Devil's Lake (Bittersweet Hollow Book 1) (14 page)

What could she do?
She needed an idea. Fast
.

She started to soap up, and the water cooled even more.

“I told you to hurry.”

Freezing, she stuck her soaped up hair under the spray and rinsed it clean. With a gasp, she backed out of the cold spray and shut it off. “It’s ice cold!”

He laughed. “You’ll get used to it. That’s life in the woods. Now get out and dry off. Your new clothes are in the closet.”

She squeezed past him to get the towel, but this time he laid a hand on her backside, caressing it as she passed. He ogled her again. “Nice and clean. Doesn’t it feel good?”

With the towel tucked tightly around herself, she pasted on a fake smile and hurried into the bedroom toward the closet. Inside, she found a pile of new white cotton panties, old-fashioned nylons and a garter belt, and about a dozen 1950s nurses uniforms, complete with a few white caps on the top shelf and several pairs of old-fashioned white nurse shoes on the floor. No bras.

Stunned, she stared at the selection.
What the hell? Oh, God. He’s sicker than I imagined.

Now I have to pretend to be his nurse?

She hurried into the panties—two sizes too big—and then picked through the uniforms. Some were huge, size 3X. Others were closer to her own size eight. She found one that wasn’t too far off and quickly put it on. The white fabric was almost sheer, and she realized without her bra, he’d see her nipples.

My God. This is insane.

“Do you have any bras or slips? I think this will be cold.” She didn’t turn toward him, but searched for some socks.

She found him in the chair by the door, lustfully watching her. “No bras. You don’t need them. It’s summer. And put on the garter belt and nylons.”

With a shivery sigh, she did as he said, then slid into a pair of white size seven shoes that actually fit.

The previous woman must’ve been huge. The other pair looked like clown shoes.

What had he done to her? Killed her? Was she buried outside the cabin in the woods?

She finished tying her shoes. “Were there other girls before me?”

He ignored her. “Put on the cap.”

She perched the cap on top of her head, but realized it wouldn’t stay without pins.

“Bobby pins are in the top drawer of the dresser.”

God, he thought of everything, didn’t he?

She found them, clipped the cap to her hair, and turned to him. “I’m done.”

He didn’t respond, but instead unzipped his jeans and began to stroke himself. “Very nice. You’ll do very nicely for me. Just stand still. Don’t move.”

She closed her eyes while he finished his business. Quaking inside, she held onto the bedpost for balance.

Maybe this is all he’ll do?

Maybe he’s a voyeur.

Maybe he won’t touch me.

God, please. Let it be so.

Chapter 31

T
he days blurred and the weeks marched forward, filled with back-breaking work and humiliation.

It’s not enough that he wants me to be his slave.

Portia moved forward another foot on the cold linoleum floor, scrubbing it with a stiff brush and a bucket of lukewarm water with borax cleaner.

No, more than anything, he’s reveling in the power he holds over me. That’s what he enjoys.

“No lollygagging there, missy.” He laughed from his chair in the living room, cutting out yet another article about her disappearance to plaster on the wall beside him.

Lollygagging?
She hadn’t heard that term since her grandfather used it when she was little.

Her mind wandered as she fulfilled her Cinderella role, bare knees already sore from the constant rubbing on the floorboards.

Why is he like this? What turned him into such a Nazi?

Was it his childhood? Was he made to clean like this? Was he a slave, too?

Or maybe it was his mother? They always blame the mothers, don’t they?

And who was the nurse that caused such a fetish in him?

Portia pulled down the horrible white dress to try to cover herself. She knew he was watching. Enjoying the show.

Was his mother a nurse?

Or was there some nurse in his past who’d cared for his mother or father in a hospital, and maybe screwed up? Maybe killed them because of a medical error?

It happened sometimes.

Was he bent on revenge and harbored an equally sick lust for nurses since then?

