She looks at me with disgust. “I don’t know, Leeds. It’s hard to see what’s in the fridge when I’m tied to a bed.”

Her anger slips into my skin with the ease of a sharpened scalpel. It mixes with the guilt I feel for keeping her here, but Layla’s anger and my guilt combined still lack the capability to breach my conscience.

“I can make you a sandwich.”

“How about you untie me and I can make it myself?”

I leave her while I go downstairs to make her a sandwich. Turkey and cheddar, no onions, double the tomato. I don’t speak to the man while I make Layla her sandwich. I do have questions for him, but I’ll get to those later. I just want to tell him everything I know first. I want to get it over with.

When I’m back upstairs, I set the sandwich and the bag of Cheetos I brought Layla on the bed. I also made her a glass of wine, so I place that on the nightstand.

“I’ll untie you so you can eat, but don’t try to run this time,” I warn her. “You know it won’t work.”

She nods, and I can tell by the fear in her eyes that she doesn’t want to experience that again. In fact, I can probably trust that she was so terrified by what happened the last time she tried to leave that she doesn’t even need to be tied up. I doubt she’d even leave this bedroom willingly.

Unfortunately, I just can’t risk it. I need her here.

When the rope is off her wrists, she pulls her arms down and massages her shoulder. I feel bad that she’s sore, so I make room between her and the bed and I sit behind her. I rub her shoulders while she eats, wanting to ease some of her tension. She takes a small bite of her sandwich, then picks up a piece of tomato and lettuce that fell out onto the plate. She pops them both into her mouth and licks her fingers. Maybe she’s just hungry, but she looks like she’s actually enjoying this sandwich. It reminds me of how she used to tease me about my sandwich-making abilities.

“You used to hate my sandwiches.”

She shrugs. “People change,” she says between bites. “You also used to be a loving boyfriend who didn’t hold me hostage, but look at you now.”

Touché.

When her shoulders feel more relaxed, I leave her on the bed as I walk to the bathroom, trusting that Willow will stop Layla if she tries to escape again. I retrieve the first aid kit from beneath the counter, then walk back to the bed and apply antiseptic ointment to Layla’s wrists between her bites of food and sips of wine. I bought this first aid kit at a gas station on our way here several weeks ago. I had no idea how much I’d end up using it.

We don’t talk while she eats. The faster she eats, the better. I want to get these questions over with so we can start getting answers.

When she’s finished, I wrap her wrists with a roll of ACE bandage to ease the pain from the rope. “Do you want me to tie you to the other side of the bed now so you can lie on your other side?”

She nods, holding her arms out for me.

I hate myself for this. Especially after spending the last hour talking about what it was like to fall in love with her. Remembering the agony that rolled through me when I saw her on my living room floor.

And now I have to spend the next hour talking about what everything has been like after that night. The hospital stay, the recovery, what it did to our private lives. The months of guilt. The betrayal, the lies. How I’ve manipulated her. Not looking forward to this.

“Try to get some sleep now.”

She just nods this time. I think the exhaustion is getting to her.

I walk back downstairs, but the man isn’t in the kitchen anymore. I find him in the Grand Room. He’s moved the tape recorder to the piano, and he’s sitting on the bench. “Thought I’d change up the scenery a bit,” he says. I sit on the end of the couch closest to him, and he presses record again. “What happened after you were shot?”

“I called 911. Tried to keep Layla alive until they arrived. Then we were both taken into surgery.”

“And after that?”

I tell him what I can remember, which isn’t much. I woke up from surgery not knowing if Layla was even alive. I tell him about how I had to spend three hours in recovery with no word on her condition. I tell him about the agony of having to call her mother and sister to let them know what had happened, and the two hours I spent being interrogated while still not knowing if Layla had survived.

I tell him everything I can remember about the hospital stay, but none of it is all that important. Nothing about her survival or the recovery is nearly as significant as everything that started happening once we returned to the bed and breakfast.

“Why did you guys decide to come back here?”

“I wanted to get her out of Tennessee. Once her doctors gave her the all clear, I thought it would be good to get her away. And I know how much she loves this place.” I pause when I say that, and then I backtrack. “Well . . . how much she used to love it.”

“When did she stop loving it here?”

“I guess the day I brought her back.”

CHAPTER FOUR

I ate a strand of Layla’s hair this morning.

The thought crossed my mind that something as weird as eating your girlfriend’s hair could be the starting point to even weirder behavior. It could be a precursor to cannibalism, much like harming animals as a child is sometimes a precursor to becoming a serial killer.

But eating her hair was nothing more than a slightly creepy last-ditch effort on my part to try and absolve myself from all the guilt. I dreamt that swallowing a piece of her hair tethered us together somehow, eliminating any fear that we might someday grow apart because of everything that happened. So, when I woke up, I plucked a strand from her head while she slept and put it in my mouth.

That was eight hours ago, and it feels like the strand somehow found its way around my heart and cut off the blood supply.

My heart is choking.

That would make a good lyric.

I open my phone while we wait in line to board the plane, and I type my heart chokes on its own guilt into my notes, beneath several other dismal lyrics I’ve pulled from random thoughts.

My lyrics have really taken a depressing turn lately.

“Leeds,” Layla says, giving me a gentle nudge from behind. I’m holding up the line. I slide my phone into my pocket and head to our seats.

I packed very little for this trip. Two pairs of jeans, some shorts, a few T-shirts, and the engagement ring.

I tucked it into a sock and shoved the sock deep inside a pair of my running shoes. Layla has a separate suitcase, so there shouldn’t be a reason for her to dig through mine, but I don’t want her to find the ring. I bought it when she was still in the hospital. I knew it was premature, but I was overwhelmed with fears of the unknown. I thought buying the ring might put some kind of energy into the universe that would make her recover faster.

Her recovery has been better than expected, but I’ve yet to propose. She doesn’t even know I bought her the ring. I’m still not sure when I’m proposing because I want it to be perfect. It might not even happen on this trip, but I’d rather have the ring and not need it than need it and not have it.

I booked this trip because the last six months have been horrendous. It has taken a toll on us, emotionally and physically. I’m hoping going back to the place where Layla and I met will feel like a reset on our lives. I have this notion that if I take us back to the starting line, we’ll never cross the finish line.