How to Knit a Love Song (31 page)

He’d scared her that night, and no matter how she felt about someone, she knew it wasn’t right to be scared. Eliza had taught her better than that.

Abigail ended it with Samuel. A broken heart was better than a broken face. She called herself enlightened and congratulated herself through her tears.

Then he started following her.

Abigail had made a police report about it, of course. She’d even gone to court and obtained a restraining order. The piece of paper said he couldn’t make physical or verbal contact with her, and that he had to stay a hundred feet from her, but it didn’t stop him from being there, at every turn she made, a hundred and one feet away. The grocery store. The bank. The movies.

She learned there was nothing like fear to mend a broken heart.

Abigail called the cops anyway, every time. Just to be on the safe side. When they arrived, he drove away, smiling and waving at her. There was nothing the cops could do.

She found pink roses on her car’s windshield almost every morning, even when it was locked in the garage.

She changed the locks on her doors.

One night she’d come home from visiting Eliza, and as soon as she’d entered, she knew he’d been there. There was a feeling, a metallic twinge of electricity as soon as her door opened. Everything in the living room looked to be in place, but Abigail fled, pulling the door shut and running down the walkway. She got in her car, locked the doors, and called the police.

When they came, they cleared the apartment, making sure he wasn’t hiding, and then came out to her car, where she sat shaking. They told her that someone had turned her bedroom upside down. All her drawers had been upended, bookcases knocked over. The bed had been slashed with a kitchen knife, sliced through the duvet and sheets, down into the mattress. Pink roses lined the headboard.

Abigail nodded when they told her. She’d felt him there when she’d opened the door.

After she finished her statement, they escorted her into the apartment. They asked if she needed someone to stay with her while she packed a bag, but she said no, she’d be fine. She’d stay at a hotel tonight and get new locks and an alarm tomorrow.

After they left, she pulled out her suitcase. She wished for the first time for a gun. Or a dog. Maybe she’d get both. For now, what would make her feel better? A knife? No, she’d hurt herself. Something heavy that she could swing. The iron?

Abigail went to the tiny, narrow kitchen closet that housed both the ironing board and the iron. The small door was covered with a hanging tapestry that she loved. It was the only place the police must have missed. When she opened the closet, Samuel, wedged sideways inside, grinned at her and said, “Hello.”

Abigail spun and started to run, but he was faster than she was. He lunged out of the tiny space, the ironing board and iron crashing to the ground behind them. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled down, so hard that Abigail’s neck snapped backward. She lost her balance and fell. She hit her head as she went down and saw stars. She tried desperately to keep track of exactly where Samuel was, but he was on top of her before she could roll out of the way.

“I missed you, baby.”

“You’re fucking insane!” Abigail tensed her body under his. Everything she’d ever read about fending off attack flew through her mind. Don’t let him take her away from here. Don’t let him restrain her. Run.
Fight
.

Samuel used one hand to hold both her hands over her head. He was strong. His other hand held a gun, which he showed to her, holding it in front of her eyes. Then he pressed the muzzle to her temple, traced her eyelid with it, then moved it down her nose and to her mouth. He moved the cold metal against her lips. Gentle at first. Abigail kept her mouth closed.

“Open your mouth, lovely.”

She’d never seen him look like this. His eyes were dilated. He had to be on something. Abigail could see the blood vessels in his neck pulsing rapidly. Sweat ran off his forehead and hit her cheek. “Open.”

Not gentle anymore. The metal shoved against her mouth, and he used more pressure to force her lips apart. He scraped the gun on her teeth, until in sheer terror she let her jaw open. He pushed the entire barrel of the gun into her mouth, down her throat.

Abigail willed her legs to be still. She would need them. She tried not to choke, but she gagged against the barrel.

“That’s pretty, darling. That’s what I like to see. You’re a good girl. Will you keep being good for me?”

Abigail tried to nod, but the gun wouldn’t let her, so she tried to signal with her eyes that she would.

“What was that?”

Abigail moaned around the barrel.

Samuel licked his lips. He pulled the gun out of her mouth roughly. “Say it again.”