She really wanted to know, but there were so few personal items in the cabin she couldn’t learn much about him. There must be another home. Somewhere where he grew up, where a real family had kept things like photo albums, tax records, and crocheted afghans.

And where did he get his money?

Clearly, he had enough cash to buy food and keep the generator filled with gas. He bought supplies on a weekly basis, he’d told her. And today he was planning to go out to do just that.

Where, she didn’t know. For how long?

She had no idea.

But Portia couldn’t wait to get rid of him. She’d learned to despise him so quickly, she didn’t know she was capable of such strong, hateful emotions. It surprised her, frankly. But in her head, with all the analyzing that was going on full speed all day long, she didn’t blame herself.

How could she?

Anyone would react like this. Wouldn’t they?

Sure, she used to get furious at Grace, especially when she hurt her mother and father. But that was family. And beneath it all, she still loved her deeply.

But this guy. Oh, no. It was different.

She seethed with anger.

They’d eaten pretty well for the past few days, with her cooking for him. But the food was starting to run out, and if he didn’t replenish the larder soon, they’d be eating pinecones.

She watched him using the scissors to carefully cut out the articles.

The scissors.

If only she could see where he hid them when he was done.

Maybe she could jump him when he came back. Hide behind the door. Surprise the hell out of him.

She smiled.

“What’s so funny?” he growled, getting up and stomping toward her.

Pasting yet another fake smile on her face, she looked up at him, but didn’t stop scrubbing. “Oh. Nothing. Just remembering a funny T.V. show.”

“What show?” He nudged her with his foot. “You’re lying. You were laughing at me, weren’t you?”

“No, I swear. It was a Lucy episode. The one where she and Ricky—”

He kicked her hard in the stomach, knocking her sideways. “You’re lying.”

On the floor, she curled in a ball, away from him.

Three more swift kicks, this time to her back and legs.

Stop. Stop. Stop!

Crying, she tried to take herself out of the moment. Pictured Bittersweet Hollow. Her family. Her horses.

Just don’t think about it.

“Get back to work, you whore.”

Whore? Now she was a whore?

She painfully pulled herself back to her knees, afraid not to obey him. There, on the table by the chair, lay the scissors.

Could she do it? Could she actually stab another human being?

Damn right she could.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him shuffle back to the chair, sit heavily in it again.

“I’ll be gone for a while, so make your food last, sugar.”

She almost didn’t ask, but found the courage. “How long?”

He smirked. “Why? You gonna miss me?”

She didn’t say a word, just kept scrubbing, definitely
not
smiling. She’d have to watch that in the future. Now she could add paranoid to his list of problems.

He grunted when he tucked the scissors into his jacket pocket. “I don’t know. Depends.”

“Okay.” Like the good little hearth maid, she kept moving the brush in steady circles. Around and around and around. Dip in the water. Slosh water on floor. Around and around and around.

I’m going mad.

He took out a set of keys, unlocked the chest he used for a coffee table, and stowed the scissors inside. Firmly, he locked the lid and pocketed the keys.

Damn. She should have noticed him opening it earlier, but she’d been cleaning the bathroom when he started.

I have to get those scissors.

Chapter 32

“
I
’m leaving now, sugar.”

Portia sat back on her heels, the brush still in her hands. She didn’t smile. Didn’t say a word. Just sat there with lowered eyes like the obedient little beetle he wanted her to be.

“What? No goodbye kiss?” Laughing, he grabbed a knapsack and fished his key ring out of his pocket, where it seemed to stay all day, every day. “Okay. Maybe next time.”

Portia watched as he pulled one big silver key from the ring and inserted it in the front door padlock.

Click.

Freedom beckoned.

She felt it in her gut, its call was primeval, almost, and it was all she could do to keep herself from surging toward him, screaming with arms flailing.

Let me out!

Her brain shrieked the words, but she sat still, her face impassive. 

Bide your time, honey.

It was her father’s voice she heard in her head. He counseled her, soft and steady. He loved her. He knew she could get out of here.

