Until Her (Sequel)

chapter twenty

"Do you know why you're here, Chloe?" he quizzed. The rasp of his voice made it sound like he had been smoking a pack a day. I shook my head, too shocked at my surroundings to respond. He folded his hands together, chuckling. He bent down in front of me, resting on his toes. His teeth were rugged and brown, his skin was blotchy and dirty.

"Didn't you finish the book?" he arched a brow. I hadn't finished the book. Life had gotten back to normal and I wasn't at home as much, and the less I thought about Cole the better I felt. My eyes gave him his answer, and an impish smile covered his face.

"Oh my. You didn't finish it, did you?" he could barely get his sentence out without laughing. I wanted to smack that arrogant face. Like the flip of a switch, his face turned to burning anger. He leaned in closer and gritted his teeth. "I asked, did you finish the book?"

My hair fell in waves in front of my face. The thin veil it created was the only sense of comfort I had. I shook my head slowly, and he went back to laughing.

"Then I guess you never knew the ending, did you?" when I didn't respond, he continued. "Honestly, after all the digging that you and your little friend Heidi did, you never predicted the ending? You never knew what I was up to?"

I was getting angrier by the second, partially due to pregnancy hormones but also because of his arrogance. How did he know so much, and how was I oblivious to all of it?

I could tell my silence was irritating him. He yanked his phone from his pant pocket and began dialing, staring at me with a grimace on his face. Finally, he shook his head solemnly, hanging up his phone. Clearly whoever he was trying to reach was unavailable. Instead, he raced to his bag and dug through the belongings. When his hands gripped tightly onto his book, I had no idea what he'd do next.

"You know what, Mrs. James? You're not worth it. Not yet." He sent the book flying across the floor, screeching against the concrete and hitting my knee. I jumped, certain he'd use the book to hurt me, but now I wasn't sure.

"Read the book." He spat. I ignored him. I folded my hands against my stomach and prayed instead.

"Read the fucking book!" he commanded.

I wanted to question him why, and ask a million other things, but I'd have to obey him...for now. Until Carter could find me. Until the police were involved... I don't know. With shaking fingers, I picked up the book and found the chapter I read last. My mind couldn't focus on anything else but my and the baby's safety, but I forced myself to remember where I left off.

Ah, that's it. The little boy was plotting his escape from his abusive foster parent's home. In the rare times he was permitted to leave the house, he walked around the decrepit neighborhood and drew a map. He ripped up the remaining t-shirts he had to create a rope that would eventually lower him from his second-story window and to freedom. The map got him to a train station, where he spent twenty dollars—money he'd stolen from his foster father's wallet just before escaping—to go to the nearest group home.

The story flashed forward ten years. The little boy turned eighteen, he was finally out of the foster care system, and he delivered newspapers for a living. After all those newspapers he'd handled, he decided he wanted to write them one day. He went out to the city to become a writer, but it was only there that he found his true destiny.

What? I questioned, fifty more pages in. My mind was buzzing in fear as I watched him crunch loudly on an apple, waiting for me to finish the book. My eyes were blurred from holding back tears and they were beginning to burn. My body hurt, my stomach was begging for food, and my baby must feel so abandoned. I rubbed my belly, quietly telling him that he'd be ok. I hoped he would, at least.