Cut Me Free (21 page)

I need an advantage. It's darker in the closet than in here, so I cross and quietly push open the curtains until the streetlight outside shines directly on the closet door. I inch across the room and wrap my fingers around the handle. I want to run, would give up my limited wardrobe and the safe with the money if I could never have to open the closet again. Whatever gift has been left for me this time, I'm certain I don't want it.

I yank the door open and step back in case something is going to jump out at me. Light shines into my eyes and I have to blink a few times before I realize it's a reflection of the streetlight from outside. A mirror? Why would someone put a mirror in my closet? Then I see many different reflections swaying a bit in the air.

It feels like a vacuum has been attached to my feet and the blood from my head has been sucked away. I stumble back and fight to stay upright. I recognize them, every one. More than a dozen knives of every shape and size, all from my kitchen, now hang in my closet. Each is suspended from a string with several hangers supporting them.

The words from the last box fill my mind:
Safety is illusion.

Someone who is supposed to be dead has given me a torture closet of my own.

He's taunting me, enjoying this. And I'm not even sure who he is. Why would he give me this? A hint of what he has in store for me?

Images of Sanda tied, gagged, and blindfolded in Brothers's closet pelt my brain and I feel sick. But Brothers wasn't the only one. The Father had a closet full of his toys, too. And I'd spent half my nights tied up next to it. Memories of blinding pain send me rushing to the window. I open it and draw in a few cold breaths before my stomach agrees to calm down.

When I can finally stand upright and slow my breathing, I close the window. I turn back to the closet and realize the shining reflections aren't the only new additions. Below the knives, sitting in plain sight, is another black box. Fury bubbles inside me and I'm across the room in two strides. I grab the box, tear off the lid, and throw them both as hard as I can against the opposite wall. The rose explodes in a crimson spray across my light gray blankets and I try to regain control. I'm torn between absolute terror and a hunger to kill him for messing with me like this.

I retrieve the lid and study it in the reflected light bouncing off the blades. A sudden chill fills me from head to toe. This time the message scraped in the tight black silk of the lid is far more malicious.

In the silence of my room I hear it. A board in the hallway creaks. Someone is here. My heart speeds up and everything around me slows down, but not enough to save me.

Run! Now!

I'm cornered. There is only one place I can hide fast enough, and I wonder if I'd rather die than go in voluntarily. A footstep sounds in the hall, heavier, closer. Whoever it is, they're coming. Ducking as low as I can, I climb into the closet with the sharp points of knives scraping my arms, poking into my neck, hanging over my head. And I pull the door closed.

 

22

A butcher knife dangles in front of my face. Every time I move, even breathe, there is a slight clinking sound as the knives touch each other. I close my eyes for a moment and swear silently when I realize I must've dropped my iron bar on the bed.

One particularly sharp knife pokes my elbow and I feel for the string holding it. I hear another footstep, closer, in my room. In one quick motion, I grab the knife and use it to slice through its own string with a flick of my wrist. Holding the blade out in front of me, I decide I'll be better off if I catch my visitor by surprise than the other way around.

Another footstep sounds, this time close outside the closet door. If I want that advantage, I have to act now. I try to psych myself up. I can do this. What have I been taking Cam's classes for if not this? I can. I will.

Crouching below most of the knives, I explode through the door. Knocking the solid—and clearly male—figure on the other side down. I can tell from the pain and sudden warmth that I've sliced up my shoulders a bit, but I don't stop to check. Can't give him a chance to figure out what's going on. He has a hood pulled up around his face. I knee him in the stomach and hear a loud
whoosh
of air. Then I push my knife against his throat and tug back his hood.

Cam wheezes, his eyes wide. Relief and confusion extinguish the fiery adrenaline in my blood and I lean back in surprise, keeping my knife in place. He rolls, grabs my wrist, and knocks the knife out of my hand before pinning me to the ground with his strong arms and legs.

“Charlotte!” he shouts, as I immediately fight to get him off me. “Stop and I'll let you go.”

One deep breath goes in and out, then another, as I calm down and my pulse slows to a normal rate. His eyes search mine and I glare back, trying to figure out why he would be sneaking around my apartment in the dark. I blow my hair out of my face and glare at him. “I stopped.”

He backs off and sits on the ground beside me. Now that I'm not fighting him, I watch him look in the closet and see the knives hanging there. His eyes go from the closet to the explosion of rose petals on my bed and the bloody cuts on my shoulders. Then he reaches over and picks up the lid of the box, reading the words inside.

Cam raises his eyes to mine, his voice only a strained whisper. “What in the hell is going on?”

Pulling myself to a sitting position, I examine the damage. Most of the cuts are shallow and superficial. Only a few will need attention. “Why does it matter?”

He gestures toward the closet incredulously. “How can you not think this matters?”

I lower my chin. “Let me rephrase. Why does it matter
to you
?”

“How many times do I have to tell you I care about you before it sinks in?”

His angry tone only makes me want to fight back, to lash out. “How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone before you listen?”

He stares hard at me, and the fire in his eyes feels like the only heat left in the apartment. “Always once more … until you make me believe you mean it.”

I'm too confused, too upset, to even attempt to understand what he's saying right now, so I focus on my latest injury. “Why are you here anyway?” I press a piece of my shirt against one of the deeper cuts, trying to stop the bleeding. “And you showed up at Angelo's. Are you following me?”

He grabs a towel out of a basket of folded laundry in the corner and pushes it against my shoulder. “Yes.”

“Wha—why?” I scowl and try to take the towel from him, but the glare he gives me is so obstinate that I stop fighting.

