Page 5 of Rescued By Midnight

I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. It’s probably hard to say, when you were grabbed during your run, or when that psychopath took you and held you in captivity for a year. But when you were taken isn’t too wordy. He could’ve said that.

I stare at his profile, at his wispy blond hair that won’t sit still on his head. It’s always fluttering like some kind of slimy sea creature moving in the ocean’s current.

Suddenly disgusted, I look down at myself. The dark yellow sweatpants and sweatshirt I’m wearing came from the local discount store, as well as a pair of too-tight shoes. One of the nurses had urged Brayden to bring me some clothes before I was discharged. This is what he came up with. A urine-yellow sweatshirt and pants, and shoes that don’t fit.

He clears his throat. It’s the Brayden segue into any difficult conversation, so I can already see where this is going. “We should probably talk.”

“Right.” I don’t want to talk about anything. I don’t want to talk about the kidnapping. I don’t want to talk about why I need a new phone.

But any of that is easier than talking about his relationship with Jericha. Their engagement. Their unborn baby. And that, obviously, is what he wants to talk about. The topic sits between us in the truck, like Jericha herself could be perched on the gear shift like a manic, pregnant Tinker Bell.

“You have to understand, Alice, that I thought you were dead.”

Thought, or hoped? I don’t speak the question out loud. He never liked it when I talked back to him.

He continues, “But I really want to work things out?—”

“Sorry,” I say, because I should always apologize if I interrupt. “Sorry, but can we talk about this later? I’m still very tired.” The doctors said that other than some vitamin deficiencies, I’m completely fine, physically. But they recommended major therapy, two to three times a week, for “as long as it takes.”

I will probably be in therapy forever.

“Sure.” He clears his throat again. He really does remind me of a frog. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. “Of course.”

“The only thing I need to know is whether she’s staying at our house right now. Are you taking me home to your and my house, or to your and Jericha’s house?” I feel sick to my stomach, just thinking about it.

“Our house,” he says. “Yours and mine. She isn’t living there, Alice. You don’t need to worry.”

But I am worried. And as I step into what I used to call my house, I should be worried. There are signs of her everywhere. I know for a fact that Brayden didn’t haul his ass to Home-Sweet and buy a new welcome mat. He would’ve left the old one at the front door until it faded and crumbled. He wouldn’t have replaced the curtains in the kitchen, or switched out my carefully-embroidered hand towels for those deep purple ones.

For heaven’s sake, her jacket is on a hook in the entryway.

Speechless, I remove my shoes by the door. I line them up perfectly, side by side, before walking upstairs. Instead of going to our bedroom, I step into what should’ve been our baby’s nursery, had I ever gotten pregnant.

They completed the nursery. The walnut crib I’d picked out is assembled and arranged off to the side. The walls are painted a soft, sage green. Matching bedding has already been placed in the crib, along with a sage green, plush teddy bear.

This is a room for a baby who will never be mine.

I fall to my knees on the floor, staring around, wondering if I’ll ever breathe again.

“Alice?” Brayden’s heavy footsteps come up the stairs.

I scramble to my feet and back out of the nursery, blood pumping in my ears. I am perfect. I am calm. I am poised. I am untouchable, pristine, pure.

I stride across the hall to the master bedroom. Even this room looks different. There’s bright floral bedding that I never would have chosen. A self-help book about “claiming your rights as a pious woman” sits on the nightstand. Walking over, I pick it up and turn to face Brayden. He gapes at me from the doorway.

“Did you even change the bedsheets?” I drop the book back on the nightstand to emphasize my point.

“Uh.” His mouth opens and closes. He is such a toad. “Jericha changed them.”

“I’ll sleep downstairs.” I go to my dresser and open it to get clean underwear and pajamas.

Strange clothes appear before me. Silky lingerie, lace. The kinds of things Brayden never wanted me to wear because my boobs are too big and they made me “look like a whore.”

These aren’t my clothes. They’re hers.

I blink back tears. No freaking way will I cry in front of Brayden. He no longer feels safe. Maybe he never did. I am poised, perfect, and I can handle this on my own.

“Oh.” He comes up behind me, so close I can feel his body heat and smell his sweat. “We—I mean, I—donated your clothing. I’m sorry I gave up on finding you, Alice. We’ll get you some new clothes, whatever you want.”