a walking disaster @chaoswithtaste - Tumblr Blog

Safe With Me

Pairing — Joel x female!reader

Multi-chap-fic – Dead To The world (2/?) ← previous

Summary

He needed to keep you safe. Knew that only he could and he knew too, that eventually, you would understand that too. That one day you wouldn't hate him anymore for ripping you out of your life and dropping you into the middle of his. Quite literally making you the centre of his world. All he needed to be, was patient. Because eventually, you would understand that he had no choice. That all of this, was just to keep you safe. And if Joel Miller had to learn one thing, it was to be patient.---You are no prisoner. Except you can't leave. Except you don't know where you are or how you got to—- wherever here was. But you are no prisoner. He was adamant of that.

Warnings

please mind these! +18 – mdni; no use of y/n for reader-insert psychological horror, domestic horror, descriptions of violence, dark!Joel, forced proximity, manipulation, captive/captor, obsessive behaviour, unspecified age gap, (eventual) Stockholm Syndrome, controlling behaviour, eventual romance, eventual smut, slow burn, Joel has a dog, reader has a cat, food struggles/struggling with food, (non)character death

a/n

thank you for your likes, reblog & comments <3 I'm happy y'all are as invested into this story as I am so here is the second chapter!! PLEASE be mindful of the tags! in this one reader struggles a lot with food of her circumstances,

word count: ~10k

as seen on archiveofourown.

Joel.

He heard the faint click of the bedroom door closing again.

No exploring then. Although knowing you, which he did, you’d wanted to head downstairs, not to flee, you were smarter than to run out into the cold and unknown, but to grab a knife. He was no fool, he’d rid your bedroom of any sharp objects for a reason. Not that he was generally concerned for his wellbeing, he could handle whatever attempts you might make easily. It was your wellbeing that concerned him. The off chance that you might hurt yourself in your attempt to come for him. Or worse, him hurting you.

That was the last thing he wanted.

God, the way you had looked at him when he’d gotten impatient over dinner. Fear etched into your features, eyes filled with tears you were too stubborn to let fall? He needed to be more careful. He needed to give you time to settle, to understand. That he had done all of this for you. For your safety. And he knew that eventually, you would.

If only he managed to be patient.

And if Joel Miller had learned to be one thing, then it was to be patient.

──────────

Your neck hurt. That was the first thing you noticed when you clawed your way back to consciousness.

Stiff muscles protested when you shifted against the bathroom cabinet behind you, the thin rug beneath you doing next to nothing to soften the tile floor.

Pepper was still curled against your stomach. Warm, heavy, purring faintly. The brush was still clutched tightly in your hand too.

Right.

Not a nightmare then.

A knock, muffled, distant but still loud and daunting made you flinch enough for Pepper to lift her head and blink at you, not without offence.

“Babygirl?” Joel. Of course, who else? You were trapped here with him. Your stomach turned immediately. “You alright in there?” You swallowed against the sudden nausea that gripped around your throat. “I’m gonna come—”

No! “I’m up!” You interrupted him. Too fast, too loud.

Silence followed and you held your breath. Waiting to hear him enter the bedroom and discover that you had slept in the bathroom. But instead… “Kay,” still muffled, still distant. “Time f’breakfast, alright?”

Food.

Your stomach lurched painfully at the memory of dinner. His fist slamming against the table. The sharp crack of his voice.

I said eat.

You squeezed the brush tighter in your hand.

“I— I’ll be down in a minute,” you called back, trying to calm your breathing, your voice. “Just— freshening up.” A lie. You wouldn’t fucking touch the products he had arranged exactly like you would on the counter, let alone take a shower. Not trusting that there weren’t any cameras hidden anywhere.

No, you were stalling. Buying yourself all the time you could before you needed to join him downstairs.

But eventually you need to leave the illusion of safety the bathroom provided with and you do; after splashing water in your face. With Pepper hot on your heels.

He was in the kitchen again, through the large windows you could see Titan outside, running along the fence. Parameter check, Joel had called it. As if anything could scale that wall of a fence or break through it… The dread that had moved in behind your ribs when you’d realised that the day before, was still there. Threatening to suffocate you for a moment.

“Mornin,” Joel greeted you, leaning against the counter beside the stove, a mug in his hand. “Figured’s better lettin’ ya decide what ya wanna eat,” he nodded towards the empty dining table. As if you cared. “So?” He prompted after a beat, when you hadn’t responded.

You weren’t hungry. Your stomach still queasy—- but Joel looked at you like he wouldn’t accept that. “Cereal?” Something safe and easy. For a moment Joel looked like he would argue. Nutritional values and whatnot.

Can’t live off of greasy take out and sugar forever, babygirl.

But then he nodded, grabbing two bowls from a cupboard. Your stomach twisted when he got your favourite cereal, the kind that was too sweet, too sugary, from the pantry.

He’d studied you, knew everything about you. That much became clear when he placed a latte spoon beside your bowl. Because you had the habit of choosing those, to eat cereal and even soup with.

And you knew fuck about him.

You didn’t even know how he knew all of this about you.

He didn’t join you at the table. At least not right away. Giving you time to pick at your food until he came over with a plate of cut up fruits. Apples, pears, grapes and strawberries, that he placed pointedly in front of you. Followed by a steaming mug.

Tea. Something herbal.

“No coffee?” You heard yourself ask.

“You drink too much caffein, babygirl.” Your insides twisted. “Gotta lower your intake.”

Right. Of course. He would control that aspect of your life now too.

You continued to pick at your food. Didn’t eat more than a few grapes, an apple slice and barely three spoons full of cereal. He watched, displeased. But unlike the previous evening, he didn’t urge you to eat more. Instead—- he fucking asked how you’re feeling.

Fucking smalltalk. Next he would ask you how you slept.

“Trapped.” You blurted out before you could stop yourself. Because you fucking were.

