Hunted

Chapter Three

Cherokee Falls, South Carolina
Five Days Later

Sunlight glared through the window, waking me up from my uneasy slumber.

I opened my eyes, blinking blearily in the light of the setting sun. My hands were still handcuffed together, but I lifted them both to rub at a sore spot beneath my brow. My driver didn't so much as twitch at the movement, his dark gaze focused on the road ahead as he flicked his cigarette out of the open window.

The scent of menthol made my stomach roll.

It had been nearly a week of traveling between small towns, never stopping in a single location for longer than a day. My still unnamed kidnapped appeared to be of the paranoid sort and it made our trip through South Carolina difficult. It didn't help matters that I spent the time shoved in the floorboard of the small cop car and gagged.

I'm sure it could have been worse. I'd read enough stories to have an understanding of the cruelty men could commit. In fact, the first few days of my entrapment were spent in a never-ending cycle of worry, constantly waiting for the strange man to force himself upon me and hurt my soul in unspeakable ways. When the fourth day came and went, a bit of the overwhelming terror faded, but it never ceased.

I was always waiting for him to strike, to hurt me.

It had begun to wear on my psyche in ways I hadn't thought imaginable.

My personality had never been brash. I'd always skirted the line between polite and meek. But these days, something boiled within me. Rarely had I experienced anger, but I knew that this had to be the sensation. It was an emotion that I distasted, reminding me too much of mother's outbursts.

Yet, I couldn't stop it.

Everyday I spent tucked into the floorboard, aching and silenced, the anger grew. It festered and stewed at the thought of the man who'd kidnapped me, the judicial system that allowed for his betrayal to be committed, for my father to lie about my existence, and for those years spent being tortured by a woman who apparently had never given birth to me.

My resentment soon came to be my only company.

It made me think that if there was such a thing as an opposite to stockholm syndrome, it would be this.

Moving my gaze away from my kidnapper, I stared out the tinted back window. Trees flittered by erratically, but there were no buildings to be seen. I could only assume we'd retreated to the country roads. He tended to do that often, always wary of being in populated locations even if it was just the highway.

My kidnapper was smart. No matter how much I detested him, I could admit he was skilled in his trade.

The only gas stations we'd frequent were the trucking outposts dotted along long stretches of highways. Even during these stops, he never let me out. He'd fill the tank, grab a few items from inside, and then we'd be off again. As such, bathroom breaks were sparse. He'd only allow for me to exit when we were secluded enough for his comfort.

Often this found us in deeply wooded areas, similar to where we were now.

The trees outside of the window began to slow and I tilted my head in his direction, watching as his jaw flexed. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel and I zeroed in on the pale patch of skin where a wedding ring must have once rested.

"You've been out for a few hours," he didn't talk to me often, but hearing his voice always sent a chill through me, "Gonna pull over here and you can do your business. Don't try nothing."

I barely resisted the urge to grimace at the pointless threat.

As long as that gun rested on his hip, I'd never have the chance.