“I’ll be good,” she managed.

“You know I’ll shoot you, right? If you try anything, and I mean if you so much as look at me sideways, I’ll shoot you in the stomach, then in the legs. I don’t plan on killing you, but you never know. Tell me again you’re going to be good. If you’re good I’ll be nice.”

Abigail thought she might throw up. Hang on. Hold on. “I’ll be good.”

“How good?”

“Very good.”

Samuel’s eyes seemed to shiver in their sockets when she said it. “Say it again,” he whispered. Still on top of her, using his hips to hold her down, his arm still holding both her wrists, he ground against her pelvis.

Abigail tried something.

“So good. I’ll be so good for you. I’ll do anything for you.”

Yes, it happened again. When she spoke, Samuel looked like he got almost dizzy. Was it lust? Or something he was on? Maybe this was the weapon she needed.

It would have to be.

“Anything you want, Samuel. I want you.” Again, Abigail pushed down the bile that rose in her throat. Samuel ground his hips into her even harder.

“More,” he groaned. He ran the barrel of the gun across her cheek, down to her throat. He scraped it along her neck and then tapped her cheek with it, as if testing her.

“Mmmm,” she said. “I love that.”

Samuel’s eyes flared with something that made Abigail’s heart race even faster than it already was.

“Have you been bad?”

“So bad.” It was a gamble. She was gambling with her life. She couldn’t think of anything else. She gauged every word by the way he was shivering against her. If she was right, he was falling for it. If she was wrong, there was nothing she could do about it. “I’ll do anything for you.”

“Oh, God.” Samuel set the gun down and pushed it down by his leg. “Now don’t try anything funny. You’ve already been warned.” He put his hand against her face. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“I know,” Abigail said. She could do this.

He tapped her face. Touched her nose with the tip of his finger. Kissed her on the mouth, forcing his tongue past her lips. He tasted of meat and metal. Abigail struggled to breathe. She kept her legs still, so still.

Samuel sat up, just a little. He took a little of his weight off her hips. “What do you want?”

She looked into his eyes. Yes. She prayed to God this would work.

“In me. I want you in me. Please.”

Samuel’s eyes narrowed.

“It’s what I need.” Abigail tried to make her voice sound pleading. It seemed to convince him.

“You want it, I’ll give it to you, baby,” he said. “I’ve got what you need.” He released her wrists and both his hands went to his belt.

Time. The right time.

Abigail waited.

As he unbuckled his belt, she stayed perfectly still. “I want to see you,” she whispered.

Samuel shivered again. His hands moved to his fly. He undid the button. He lowered the zipper. He moved up, taking his weight all the way off her as he pushed his pants halfway over his hips. Pushing down his underwear with one hand, he reached to pull up her skirt.

Abigail exploded. Her knee came up, and she kneed his exposed groin with all her weight. The fingers on her right hand went for his eyes. She hit one; it felt fleshy and full as she stabbed. Her left hand formed a fist and she drove the knuckles into his neck, right into his Adam’s apple. As he folded forward in pain, she rolled out from under his now useless leg. She kept hitting and kicking whatever she could reach. She used her arms to scoot backward across the tile floor.

Samuel lunged after her, but she kicked him twice in the head so hard she heard something crack. He screamed. She felt the iron by her hand, where it had fallen earlier. She swung it in the best roundhouse she could manage from her half crouch. The sharp edge made sickening contact with his temple.

Samuel went still. His eyes, still open, unfocused as he fell forward. Blood poured from his head. Both his legs jerked spastically.

It was the last thing Abigail saw before she ran screaming from the house. She didn’t remember flagging down the next car, didn’t remember the call to the police, didn’t remember fainting.

When she came to, she was in the hospital, in a bed, covered by a white sheet. A very nice doctor told her she had to stay for a few hours, for shock. A very nice police officer told her that she’d done a great job, but that unfortunately, he’d gotten away. When they’d arrived, they’d found the pool of blood on the kitchen floor and nothing else. They’d even used their tracking bloodhound, but the dog had lost the scent five blocks away.