His jaw set and for a moment you expected him to yell again, but, “Y’re no prisoner.”

“Except that I am,” you countered, staring him down. “Else you would let me go.”

“Can’t.”

Yep, yep. But you were no prisoner.

“My parents will look for me,” you lied.

“You haven’t spoken to your mother five years, and the rest of your family you see what, once a year?” Fucking hell. He really had done his homework.

“My friends—-”

“Babygirl,” he interrupted you. “Your coworkers still called ya new girl ’n the free time ya had ya spend alone, or doin’ research.” It stung how spot on he was. “Brought ya only friend.”

Your jaw set.

Fuck him. Fuck aaaaaall of this.

“Had,” you suddenly frowned. “What do you mean called me new girl?”

He looked caught. For the first time since you woke up here, it felt like you chipped away at the world he was carefully crafting around you.

“What ya mean?” He tried, not quite meeting your eyes. You’d caught him. A slip up.

“Past tense.” You stared him down still. “What do you mean, called me new girl?”

You could see it. The struggle. The way he fought between a lie and the truth. So he had a tell. A small twitch in his jaw. Like he’d bitten onto something sharp.

Was it the lie or the truth?

Something you would attempt to gauge later. For the moment, you waited him out. Not pressin, not asking again, just continuing to stare him down. Until he eventually got up and left.

When he came back, he carried a tablet, he placed in front of you. Your eyes drifted to the top right corner for the date and time first.

8:30 AM. October 10th.

Three fucking days.

Three fucking days ago he had ripped you from your life. You’d been unconscious for what? Two days? The thought of you unconscious with him for two fucking days left your skin crawling. You were on the verge of pushing the tablet away when you registered what he had meant to show you.

An article. Of the paper you worked for no less.

A robbery gone wrong in New York, the alley behind your building. Photographs of a blurred out body, descriptions of you, of injuries you sustained. Blunt force, face bashed in, the content of your bag poured out over you. All valuables gone. The cat food, the granola bars, your water bottle, a magazine you’d bought and other meaningless shit spilled around you. You skimmed over the article, ears ringing again.

They’d identified you based on your work badge, paired with descriptions of what you’d worn that day.

“No,” you shook your head. No. They’d test your DNA? Your dental imaging? Except the article mentioned a severely battered face. Fingerprints then. Shouldn’t they check for that? Match your hair to your brush? Anything?

“’s the truth babygirl,” his voice carried the same soft tenor it had all of the day before. Except when he lost his temper. “Wouldn’t lie ‘bout this.” Your mouth opened and clothed.

No, no, no, no, no!

“World needed t’think y’re dead.” He continued, while you still stared at the screen. “So they think y’re dead.”

No, you think.

If the world thought you were dead, no one would come looking for you.

Your stomach lurched painfully. “I’m—- I’m going to be sick.”

He didn’t follow you up the stairs, didn’t even call after you when you slammed the door shut before doubling over in front of the toilet.

──────────

He left you alone. No attempt to follow you, no knock followed by a muffled babygirl. Nothing.

Just silence.

And if you were honest with yourself, you hated that almost more. Because it left you alone with the article. With the descriptions of someone who looked like you, dead in the alley behind your apartment building.

Dead.

The world thought you were dead.

No. No, that couldn’t be right. It had to be fake. Fabricated. A scare tactic. Something he had made up to break you down faster.

Because the alternative—-

Your stomach lurched again. But there was nothing left inside of it so you breathed through the wave of nausea. Tried to find a flaw in what you had read. Something that proved that it was fake.

Maybe if you could cross-reference? Find other sources, find the original article he had used to forge that one.

The TV.

You tried the it again once your hands stopped shaking enough. Because some news station surely would have answers, right? But nothing. No remote, no means to turn it on. Just your own pale reflection staring back at you from the dark screen.

But even if you would have managed to turn it on… would a robbery gone wrong in New York make the news out here? Wherever he had dragged you to? In the two days you had been unconscious?

Fuck.

You vision blurred. Tears you desperately bit back, because no. No! You refused to let this to let him get to you.

Think. Think! Use your fucking brain. You’re smart. You could figure this out, you—-

Your laptop.

In the room just down the hall from yours, on a desk near the window. He had showed it to you yesterday. Right by your notebook.

Closed server.

Can’t let you access every page.

But you had spend enough years online and breaking through parental controls and finding ways into databases you had no means to be in… surely you would find a loophole? Through whatever block he had in place?

The door to the office—- library whatever that room was, was just across, a little ways down. Toward the stairs, not his bedroom in the far end of the hall. So close. Close enough that you didn’t need to face him. And yet you still faltered at the door, fingers around the handle.

Bracing yourself.

For whatever laid behind that door and a google search of your own name.

Provided you could still access google. Or any other search engine.

You held your breath, opening the door and slipping out the room, all the way across the hall and into the other room, where you quickly grab your laptop, charger, notebook and pencil case, nearly tripping over a tray that was beside your door on your way back. You hadn’t seen it when you rushed out, but now it was impossible to miss.

Dry crackers and a thermos of what you presume to be tea.

Yeah, right.

Because that would help you feel better. Would make it aaaaaall go away.

Fuck him.

You retreat back into the faux security bathroom.

Upon first glance, your laptop seemed normal, too so when you booted it. You could log in without an issue, the familiarity that came with your fingers flying over the keyboard as you typed your password in, a small comfort.

But something was off.

The browser worked—- your countless emotional support tabs still open. So that wasn’t it. Except you hadn’t tried yet if they all loaded. You did once you realised that your mail app had vanished and with it every other messaging app you had installed. Slack, Zoom, Teams, all of it. Social Media included.

Their online counterparts inaccessible.

Error 404. No matter how often you hit the refresh button.

You dug through the applications folder, looking for a program, in the downloads folder or trash for traces of one, but there was nothing. How the fuck were you supposed to find a work around if you didn’t know what you were up against?