Didn’t he?

For a moment, she crossed into a world of self-comfort that bordered on crazy. Nervous, she shook her head and tried to focus.

Would she go insane? Was it nuts to hear her father giving her advice?

No.

No, it was okay.

Whatever it took to get her through this, she would use it.

The monster left the house, and she heard a click on the outside.

Another padlock, just like the one on the inside? Same key?

Her mind raced. She jumped up from the floor and ran to the windows, peeking through the crack.

There he went. The old truck tires spit dirt as he bumped onto the trail and drove away.

He’s gone.

She felt oddly elated, as if him leaving gave her freedom. But of course, she was still locked inside the damned cabin.

Maybe she could get those scissors out now, work at that lock on the chest. Or pry at the window boards some more.

With renewed energy, she stood, pulling down the hem on the ridiculous 1950’s nurse uniform.

She still wondered about his obsession with nurses. And why such a clownish costume?

Wait. Could it be a Halloween costume? It felt like it had been designed to titillate, not for utilitarian service. That’s probably why the hem was so short and the neckline plunged. He’d bought the damn outfits at a party store, she was sure of it.

But why were there so many different sizes in the closet? They went from her size all the way up to plus sizes. It didn’t make any sense.

Shrugging, she stepped away from the chink in the boarded up window, where she had been staring at the sparkle of the lake through the trees.

Oh, to be able to step into that cool liquid. To immerse herself in the velvety softness of lake water. To swim, stroke after stroke, away. Away, away, away. To land on a far shore and run for help.

She wondered what the lake was called. Lake Serene? Lake Pleasant? Silver Lake?

And now, an aching urge hit her. She wanted home, yearned to go home to The Hollow, to her quiet, comfortable pink-curtained room, to her family’s big kitchen that always had food in the cupboards, and to see her favorite horses.

She thought about Mirage, the black Morgan stallion who had been producing prize-winning colts for three years straight. He was unusually gentle for a stallion. She’d even ridden him out into the foothills of the Green Mountains without concern. She was certain it was that steadfast Morgan bloodline, the calm and serene personality bred through his ancestors for decades that produced the beautiful, strong, gentle horses.

Unpinning the nurse’s cap from her hair, she combed her fingers through it, luxuriating in the feel of being freer, but trying to ignore the stickiness of yellow soap residue that she never could get rid of because the hot water ran out so darned fast.

She placed the pin and cap on the sink in the bathroom. When she heard him drive in, she’d run into the room and pin it on her head again.

So, now to business.

Walking with purpose, she approached the coffee table chest and knelt before it. Feeling giddy suddenly, she almost wanted to clasp her hands together and pray for success, as if it were an altar.

She laughed out loud, glad he couldn’t hear her, and leaned over to examine the lock. The thing was old fashioned, like the kind of locks in doors that used skeleton keys. It reminded her of the lock on her mother’s grandfather clock. She peered inside, wishing she had a flashlight. Or some little tools, like those dentists used. Sharp. Pointy. Curvy? Anything to pry around in there.

How did they do it in the movies? They used one tool to hold some thingamajig away, while the other pried and twisted some other part.

She sighed, speaking aloud. “Goddamn it. I don’t know how to pick locks. I just need one humongous sledgehammer. Then I could smash the window and break out.”

She almost cried, but didn’t.

“Then again, if I had a sledgehammer, I could hit him with it. Really hard, right when he walked in the door.”

She lingered over that thought for a while, enjoying the image of herself bashing in his head. The realization sent her mind whirling. “Did I really just think that? And like the idea?”

Honestly. Who am I? Has he turned me into an enthusiastic murderer?

She turned to the mirror on the wall, watching her shadowy eyes focus on themselves.

Is that really me?

God, I look like hell.

For the next hour, she tried to find tools to unscrew the boards on the windows. Most of the screws wouldn’t budge no matter what she tried, although after twenty minutes on one screw, she worked it loose with the tip of a butter knife.