Before I can saw through the zip tie with the screw, Du Pont turns down a long gravel road, which bounces me around in the back of the van like the last kernel in a popcorn machine. I think every inch of my body is going to be bruised by the time we stop. I cling tight to the screw with my sweaty fist, not wanting to lose it.
I can’t see out the back of the windowless van, but I know we’ve been driving in a straight line down some highway for hours, and now we’ve turned off onto this side road that definitely isn’t paved. We must be in the middle of nowhere.
At last, the van rolls to a stop and Du Pont gets out. I hear his crunching footsteps coming around the side of the van. He opens the back doors, seizes me by the ankle, and hauls me out.
He sets me down outside the van, barefoot on the gravel. One of my strappy sandals came off while he was driving, and I kicked off the other, thinking that bare feet were better than heels. The rough stones poke my feet and the ground feels cold. It’s still night, but the sky is beginning to get that gray hue that shows that dawn isn’t far off.
Du Pont looks me over, expressionless. He has a strange sort of face. Not bad looking—in fact, in many ways he should be handsome. He’s got a lean, symmetrical face. A straight nose, thin lips, blue eyes. But there’s a fire in his eyes that reminds me of preachers and zealots, and people who bring up conspiracy theories whenever they’ve had a drink or two.
“Thirsty?” he says.
His voice is like his face. Low, soft, almost pleasant. But fizzling with a strange energy.
Dante’s voice, while rough enough to send shivers over my skin, always has the ring of honesty. You know that he means what he says. Du Pont is the opposite—I don’t trust anything that comes out of his mouth.
Like this offer of water. I don’t want to drink anything he gives me—it could be drugged or poisoned. But my mouth is parched from all the crying I did in the bathroom right before Du Pont grabbed me. My head is throbbing and I really do desperately need a drink.
Du Pont can tell, without me saying anything.
“Come on,” he urges. “Can’t have you passing out.”
He uncaps a water bottle and approaches me. Without meaning to, I shuffle backward over the rough path, not wanting him to get so close to me.
Du Pont smirks, grabbing me by the shoulder and holding the water bottle to my lips. He watches as I take a few hesitant gulps. Some of the water leaks out and runs down the sides of my mouth, down my chin, dripping onto my bare chest and down the front of my dress.
Du Pont just watches, making no move to help mop it up.
“Better?” he says.
The water tastes heavenly, despite being lukewarm from the long drive in the van. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of relief or gratitude.
Du Pont turns around and closes the van doors. He’s pulled the van into a little offshoot between the trees—not a road, but a cubby of sorts. Now he’s tugging something over the whole van. It looks almost like a big fishing net, covered in leaves and moss. He throws a couple branches on top, and the van becomes camouflaged, enough that you’d drive right past it without noticing.
While Du Pont is fucking around with the net, I’ve got the screw out and I’m madly sawing at the last bit of plastic holding the zip-tie together. Finally it snaps. The second it does, I sprint off down the road. I’m running full out, ignoring the rough ground cutting my feet. With my hands free, I pump my arms, using the full length of my legs, not allowing myself to notice how stiff and sore I am from the long ride in the back of the van.
I’m a good runner. I regularly do eight miles on the treadmill. I’m fast and I can go a long time.
And right now, I’m fueled by the adrenaline coursing through my veins like battery acid. I might be running faster than I ever have in my life.
I can’t waste a second looking back, but I think I’m getting away. I don’t hear anything behind me. Maybe Du Pont is trying to clear off the van, so he can turn it around to chase after me. As soon as I hear the engine, I’m going to leave the road and run into the woods.
That’s what I’m thinking when he slams into me.
He tackles me to the ground, taking out my knees and wrapping me up in his arms so we crash down together, my arms already pinned to my sides and my legs trapped in between his.
It’s almost gentle, the way he takes me down. He makes sure I don’t hit my head, or skin my face raw.
I don’t know how the fuck he caught up to me like that—silently, without me even knowing he was closing in. He leapt on me like a lion, overpowering me instantly.
I shriek and struggle, trying to wrench my way out of his arms. It’s impossible. They’re locked around me like steel. I start to sob, because I realize that’s how it’s going to be when he lets me loose. He’s faster and stronger. He’s going to kill me so quickly that I won’t even see it coming.
I can smell his aftershave and the light scent of his sweat. I hate it. I hate being this close to him. I hate being touched by him.
