I leashed her.
Now, sitting at my desk, hands on my keyboard as I methodically trace every single connection Kate and I have, I can’t explain—even to myself—why that seemed like a good idea. I wanted to keep her from hurting herself, but I could have done that by taking away her scalpels. I wanted to make her realize how serious this was, but I could have used my words. I wanted to keep her from fleeing…
And that’s exactly what she’s done.
It’s easy enough to activate the tracker on my car, locating it on the third floor of Parking Garage C at Reagan National. The airport’s crawling with security cameras I can hack into. Within an hour, I know Kate has two thousand dollars in cash. I can see the ticket she bought for Dublin, traveling through New York. Her phone’s somewhere over the Midwest, on a flight bound for San Francisco.
So I’m certain she isn’t going to Ireland or California. She didn’t rent a car, because even a cash transaction requires a credit card to secure the arrangement. She could have hired a cab, but that would eat into her two grand.
I start a search through Metro’s surveillance cameras. The subway stations are filled with observation points. I pull up a tried-and-true program I wrote five years ago, feed it Kate’s driver’s license photo and tell it to track her through the system.
That will take time.
Time for me to regret shattering my cold reserve.
Time for me to regret treating my sub like an animal.
Time for me to regret hurting my wife so badly she felt she had no option but to run.
Time.
48
KATE
On Tuesday morning, I take the subway out to Virginia, then a cab to one of the suburban big box stores. I buy a cheap laptop and a burner phone, nearly depleting my cash reserves.
Back in my manky motel room, I connect up to the spotty wi-fi. Online, I apply for three shady credit cards using fake names and addresses, accepting astronomical interest rates in exchange for my non-existent credit ratings.
My financial situation more-or-less secure, I force myself offline. I can’t risk going to any of the sites I usually visit—not just Winter Reckoning, but any other account I used while I was under Wolf’s roof. He can monitor all of them.
He’s the bad guy here. He’s the villain. I have to keep repeating that to myself.
But no matter what Wolf did last night—leashing me, gagging me, binding me—a tiny voice whispers at the back of my brain that I brought this on myself.
I lied.
I cut after promising I’d never take a knife to my thigh again.
I can’t be surprised Wolf punished me.
And just thinking the wordpunishedmakes me remember everything we’ve done in the dungeon downstairs. The cross he tied me to on our wedding night… The hook he suspended me from after that… The armoire with all its toys, all the ways Wolf knows to make me come…
I can’t live with him. He’s a vicious control freak who thinks he owns me.
I can’t live without him. In the short time since our wedding, he’s tamed my restless body.
I don’t know what to do. Where to go. How to choose tomorrow.
I’m lost.
49
COLE
My phone rings at a quarter past midnight. I hate that my pulse leaps, that hope makes my fingers clumsy as I scramble to snatch my cell off my nightstand. “Wolf,” I snap.
“Cocoa,” says my sister. A hot flush creeps up my cheeks—equal parts annoyance at the childish nickname, shame at having forgotten Nutmeg’s earlier call, and frustration that Kate isn’t on the other end of the line.