A set of notes filled a new page in your notebook. Google worked. Seemingly. Any other search engine did too, but nothing that involved location tracing of any kind. No maps, no weather app, nothing that could tell you where your were.

Not even location based pop-ups, an annoying nuisance under any other circumstances, worked.

You were one more Error 404 page not found message away from throwing your laptop across the room when you remembered why you had gotten it in the first place.

Right, the article he had showed you.

You googled yourself, finding an onslaught of entries. You clicked yourself from search result to search result. Every single one summarising the same information about your supposed passing.

Maybe he forged them. But all of them?

He had wiped your laptop of the ability of location tracing. Someone who could do that, could surely fake an article or two or three or ten or… three pages worth of search results full. The articles you had published, that followed after, were all legit.

So unlikely. But he had to have faked it all! He had to! To get to you, to make sure you knew there was no one coming for you.

But a video too? You hesitated, before clicking the play button. A news segment from a smaller, local news station. A series of similar cases—- you vaguely remember about reading about a string of robberies. “The latest victim in an increasingly more violent series of robberies,” the reporter opened, standing in front of your apartment building, the entrance to the alley covered in police tape.

She summarised what you had read in the articles, found by a passers-by, all valuables gone. Apparently there had been talk about your father coming in to identify, but then they compared your DNA to the hair and toothbrush found in the apartment.

Proof enough.

Your eyes drifted towards the tooth brush on the counter by the sink. “It just makes no sense,” a familiar voice, thick with tears drew your attention back to the screen in front of you. Alice. She had started with you, shared your desk. The closest relationship you had to a work friend, “I told her not to stay too long,” a quiet sniffle “Maybe if she would have left with me then…” the reporter said something you couldn’t quite make out. A watery laugh escaped Alice. “Yeah, she was glued to her laptop. Always looking for a story, for a lead,” she shook her head.

You snapped the laptop shut so fast you almost snapped your fingers, but you barely noticed.

Your breathing sounded wrong. Too loud, too uneven. Panic fuelling every inhale.

Dead. The world thought you were dead.

Alice crying on the screen. Blaming herself because you hadn’t left with her — she’d asked you so often. Sometimes with the suggestion that the two of you could grab a bite. But no, you’d stayed after hours. Eager to proof yourself. Maybe if you would have gone with her, just once? Maybe things would be different and you wouldn’t be here right now.

Or presumed dead.

The toothbrush, the DNA—- rock solid confirmation that it was your body they had found in the alley. Except it wasn’t.

Because you were here. In the middle of fucking nowhere. At the mercy of a man who knew you so intimately, he had filled the closet in with clothes you’d buy yourself.

And the world thought you were dead.

Your stomach turned violently.

No one was coming.

──────────

“How?” Dread had curdled into something sharper. Something frantic, ugly and desperate—-

Because stories fell apart under pressure. Details mattered, you knew that and mistakes happened.

They had to.

Because a mistake would mean that someone was looking for you.

“What?” Joel looked up from the book he was reading. Lounging comfortable on the couch. Like he hadn’t staged your whole fucking death.

“How did you do it?” You pressed on. Titan rose immediately, hopping off the couch, tail wagging, to greet you. Pepper barely lifted her head, where she was curled near Joel.

The sight twisted something bitter in your stomach.

“Fake my death!” You forced yourself to look at him, “How did you do it?”

There. That small twitch in his jaw again. Gone as fast as it appeared. “Babygirl—-”

“How?” You interrupted sharply. “The body, the DNA match…” you stared him down, “How?”

The twitch returned, sharper this time. Not anger or irritation, restraint. Like he was chewing the truth between his teeth while deciding how much to give you.

“’s not hard. Cleaned out your brush, made sure her hair was in it. Swapped tooth brushes,” a shrug, “Made sure no identifying features were left behind, left your work badge to imply it was you,” Your stomach dropped. “Body shape fits for the most part, ’s close enough anyways, weight an hight too. Made sure she was dressed like ya. They don’t look too closely if they don’t have ta.”

Cooking instructions. Not even cold and calculated. Just… indifferent.

Nausea gripped your throat tight.

A heavy head pressed into your thigh, a quiet huff. Titan—- your hand settled on him, grounding yourself. “Who was she?” Your voice sounded far away.

“No one,” he shook his head. “Not important.” He had killed her because of you. “Don’t stress y’self over it. ’s no good.”

“You–- you killed someone!” Your voice cracked under the weight of the realisation that not just your life had been ruined but another one too.

“Solved a problem,” Joel countered, his voice in the same calm tenor it had carried since the first word he’d spoken to you. “Needed you safe babygirl, ’n I found a way t’make sure y’were.”

You focused onto Titan. On the weight of his head against your thigh, on how heavily he leaned into you. Still hearing Joel, even over your racing heartbeat. But also not hearing him. Titan huffed again when your fingers curled tighter into his fur.

Warm and solid and real.

Unlike the conversation happening around you. Joel kept speaking. Calmly, like it was pure logistics. Like he was explaining how he had fixed a leak or repaired a fence, instead of—

Your stomach twisted violently again. Couldn’t even bring yourself to finish the thought.

But someone was dead.

Because of you.

Your eyes drifted toward Joel despite of yourself. He looked… normal. Relaxed against the couch, book abandoned beside him now. Not shaken, or guilty, not even angry.

Just certain.

And if you were honest with yourself, that terrified you more than when he had yelled.

──────────

“You haven’t showered,” matter of fact. And the truth no less. A week in your prison — you’d used your laptop to track the time and days; and you still wore the clothes you had woken up in. You must reek no doubt, because freshening up without undressing only did so much.

Not that hygiene was on the top of your list right now. As grimy as you felt.

“Not gonna give you a show,” you bit. He’d left you be for the most part, only insisting you came downstairs for breakfast lunch and dinner. Giving you time to find a comment section, a forum, anything you could leave a message for help under. Or pinpoint your location.

