him that I’ve finally discovered his secret. I finally know what kind of contemptible human being he truly is, but I can’t.
Henry’s face is frozen as if carved in stone. He clutches at the collar of his shirt. “Stop,” he wheezes. Sweat’s dripping down his temples.
My heart quits beating at the sound of his voice. I see his chest make a choppy motion. I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what’s happening.
I jump off the couch and grab a flashlight to see better in the dark. Henry’s lips are turning blue, and I realize I’m killing him. Literally killing him.
I reach out for his hand. “What do you need me to do?” I ask. “How can I help?”
I didn’t mean to hurt him. Didn’t mean to cause him actual physical harm. I just needed to get some things off my chest …
His chest …
I place my hand over his heart. Feel how erratically its racing. “What should I do?” I ask.
Henry’s face is ashen gray. “Help me,” he croaks once more.
I race up the stairs. I try to race up the stairs, is what I should say, but my legs are weak. By the time I’m at the top, I realize I’m about to step into a world I haven’t seen in years. I look back down. Is Henry going to stop me? Is he going to yell at me to get back down?
He’s bent over himself. I can hear the labored breathing from here. Does he even know I’m at the top of the staircase?
I throw open the door, steel myself for whatever terrors await me on the other side. Monsters. Guard dogs. Soldiers ordered to shoot me on sight. Instead, nothing but blinding daylight streaming in from the windows. I can’t see anything. Pain pierces to the back of my skull. I have to help Henry.
I stumble into a messy room, a den or a living room of sorts with trash and molding food strewn everywhere. Is there a phone I can use?
I trip over a takeout box. My hands dart in front of me to break my fall. I scrape my forearm on something. I don’t care. Henry is downstairs dying, and it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have let my anger take hold of me that way. I should have been more compassionate …
Why doesn’t this man have a stupid phone?
I’m looking everywhere. To my left is a front door with three separate dead bolts protecting me from the outside world. I could run outside, yell for help. I glance out a grimy window. All I see is a looming fence surrounding the house, but beyond that must be something.
Can I get help for Henry fast enough?
I’ve overturned a small table. A shoebox full of photographs has spilled onto the floor at my feet. I pick up one of the pictures. It’s of me. There are dozens of them, all close up, photographs of me when I’m sleeping. My skin is pale. I almost look like I’m dead.
My hands are trembling. I don’t have time to stop and stare, but I do. Because there’s something wrong about the pictures. Something I didn’t notice at first.
I don’t own a shirt like that. And the sleeping head I’m staring at is resting on a pillow. A real pillow with a real pillowcase, not the hard couch cushion Henry’s given me.
Even more surprising, the sleeping girl in the photograph is in a real bed.
And then I realize I’m not looking at pictures of myself at all. It’s Henry’s dead daughter. I drop the images, my heart speeding wildly. I tell myself I’m running outside to get help. It’s the only way I can justify leaving Henry here like this. I hate him. Despise him. Fear him. But the thought of him down there all alone, feeling so remorseful … I can’t make myself leave unless I lie. I tell myself I’ll run and get him help. I tell myself I’ll race down the road, find the nearest house or wave down the nearest car and call 911 to get them to send Henry an ambulance. It’s the only thing that allows me to unlock the deadbolts. They’re heavier than I expected, as if they’ve rusted in place.
Hurry, I tell myself, Henry could die any second.
Except that’s not why I’m hurrying. Not really. I know that once I leave this house, I’m going home, and nothing’s going to stop me.
The last bolt finally slides out of place.
The sun hits my skin for the first time since my capture. I don’t have time to pause and wonder. My only thought is to get away. Do I go right or left? I don’t know. All I know is that I need to put one foot in front of the other. I force myself to be strong, to resist the urge to turn back.
I can’t do it. Can’t leave him here like this. I think I hear him call my name. “Jennifer.” Then I think about the pictures I saw. I think about Henry’s dead daughter, about how he’s kept me prisoner in his basement. I remember the vaguest notion of a mother and father who loved me once upon a time, and I realize I want to see them again.
I desperately want to see them again.
I know they’re out there. And I know I don’t belong trapped in a basement for the rest of my life.
I have no idea how long I’ve been walking. It feels like a lifetime. The houses are set back in the woods. All I see are driveways. One road turns to another. I can’t keep the directions straight. I might be walking in circles for all I can tell. I think it must have been an hour, maybe more. Maybe whole days have passed since I ran away from Henry, since I abandoned him alone in that basement to die.
The shadows are long, the evening chilly when I spot a woman walking her dog. My eyes want to spill over with tears. How long has it been since I’ve seen another human being? Seen an animal of any kind?
My legs threaten to collapse beneath me the moment she comes into view. I wave my arms. She raises her hand but then stops.
“Help,” I call out, certain now that my legs can’t carry me another step.
She jogs toward me. I don’t know if it’s my stress or my fear or my physical weakness, but I’m only half conscious when her dog comes up, sniffs me once curiously, then licks my face with a warm tongue.
His kiss makes me start to sob.
The woman kneels down. I can’t understand the questions she’s asking me, but I hear the worry in her voice.
“I need help,” I tell her.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
I nearly answer “Jennifer” before I remember. That’s not me anymore. It never was me. “My name is Anastasia,” I answer. “Anastasia Reynolds. I want to go home.”