Abigail had stayed with Eliza for months after that. She never saw evidence of him. His SUV wasn’t around. She didn’t get any pink roses. The police told her they had a warrant out and they’d get him the next time he was pulled over for something. They’d keep her posted. He hadn’t been at work since it happened. They said he’d probably fled the state.

She moved back into her apartment two months later and installed a security system. Not long after that, Eliza had her heart attack, and weeks later Abigail moved to the ranch. It had been such a relief to stop looking over her shoulder. To stop being afraid.

There was no way he was here, now. If anything, he’d be scared of her. That’s what the cops said.

Abigail realized, suddenly, that she wasn’t in San Diego. She shook her head and her vision cleared. The porch. The bread and cheese in front of her. Waiting for Cade.

She reached for her wineglass and watched it tremble in her hand.

Clara whined and stretched. It was getting colder, fast. The sun had set and Abigail was freezing. Where was Cade? She craved seeing him, striding from his house, coming to see her, a grin on his face. She wanted his arms around her again.

She checked her cell phone. Seven twenty. She’d been out here on the porch for twenty minutes already.

At half past seven, she picked up the cheese plate so Clara couldn’t indulge. She went inside to check on the food. It was too damn cold out there anyway. Yes, she’d move the whole thing inside. She took the place settings and the glasses and wine inside and set them up at the project table, surrounded by wool.

Nicer in here anyway.

The food had cooled in the pan, and the pasta looked as if it was hardening. If, God forbid, she had to reheat it in her new microwave, she would. But no, Cade would be here any moment, wouldn’t he?

Abigail stood by the front door and waited. She saw a light turn on in the hall of the house, and then it went out, and then she saw the light in his room come on. Maybe he was changing.

Thirty minutes later, his light went out.

Ten minutes after that, she admitted to herself that it wasn’t just taking him a really long time to come over.

He wasn’t coming over.

She took Clara outside. God, it was bitter cold tonight. Freezing. She wrapped her arms around herself, glad for the alpaca sweater she was wearing.

She walked around the side of the house.

The note had been removed from the kitchen door. He’d seen it. He’d seen the invitation, and he hadn’t come, hadn’t even told her he couldn’t.

Or wouldn’t.

He would have known she had dinner waiting, must have known she would come to check the door and then walk back, alone, to the cottage. Was he watching her now, from a dark window? She wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

She dashed away tears.

The tears burned her cheeks as she threw out the entire dinner. She chewed a crust of the sourdough, but her appetite had disappeared.

She finally poured herself another glass of wine.

“Should have done this hours ago,” she said to Clara. “To Eliza. And this store. And to me. And to you, dog. But to no one else.” She lifted her glass and drank the wine like water.

Half an hour and two more glasses later, she stumbled tipsily to bed, where she undressed with the curtains closed. Then she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, dry-eyed and heartsick.

Chapter Thirty-two

Sometimes, though, the whole sweater will end up a disaster. When you sew it up and try it on, it doesn’t work, doesn’t fit, looks like the dog’s breakfast. Sometimes that’s just the way it goes.

—
E.C.

F
ive or ten grand. Five or ten
thousand
dollars.

Cade stomped around the pasture in the freezing air. First damn night of frost and it had to be the date three of his ewes were due to lamb, the first lambs of the season. He always lambed in November, to make the most of the Easter 4-H rush in spring, but this was the hardest part. Being out here in the cold. He’d hoped they’d birth before he went to bed, but there’d been no sign of lambs when he last checked.

What a shitty day. It had started off well, waking up with Abigail naked next to him. A good start. But then, at the diner, what Bonnie York had said—God, he could still barely get his mind around it.

Bonnie had fiddled with pouring cream in her coffee while she said, “I found spalling on the concrete. It’s kind of like a stain, shows where the fire burned the hottest and fastest. A liquid was poured there, and ignited. I can’t actually prove malice, so even though it might be arson, it’s classified as gross negligence, Cade. I’m sorry.” Cade had listened, his heart plummeting.