It’s at the tip of my tongue. Some memory that I can almost grasp but not quite. I can almost hear the words coming out of my mouth. It’s something I said before. To somebody else. In the past.
I think Graham is secretly drugging me.
That white film at the bottom of my glass. Why is there a white film in my glass? It was just water. Wasn’t it?
Graham is drugging me, Harry. Every night. You’ve got to help me. Please.
“Tess?”
Graham is staring across the table at me. There’s concern in his blue eyes, but there’s also something else. Something menacing.
I think of the digits scribbled on my arm. The person who contacted me this morning to warn me about him. Harry. It wasn’t just my imagination. Those messages were real. Now I understand why Graham took my phone away.
“I’m going to get more water,” I blurt out.
Before he can protest, I jump out of my seat and stumble to the kitchen. I nearly trip over my right foot, but I make it there. Graham disappeared into the kitchen with my phone. It’s got to be in here somewhere. And once I find it, I can call for help.
I open drawers haphazardly. I’m not even attempting to close them again. What’s the difference? He’s going to know what I’ve been doing. He’s going to know it when he sees the phone. My only chance is to find it before he comes looking for me. And I’ve got to call the number on my arm. And hope Harry picks up.
Or maybe I should just call 911.
“For God’s sake, Tess, what the hell are you doing?”
Graham is standing at the entrance to the kitchen, his eyes wide behind his glasses. I yank open the drawer in front of me and look down, hoping my phone is inside. But it’s mostly just rubber bands and pens.
“Tess?”
Ziggy is scraping at the back door. But he can’t get in, and I can’t get out, because the door is locked from the inside.
“I asked you a question, Tess.” He arches an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” My words are so slurred, it surprises me. Even if I found my phone and called for help, anyone would think I had a severe brain injury. And Graham has the paperwork to prove it. Nobody would believe my story. “I was just…”
“Time for bed,” he says firmly. “You need to go to bed right now.”
My eyes dart around the kitchen, trying to figure out my next move. My options are limited. I have no phone. No way to escape this house. What can I do?
“I… I need the bathroom,” I say. Graham grunts. “Fine. Go.”
I turn away from the kitchen counter. But before I do, I grab a pen from the drawer and stuff it into my pocket.
Once I’m inside the bathroom, I consider locking myself in here. But I’m not sure what that would accomplish, and anyway, it looks like Graham has had the foresight to remove the lock. He could come in here anytime he wants. Which means I don’t have much time.
I pull up the sleeve of my sweater. The number I scrawled on it has partially been rubbed off so that I can no longer make out the digits. Even though it kills me, I have to wash the rest of it off with soap and water. If I put on a T- shirt to sleep in, the numbers will be visible. I can’t let Graham see it.
If I leave myself a message, it has to be somewhere he won’t see.
I remember the word I found on myself this morning, on my upper thigh above where my oversized T-shirt ended. Find. I hadn’t had a chance to see it before the shower washed it away. But clearly, Graham hadn’t seen it—leaving a message for myself there may be my best shot. I’ll have to keep it short. And I’ll have to hope that tomorrow morning I see the message before I wash it away.
My hands are shaking. Writing on my skin is difficult, especially since whatever Graham laced my water with is hitting me hard. I can hardly even keep my eyes open, much less write legibly. But I’ve got to try. Everything depends on this.
There’s a knock on the door. “Tess? Are you okay?” “Just a second!” I call back.
I finish writing what I need to say. The words are small, but I can read them. I can only hope that I’ll see them before they wash away in the shower tomorrow. I toss the pen in the garbage and yank my pants up just before Graham bursts through the door.