Unsuccessfully so far.

“What?” Joel looked puzzled.

“How do I know where you’ve hidden cameras,” you huffed, pushing the pancakes he had made for breakfast around your plate. Even if you trusted him now not to poison you or drug you, again, you still didn’t eat properly.

Not quite hungry.

He didn’t push you to. Hadn’t since the first dinner. Displeased as he looked.

“Ain’t hiding any cameras.”

“Sure,” you made it clear that you didn’t believe him.

Joel sighed, getting up. “C’mere a second.”

You followed, reluctantly, aware you didn’t really have a choice, to the small mud room where your coat and boots still were right beside his. You knew better than to argue, grabbed your coat and slipped into your boots before following him outside. Always a couple steps behind him.

Titan bolted past you, Pepper in tow when Joel lead you across the yard, toward the barn where Pepper had stayed at first. Your stomach twisted tighter with every step closer. Unease accompanying you.

The inside looked… normal.

Tools, shelves, extension cords, camping gear, lock-boxes, a work bench cluttered with things you didn’t recognise and what you assumed to be a weapon safe.

Hard as you tried, you your eyes kept drifting back towards it.

Joel reached into a drawer and pulled out a small black device, he held out for you to take. “What’s that?” You asked, eying it curiously, not stepping any closer or making a move to take it.

“Camera detector.”

You blinked, “What?”

“You don’t believe me.” Matter of fact, because it was the truth. “Figured this’s easier.” When you still made no move to reach for the device, he sighed, leading you back outside. “Here,” he switched it on. Immediately a loud beep rung through the air, followed by a set of red dots appearing on the black screen. “Shows y’where,” he explained, moving the device towards the gate, the closer he moved towards it, the faster the beeping. “Got ‘em all around the fence line,” he explained, pressing a button on the monitor before pointing the device towards one of the camera’s. “Locks the position in. Y’can figure out the range, blindspots, the works” he held the device out for you again and this time you took it. “’s yours,” he offered with a nod before heading back inside. Leaving you to try out the device and locate every single camera in your immediate proximity.

Both visible and invisible.

There were two near the mudroom door, one with a view of the door, one with a view of the steps leading to it. Try as you might, you couldn’t find them by just looking, but you could see yourself on the small monitor, in front of the door.

So it worked and wasn’t just to placate you.

You hadn’t thanked him. Not when he had pressed the device into your hands, not when he had headed back toward the house. Leaving you standing in the yard with the detector and too many thoughts clawing at your skull.

Titan lingered beside you for a moment, watching curiously as you turned the device over in your hands before eventually trotting after Joel.

Leaving you with Pepper who purred around your feet.

You stayed where you were. Cold biting through your coat, but you barely noticed it. Because the thing in your hands felt heavy. Real and functional. Not some cheap gimmick, no plastic nonsense. It was real and you had just proven to yourself that it worked.

Detecting a string of cameras.

You swallowed hard before you went inside too, Pepper following you. The smell of food hit you immediately when you stepped back inside. Something warm and buttery—- the pancakes still on the table, abandoned alongside your untouched tea.

You haven’t had coffee since you got here.

Joel looked up briefly from the sink where he scrubbed away at the pan. You ignored him completely. Not out of bravery or ignorance.

Focus. You needed to focus.

The detector still clutched tightly in your hands, you moved through the house. Your pulse loud enough to drown out everything else.

The living room first.

Nothing. No red dot, no beeping.

You scanned slowly, methodically, the same way you approached research. Corners first, then bookshelves, lamps, smoke detector, heating vents and everything in-between.

Still nothing.

Refusing to enter the kitchen space and give him the satisfaction of seeing that you had no choice but to believe him. because he had proven your claim of cameras wrong, so you headed towards the stairs.

Your stomach twisted tighter, the closer you got to your — you still refused to see it as that, had slept, if you slept at all, in the bathroom exclusively; room.

It was easier not to trust him, to question everything he claimed. Being presented with the cold, harsh truth that you could trust him, didn’t sit right with you.

You paused in the doorway, bracing yourself for a moment. Then you started, same as before. Corners, lamps, shelves, mirror, TV—- nothing. The bathroom next. The detector stayed silent. No blinking lights, no warning tone. You checked again, just to be sure, slower this time. Bed frame, desk, closet.

Still nothing. Frustration started bleeding into panic now. “No, c’mon!” You muttered under your breath, scanning the mirror again.

Nothing.

You dropped to your knees beside the sink cabinet, checked under it, then the shower head, the bathroom cabinet—- a faint ping! No loud and distressed beep, but a ping, accompanied by a red dot located toward your right.

“I fucking knew it!” You hissed, following the dot that lead you to the towels.

Triumph didn’t come.

Because instead of a hidden camera, you pulled your laptop from between the them. Right where you stashed it, sure you’d noticed if he dug through them to find it.

“No,” distress clouded your voice when you opened it and the detector pinged again. The build in webcam.

Defeat washed over you.

If the device even discovered web cams, that were turned off no less, it would discover any hidden camera too. Turned on or not.

You should have felt relieved, because this meant you had actual privacy. A space where you weren’t observed.

But instead it made your skin scrawl. Because it meant he had said the truth. And Joel couldn’t have been honest with you. You refused to believe that, refused to believe him, you—

A sharp knock sounded against the bedroom doorframe, louder than you ever had heard it before. You nearly jumped out of your skin.

You’d forgotten to close the doors.

And he hadn’t entered unannounced. Lingered in front of it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his attempts to get you at ease. He might have told you the truth about the cameras, he might be seemingly respecting your space. You still didn’t trust him an inch, and you never fucking would.

Stockholm Syndrome be damned.

“Ease babygirl,” Joel’s voice came calmly, his hands held up. He’d noticed he’d startled you. “Didn’t find anything, huh?” He tilted his head, not smug, not I told you so, just… certain.

“No,” you admitted quietly.