“Let's see. Maybe because a psychopath keeps breaking into your apartment? Oh, and what was that other thing?” He leans in until his face fills my vision and then lowers his voice, but not the intensity. “That's right—and because I
care about you
.”

His breath comes in short angry bursts and the heat from it warms my face. I don't have the right words to answer that, not right now anyway. Without any response, I grab hold of the towel, get to my feet, and walk to the living room. He stays right behind me, flipping on the light switch with a good deal of force as we pass. I walk to the window and search the park across the street for a shadowy figure, a lit cigarette, any sign of life. Is he still here? Watching? Waiting? There is nothing. When I shove the apartment door shut and slump down on the couch, Cam sits beside me.

His expression is pained when he meets my eyes. “Can we declare a truce for at least a few minutes?”

I watch him. Half of me wants to disagree, to tell him again and again that I don't need him or his truce. The other half is still cowering in the closet with the knives and knows I might be in over my head here. My compromise is to say nothing.

“You may not need my help. I don't know because you won't tell me anything.” Cam closes his eyes and rubs his hand against his forehead. “But I need to know what's going on. You blasted, bleeding, from a closet full of knives and attacked me. Please give me the courtesy of an explanation.”

You don't have to fight alone anymore, Piper.

I retrieve my first-aid kit from the bathroom and bring it back to the couch. “All right, but we talk while I patch myself up. What do you want to know?”

“How did he get in this time?”

I shake my head. The main door was untouched, same with the fire escape. “I have no idea.”

“The card on the box says ‘Piper.'” Cam has the same focused expression I've seen on his face while he forges documents. He lowers his chin, takes one of the bandages from the kit, and examines a long cut on my other arm. “Who else knows that name?”

“No one here really. You, Lily, Sanda.” I wince as he cleans out one of my deeper wounds. “Which is another reason this doesn't make sense.”

“How many boxes have you received?”

“Three.”

“At different times?”

“Yes.”

He grinds his teeth and presses a bandage against my skin a little harder than necessary. “Do they all have that sweet message written inside the lid?”

“No.” I shudder as I pack the first-aid kit. I focus on Cam's questions and my answers. Solve the problem—don't let the fear take hold.

He takes the box from my hands and sets it on the ground by his feet, then turns to face me, his expression grim. “Tell me.”

I rest my head against the back of the couch, my eyes on the ceiling above me. “They said: ‘I know your secret,' ‘Safety is illusion,' and ‘No more hiding.'”

Speaking the words makes me nauseated. Am I done hiding or is he? I can't face the possibility that it could be the Father, even if my name and one of the messages sound like it could be him. If this is Brothers, I took away Sanda and left him to burn—and now he wants me to pay. Exhaustion and defeat overwhelm me. What this person did in my closet took time. How long must he have been here in my home, touching my things?

Placing my arm over my eyes, I try to block out my life. This is nothing like the new life I've fought for. No, it's far too much like the life I've always known. Maybe I deserve it. Maybe I'm a magnet for bad people.

“What do you think it means?” Cam leans the side of his head against the couch next to mine.

“Maybe he's not dead.” My voice shakes and I don't even try to hide it. I turn toward Cam and he's only inches away. I don't understand why, but his presence lends me strength. “And he knows who I am, where I live … everything.”

“Who?”

My answer comes out low and quiet. “I'm not sure yet. None of it makes sense.” Now I close my eyes, unable to face him anymore. I know how he feels about what I've done. I don't want to see his judgment and disappointment again.

Cam slips the ends of his fingers beneath mine but doesn't make any further move. “Look at me, please.”

Opening my eyes, I watch him and wait.

“I promise, whatever is going on, I'm here. I know
you
. I don't care what you've done, you don't deserve this. I'm not going anywhere—no matter what.” He waits. His eyes are turbulent pools of emotion before he speaks. “Tell me.”

“I can't.” I pull my hand back, but he grabs my other one.

“Why not?” He raises his voice enough to set me off.

I yell back at him. “You already know.”

“Then this should be easy.” His voice softens. “Who is doing this?”

I raise my eyes to meet his. “Probably one of the people I killed.”

Cam doesn't seem horrified, turn away, or take his eyes from my face. He doesn't run or get angry. He does none of the things I expect. Instead, he steps forward and speaks.

“If so, your methods of killing are seriously ineffective.”

Now I blink, and the corner of his mouth lifts a little. I can't help but laugh, and when I do, it feels so good. He laughs, too, and we're both laughing. The irony hits me and I'm clutching my stomach because I can't stop. We're sitting in my apartment with a closet full of knives, my shoulder is bleeding, I almost stabbed Cam, some psycho is stalking me, and we can't stop laughing. It's so inappropriate—so twisted and dark and beautiful.

A full minute passes before we can breathe again. When the laughter is gone, I can see in Cam's eyes what is left—pure fear. Reaching out, he pulls me to his chest and wraps his arms around me. They crush me against him so hard it almost hurts and at once makes me whole in a way I've never been. It's like his embrace is the only thing holding me together. Without his arms, I'd shatter. The tension in me unwinds like a spring kept tight for way too long. Part of me wants to hold as tight to him as he is to me, the other part wants to push him away and escape. I do neither. Instead I focus my energy on trying to understand his reaction.

Could it be possible? After everything he knows, he doesn't think I'm a monster? The idea is as sweet as the sunlight on my first day out of the attic—surreal. But that's the point. It isn't real. Right now, when he's afraid for me, he can see past it. But on a different day, with no danger lurking around the corner, he couldn't. And I can't see past that.