Du Pont doesn’t seem to mind it at all. He lays there, holding me as tightly and tenderly as a lover, until I stop struggling. Then he stands, hauling me up too.
“Don’t do that again,” he says. “Or I won’t be so gentle next time.”
He pushes me back down the path, forcing me to walk ahead of him. We trudge along. It seems to take forever just to reach the place where the van is hidden. Then he keeps me walking, over several miles of stony ground. The road turns into a path. The path becomes steep and winding.
Eventually we come to a cabin. It looks like it was cozy and woodsy once—made of logs, with tight, even shingles over the roof. There’s a little porch out front, with a single window next to the door. I see a water pump standing in the yard.
Du Pont pushes me inside.
“Sit,” he says, pointing to a dusty old couch.
I sit down on it.
Du Pont picks up a large metal tub and a kettle, and goes outside for a second. While he’s gone, I look wildly around for something useful. A knife or a gun, or even a heavy paperweight. There’s nothing—the cabin is practically empty. Thick dust blankets every surface. Cobwebs hang across the window and rafters. It’s obvious that no one has been here in a long time.
I can hear the pump working next to the house.
Du Pont returns, lugging the metal tub and kettle. He sets the tub down in the middle of the floor, and the kettle on the hopper. Then he strikes a match, setting a fire inside the grate.
I can feel the heat spreading out from the hopper almost at once. It makes me realize that I was shivering on the couch, my arms wrapped tight around my body. I’m only wearing the skimpy cocktail dress, nothing else, and it’s cold out here in the woods.
Du Pont leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me.
He’s silent and still.
I don’t like the look of the metal tub full of water. I’m afraid he’s going to use it to torture me—holding my head under the water until I tell him whatever he wants to know.
Instead, Du Pont waits for the kettle to boil, then he dumps it into the cold water in the tub, warming it up. He pours in some powdered soap, swishing it around with his hand to mix it in.
“Get in,” he says.
I stare at him.
“W—what?” I say.
“Get in the tub. Wash yourself,” he orders.
He holds out a washcloth, threadbare but reasonably clean.
I don’t want to get in the tub. But I know he can force me to do it, if I refuse.
I walk over to the tub, planning to wash my face and hands.
“Take off your clothes,” he barks.
I pause beside the tub, my stomach churning.
Slowly, I reach behind me and unzip the dress. I slip it off, stepping out of it. Then I take off my underwear, too.
Du Pont watches me, eyes bright but face totally still.
I step into the tub. It’s too small for me to sit down, so I have to stand.
“Wash yourself,” Du Pont orders again, holding out the washcloth.
I take the cloth. I dip it into the water and start using it to soap down my arms.
“Slower,” Du Pont says.
Gritting my teeth, I slowly wash my arms, shoulders, chest, belly, and legs.
Du Pont instructs me how to do it. He tells me to wash between my fingers and toes, between my thighs, even the bottom of my feet. The water is reasonably warm, and the soap smells fresh and clean, like laundry detergent. But it’s incredibly uncomfortable doing this under his eye, especially because I’m still shivering, standing out of the water, and my nipples are hard as glass.
Just when I’m hoping it’s over, Du Pont tells me to turn around. He takes the cloth and he starts washing my back.
The tenderness with which he scrubs me is utterly disturbing. The cloth slides lightly over my skin, making my flesh crawl. At least he doesn’t touch me with his hands—only the washcloth.
He slides the cloth down between my ass cheeks, and I jerk away from him, jumping out of the tub.
“Don’t touch me!” I snap. “If you try to . . . if you try to do anything to me, I’ll fight you. I’ll bite you and claw you and hit you, and I know you’re stronger than me, but I’m not going to stop. You’ll have to kill me right now, and spoil all your psycho plans.”
Du Pont looks amused.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Simone,” he says, in a bored tone. “You’re exactly right. That would spoil all the fun. I want you in your best condition for the hunt.”
I don’t know how he can say those words with such a calm, pleasant expression on his face. His thin lips are turned up at the corners in a hint of a smile.
“Get dressed,” he says. “Then you can have something to eat.”
He holds out a dress to me. Not the one I was wearing before—this one is light cotton, loose and soft. It’s pure white. I shudder as I pull it over my head. I know why he chose this—it will be like a white flag in the woods. Giving away my position wherever I go.
Du Pont takes a loaf of French bread out of his duffle bag. He tears it in two, holding out half to me.
“Eat,” he says.