Something unreadable flickered across his face. Relief maybe, because he had hidden whatever he used to observe you well enough—- or just satisfaction, because now you needed to accept that you could trust him. “Good,” he nodded to himself. “Told ya, ain’t watching you babygirl.”

“But you have!” You snapped how else would he know so much about you.

“’s true. Used cameras then,” your jaw set. “But I ain’t now. ’s no prison. I already told you. ’s your home now too.”

“No it’s not!” You snapped, “I had a home. A life! And you took it all away.” Tears bit at your eyes.

“‘m sorry babygirl. Had no choice, they would’ve sent someone other, if I wouldn’t have…”

“I’d rather be dead than here with you!” You yelled and something in his expression hardened for a moment.

“You don’t mean that,” he didn’t shout back “Know’s all still ‘bit much,” Still that same calm tone he always used. “Hot water takes a moment t’kick,” he nodded toward the bathroom, before he stepped out of the door. “Gonna make chilli for lunch,” you watched him close it.

Like you hadn’t just told him you’d rather be dead than with him.

──────────

A knock drew you from your notebook. You’d still set up fort in the bathroom, still refused to sleep in a room you couldn’t lock. But sitting on the tiles can only be comfortable for so long.

You alternated between the the desk, because it disappeared behind the door if he opened it and sitting on the plush rug behind the bed, overlooking the impenetrable sea of trees.

Try as you might, there were no landmarks in sight, nothing to help you pinpoint your location, no matter how long you stared out of the window.

Your notebook had filled up with attempts to find a way to bypass whatever script was in place that prevented you from accessing any form of outside-communication or gps based tracking. You left it face down on the floor, laptop closed, when you headed for the door.

Joel stood in front of it, Pepper immediately darting past your legs and into the room. You’d given up on finding her after the meals Joel still insisted you share, letting her roam the house and yard.

As much as you hated the thought of her hanging with Joel. Because, how could she trust him? He knocked every so often, when she wanted to be with you.

Titan stood beside him, plush bunny between his teeth, tail wagging, a hopeful look in his eyes. You had tripped over him on multiple occasions when Joel called you for dinner or lunch. Because the pup had slept in front of the door. And if not Titan himself then his toys, the soft pink bunny plush included, left in front of the door like offerings.

You sighed and stepped aside, making space for him to enter. Wasn’t his fault, that his owner was a deranged lunatic that kept you hostage. That had killed to make sure no one came looking for you.

“Gonna make burgers for dinner,” you didn’t look at Joel when Titan tried his best to keep his cool and not pounce into the room following your invitation. Barely managing to contain his excitement. “Fries too,” he was still looking for a food you wouldn’t pick at, a good three weeks in.

“Sure,” was all you gave, your eyes still on Titan who’d curiously sniffed the camera-detection-device you’d kept on the. You switched it on every so often, to test, to make sure. To still find nothing.

“Dinner’s—-”

“At six-thirty, I know,” you interrupted him with a nod before pushing the door shut again.

Breakfast at 8 AM, lunch 12:30 PM and dinner 6:30 PM.

Not a minute early, not a minute late. Not that it mattered, given you still didn’t really eat. Pushing the food more around the plate than anything else. Sometimes he asked what you wanted to eat, other times he tried with foods he knew you liked.

Like the burger.

You settled back behind the bed, Pepper had curled up on it and Titan blocked the space between the bed and the wall. Closing you into the space.

Oddly enough, you didn’t feel trapped, but found a sense of comfort and safety in it.

“Babygirl,” an air of desperation accompanied the word. “Ya have t’eat, please?” you had lost weight. Not dramatically, but enough to show up in the way your clothes fit — you refused to wear the ones he had bought for you still. Made use of what was yours. Washing them in the sink and tub with shower gel instead of taking up his offer of laundry, “Whatever ya want? Screw balanced!” He’d made scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast and again you’d picked at the food, the fruit too.

All you offered him was a shrug.

Titan was a frequent visitor to your bedroom now. Sometimes joining you as early as after breakfast, heading up the stairs alongside you and then staying pretty much all day.

Seemingly choosing to be with you over Joel. Unlike Pepper, who curled up on the couch, near the fire that now constantly burned, the colder it had gotten. She wasn’t choosing him, but the warmth, you told yourself.

She just was where the warmth was. Which was, unfortunately, where Joel was.

Meanwhile Titan slept in front of the closed bathroom door.

“Ya want to cook?” Joel tried, you’d barely touched lunch. No more than a few bites, not even a third of the portion of pasta he had served you.

“I don’t cook,” You’d shot him a biter smile, because of course he knew. “Greasy take out and sugar, remember?” He was getting desperate. Laying out chips and candy in an effort to get you to eat something.

Every so often you took a candy bar, and when he sent Titan up with a bag of chips between his teeth like some odd peace offering, you didn’t toss them down the stairs either. Even sodas had popped up on the kitchen counter, full of sugar and caffeine. Wherever he’d gotten them from… Maybe he had had them the whole time. You hadn’t glanced into the fridge or pantry, it was all the same to you.

Titan had taken to sleeping in the bathroom with you. Cuddled in close. A sliver of comfort in the painful reality your life had turned into in the last month. Whether it bothered or pleased him that Titan had taken to you the way he had and you allowed him in close, you didn’t know. You didn’t care either.

Wasn’t the pup’s fault what Joel had done.

You still googled yourself periodically, at first with the blind hope that maybe someone had realised that it all had been staged, but then you’d gotten your hands on the coroner’s report, reading in fast detail about what he had done to ensure the world believed you were dead.

The dog had run off to get him, when you’d gotten sick again, stressed and scared. Touching, in any other circumstance, but with Joel calling from the bedroom door, asking if you were okay…

Tea and crackers had popped up again on a tray, after you’d yelled a leave me the fuck alone.

Now you only googled your name to remind yourself that your old life, was real. That you really had it. Reading publications, articles you run for your collage paper, or worked on in New York. Scrapes, of your existence, that had just stopped.

All because Joel had decided to end it.

To save you.

Yeah, right.

Dinner wasn’t ready when you came downstairs like every evening at 6:30 PM. He was in the kitchen, sure, but there wasn’t anything on the stove or in the oven, as far as you could tell.

“Uhm…” you blinked confused.

“Figured I’d try somethin’ different,” he offered, nodding towards a box of Kraft Mac&Cheese on the counter. “Ya like that stuff, right? Nuggets too,” The only food you cooked, if one wanted to call it that; was Mac&Cheese.

Of course he knew that.

You shrugged and Joel nodded.

“Been a while since I made this,” he eyed the box for a moment before pushing a can of watermelon soda toward you. And somehow the thought of Joel making and eating Kraft Mac&Cheese didn’t quite fit the image you had of him.

You didn’t take the obvious bait, staying on your side of the counter, away from him. But you took the soda, sipping it while he got water to boil in a pot.

“’s okay. Go on, take it.” Your attention had drifted again and again and again to the knife block. The thought of taking one, hadn’t left you. You just hadn’t found a way to get one, without him knowing right away.

Because he would know sooner or later. Given a knife would be missing. And you’d rather he found out when you already had it in your hands.

“Don’t hide it under y’pillow. Y’ll just hurt yourself,” he continued, like he hadn’t just told you to grab a knife to protect yourself and potentially harm him with.

Keeping your eyes on him, while he stirred the butter into the drained pasta, you moved closer to the knife blog, grabbing the biggest and sharpest from the assortment, before rushing back to the other side of the kitchen island.

Joel didn’t stop you, didn’t comment on it either, when you kept it with you at the dining table, a plate of Mac&Cheese, Chicken Nuggets and ketchup in front of you.

He hadn’t even added broccoli, or insisted on any other vegetable. The soda hadn’t been replaced by water either. His plate matched yours. He even had gotten a soda, a root beer, just to stare at the plate like it had personally offended him.

Until you started eating, one fork, than another, a nugget too, fingers idly tracing the knife’s handle. You didn’t see it, having taken to looking at him as little as possible, but he relaxed, starting to eat too.

You didn’t finish the whole plate, but you ate more than you had in the last month. A start, as far as Joel was concerned.

Titan accompanied you, when you headed upstairs, the knife in your hand. Joel was right, hiding it under your pillow or anywhere too close where you could accidentally hurt yourself, was a terrible idea. So you left it on the nightstand beside you, when you settled behind the bed again. With your notebook and laptop.

Except you didn’t really get any research done. Your body heavy, your mind a little sluggish. Not the drugged kind, but the food-coma kind. So when Joel knocked a little later because Pepper decided to come cuddling for the night, you caved. Settling onto the bed with her, notebook and pen in hand, the knife within reach, you set up against the headboard, at the far side of the bed. Away from the door.

Staring at the crossed out list, detailing your attempts to find a working comment section.

──────────

You woke to light and stale air fanning over your face.

Titan’s massive head rested on the mattress in front of you, his nose almost touching yours. “Your breath stinks,” you groaned, pulling a face. The pup huffed, as if to give you another sample. “Why are you up anyway?” You grumbled, blinking against the early morning light past his head and out the window.

The sun? Why were you seeing the sun?

You were on your feet and out of the bed the second the realisation that you must have fallen asleep in it, hit.

Pepper complained loudly and Titan whined confused.

You had fucking fallen asleep on the bed. Heavy and tired after dinner… the door was still closed, and the knife exactly where you had left it. Within reach, and the opened notebook beside you.

Once your pulse had settled, you checked the time on your laptop.

9:30 AM. You’d slept through breakfast. Normally you always woke early, barely sleeping as it was, anticipating his knock. Today you had slept right through it and Joel hadn’t even opened the door to get Titan out.

You didn’t know how that made you feel. You didn’t want to linger on it either.

Titan followed you downstairs, once you had brushed your teeth and washed your face. Having given in after your first shower and you started to use the products he’d bought. Unlike the clothes. Exclusively sticking to your own still. Pepper was already off wandering through the house.

Joel wasn’t in the kitchen or living room and neither was a breakfast waiting for you, nor a talking to for oversleeping. He was outside, by the barn, chopping wood. You had seen him, when you let Titan out. Coat hung up, sleeves rolled up. His back was to you, muscles working when he rose the axe up high before forcing it down.

Sheer, brutal force.

You didn’t linger to watch. Sure that Titan trotting up to him had alerted him that you were awake now. For a moment you considered just disappearing back upstairs, but then curiosity and hunger prompted you to take a peak into the fridge and pantry.

Both exceptionally well stocked which left the question of how. As far as you knew he hadn’t left the property in the weeks since you’d gotten here. And yet there was fresh produce.

A question you filed for later, exiting the latter with Nutella, honey and toast. You were seated at the kitchen island, a half empty glass of orange juice and a plate with a honey and a Nutella toast each in front of you, when he came back inside.

You had even added sliced banana to the toasts.

For a split second you struggled with your fight or flight response until you managed to ignore him, focusing on your plate.

“Mornin,” he greeted you, getting a bottle of water from the fridge. His hair sweat slicked.

“Morning,” you offered, still expecting a talking to for missing breakfast, but it didn’t come. Instead you watched him fill Titan’s bowl, letting the pup sit in front of it.

His attention on Joel instead of the food, until: “Go on.”

Would that work if you tried it too?

“Y’still wanna eat at twelve-thirty?” He asked, leaning against the counter by the stove. “Or later?”

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly, finishing the honey-banana toast. “Maybe?” A shrug.

“Imma ask you around twelve then,” he nodded, before heading for the stairs, the bottle, half empty now, still in his hand.

You didn’t wait for him to come back downstairs, disappearing back into your room, a couple minutes later the half finished Nutella toast in tow.

This time around you settled at the desk, pointedly avoiding the bed.

A month in and you hadn’t gotten anywhere. You neither knew where you were nor had you found any means to communicate with the outside world.

Fuck.

Instead of googling for the same five things again, you opened a new page in your notebook, writing a new headline. Joel, underlined twice before the page filled with what you knew about him, or rather what you didn’t know about him.

full name: ???

age: ???

occupation: Hitman? problem solution

former occupation: ??? (ex-military? maybe)

accent: southern → Texan?

hight: too fucking tall 6’5? 5’11?

strength: intimidating

handedness: right

smoker: not sure, doubtful

drinker: not sure

pet: dog - Titan → hated animal cruelty; Pepper took to him :(((

family: none?

The sound of a heavy paw tapping insistently against the door interrupted you. Titan. You knew he could open the door, he had when you’d gotten sick after reading the coroner’s report. To alert Joel. But that had remained the only time he’d opened it.

Apparently respecting you enough not to barge in like his owner, politely knocking instead. You got up to let him in, the pup immediately settling under the desk… or rather, squeezing under. Not at all minding that your feet rested on top of him, when you sat back down too.

“Can’t you tell me anything about him?” You asked him, after staring at the mostly empty page for what felt like an eternity. Fondly scratching behind his ear. No answer, go figure. So you find yourself googling are hitman real? And problem solution instead. Clicking yourself from hyperlink to hyperlink, as if he’d pop up eventually if you only clicked the right one.

“Babygirl?” A knock rung through the room at 12 PM on the dot. You no longer fought him on the nickname. Figured the only thing worse, was hearing him utter your name. “Ya wanna have lunch?” You contemplated. You weren’t hungry, not really, but maybe you could use lunch to ask some well placed questions?

“Uhm, something light maybe?” You called back.

“Good,” he sounded happy, while you added to your list.

behaviour: strange, outlandish, weird, bizarre, lunatic, a freak

“Twelve-thirty?” He asked, and you added another point to your notebook.

punctual: anal about it

“Yeah.”

You flicked to a new page: Groceries?

How?

Delivery?

Frequent grocery runs?

But when? Delivery from where?

If he had deliveries then not to the house, you were sure of that. Even if you were locked into your room for most of the time, you were sure you’d know if any cars pulled up. Alone because you presumed Titan who took frequent runs along the fence, territorial enough to react if anyone pulled up.

So how?

He’d made tomato soup and grilled cheese. Comfort food, already set up on the dining table, along with a glass of water and a watermelon soda.

A choice then.

You opted for the soda, when you sat down.

“I don’t remember when I last had one of these,” you heard yourself say, grabbing one of the sandwiches. You had to be smart about this. After ignoring him pointedly for the last four weeks, you couldn’t just start asking personal questions.

“That so?” Joel looked amused, dipping a sandwich into his soup bowl.

“Greasy take out, remember?” You asked, making a mental note of adding can cook to your list. “I’m guessing you don’t get that out here?”

“Y’want some?” Not an answer to your question, but it implied that he did.

“Don’t know,” a shrug, “Might just make me more homesick,” not even a lie.

“‘m sorry babygirl,” he sounded genuine and you you hated that you couldn’t find anything in his expression that alluded that he wasn’t. “If there’s anythin’ ya want…” he trailed off and you’d seen the fridge and pantry now. You knew that he had everything you liked in stock.

“How?” You decided to bite the bullet.

“Grocery run?” He seemed puzzled. “’s not like I’m makin my own cheese?” That obvious, huh? “Tomatoes’re from t’green house.”

“So you… you leave me alone?”

“Babygirl,” it wasn’t pity in his eyes but something close, “‘ve. How ya think we’ve fresh bananas ’n apples?” You purse your lips, suddenly feeling ridiculously stupid. He’d left you alone here and you hadn’t even realised? Locked into your room, avoiding him like the plague.

Why hadn’t he told you?

Because you had gone out of your way to ignore him.

“Not for a grocery run. Just t’property line.” So at the end of the winding road that cut through the sea of trees. “T’pick the groceries up. Would let ya know if I went out longer or left t’property. Ask if you had anythin’ ya wanted.”

“Aren’t you worried that I’ll go snooping?” You blurt out, because you most definitely would.

“Nah,” he laughed, “Ya no prisoner, babygirl. I told ya. Can go ’n do whatever ya want here,” within the fence line, but he didn’t point that out again. “Nothin’s off limits.”

Nothing was off limits?

You somehow didn’t believe that.

“Gotta say ‘m surprised ya haven’t explored yet, bein’ investigative ’n all.”

You pushed your plate back, a sandwich and a half, a bit of soup and stood aprubtly. “Thank’s for lunch, I’m full.” You headed toward the stairs, back to ignoring Joel. But if you would have turned around, you would have seen that he looked like he wanted to kick himself.

──────────

You made an x with a pencil behind both delivery and grocery runs, before flicking back to your page about Joel.

Cooked: surprisingly well → healthy + balanced → wanted me to eat balanced and healthy

A couple of keywords followed:

up early

rarely rises voice → almost unsettingly calm

likes control (?)

never enters room unless invited (?)

always knocks

observant

oddly (?) honest (?)

His comment still irritated you.

Because he was right. Because if you wouldn’t have been so busy avoiding him and hiding yourself away as a result — to be fair you had tried to find a work around his internet set-up too; you’d already gone digging. Snooping around. Trying to figure out more about him, your whereabouts, and anything you could use against him.

Physically, like the knife that still laid on the bedside table and figuratively, like information you could use to your benefit and against him.

So a good too hours after lunch, you marched out of your room, Titan in tow, pointedly striding past Joel who sat on the couch, with Pepper, that traitor, a crossword puzzle in his hand — you needed to add that to your list; and to the mud room.

Your hat and scarf had appeared on the hook by your coat, and you slipped into them and your boots, well aware that Joel was watching you. It was irritating that he didn’t ask what you were up to, so maybe there was a little too much force in opening the door and then your steps through the snow too.

Titan followed, prancing througharound like a deer, looking silly enough to replace your irritation with a laugh, temporarily at least.

He didn’t join you in the barn right away, neither did Joel. Which didn’t mean that he wouldn’t eventually.

The fluorescent overhead lamps switched on with a hum, illuminating the cold air. It smelled like sawdust and motor oil, like metal and wood. The barn looked as clean as it had when he had led you here to get the detection device.

Everything seemed to have its place.

A row of tools up along the length of one wall. Axes, saws, power tools, more than you could name. Beneath spanned a massive work bench, unfinished projects scattered across it, you stepped closer, inspecting something that looked like a small shelf.

The wall at the far end of the barn, toward the large door, had a set of tires and snow chains mounted to it. You knew he had a car, he must have. But it wasn’t in here An ATV was, and a snowmobile too. You made a beeline for them. No plates, no keys. But maybe if you could find the keys… Joel had said nothing was off limits, right? Surely they were somewhere.

A door beside the gun safe, caught your attention. Curiously, you abandoned the vehicles and any thoughts you had of hot wiring them — you’d need to google how to; in favour of it. It wasn’t like the door was hidden, but something about it seemed… off.

Because it looked too modern for the rest of the barn.

You tried the handle, locked.

Go figure.

What a fucking liar.

Determined to get in, you grabbed a screwdriver and attempted to wedge it between the door and the frame.

“Door’s locked for a reason babygirl,” Joel’s voice startled you. He hadn’t yelled, had stuck to the same calm tone he always had.

“So? You said nothing is off limits!” You huffed, still trying get into the room.

“True,” he agreed, sounding amused, stepping toward you. “’s nothing secretive,” he pulled a key from his pocket. Not a whole set of them, just one.

A master key? Or had he known you’d try the door?

“Then why is it locked?” You countered, arms crossed.

“’s a fire door babygirl. Don’t want my barn burnin’ down,” he explained, opening the door and switching the same fluorescent ceiling lights on. The room was as methodically organised as the rest of the barn. “’s fuel storage, for t’ATV an t’car, generators too.”

“You use generators?”

“Don’t. ’s back up. Just in case. Solar works fine.” Made sense. You hadn’t seen any power lines.

“Doesn’t solar need the sun?” You hear yourself ask, glancing out towards the trees past the fence line. The sun was already disappearing within them.

“True,” Joel agreed, amusement still in his voice. “Got batteries that’ll last us a year an then some, an if that ain’t enough…”

“You got back up generators, got it,” you nodded.

“Room’s a precaution. Shit is flammable, fertiliser an other chemicals too. Ain’t taking any chances,” he explained, locking the door again.

methodical, careful

You got that, you supposed, even if you were disappointed because you’d thought you’d caught him.

As if that would have made a difference about your predicament…

On the way back — Titan prancing around you like he was auditioning for the lead in Rudolph the Reindeer; he lead you away from the door to the mud room and toward the gate instead. “’s where the system’s set up,” he explained, pointing out a small shed looking building off to the side. Closer to the house than the barn was.

You’d been at the gate when you’d looked for the cameras, you’d seen the shed too but hadn’t paid it much attention them.

“Both solar an geothermal pump’s in there.”

“Geo-what?”

“Geothermal pump, keeps the house warm.”

Another thing you’d google.

Geothermal pumps and how to hot wire an ATV or a snowmobile. A car too, potentially. If you figured out where he’d hidden his. A driveway all the way to the gate from the side of the house was shovelled, but—- you hadn’t yet seen a garage.

And you didn’t want to ask either.

──────────

You hadn’t wanted to sleep in the bed again. Even if he could easily open the lock on the bathroom door, you preferred sleeping in a lockable room over an unlockable one any day.

Except the floor in the bathroom wasn’t just uncomfortable, it was painful enough that you barely slept.

And the bed had been comfortable—- and you had the knife.

That and Joel hadn’t even opened the door to get Titan in the morning, when you’d slept through his knock.

Begrudgingly, in a sense, you moved out into the bed, properly this time, and under the comforter with Pepper curling up beside you and Titan on a blanket between the foot of bed and the door.

And the knife on the nightstand beside you.

Not that you would admit it, but you slept better. Actually finding rest and no longer feeling like you were operating on low power mode and exhaustion.

Filling your notebook pages about Joel came easier too, because it was easier to think when you were rested. You added pages about the layout of the house too.

Built to last and withstand

off-the-grid

a fortress in the middle of nowhere

Along with notes about the layout and rooms, and the property. Complete with rough sketches.

The latter you had explored with a prancing Titan, who’d been thrilled to catch snowballs you’d been throwing. Discovering, that the main gate aside, there were two more smaller doors, leading off into the surrounding forest.

Both locked of course. Which prompted the thought of a master key again. Because Joel didn’t carry a whole key ring around with himself.

After the barn, you had inspected the small mud room. Not that there was much there. Shoes, both yours and his and an array of coats, hats, scarfs and gloves. And a set of boots for Titan coats and what you assumed, were old sweatshirts of Joel. So far you hadn’t seen the pup wear them, even though it had gotten cold.

Perhaps for prolonged outings in the cold.

Something about Joel dressing up Titan too felt both incredibly right and endearing in a way you didn’t want to feel.

pet: dog - Titan → hated animal cruelty; Pepper took to him :((( → cared for Titan well, loved him dearly

Outside of the fully and methodically stocked fridge, freezer and pantry, the kitchen didn’t offer anything unusual either. A knife was still missing from the block and as far as you could tell, in terms of gadgets, he pretty much had everything the market had to offer.

Food was still an issue. Less so, because you ate a little better now, your appetite returning with the amount of restful sleep you now got, but you still didn’t eat to his liking.

You’d made a study of him.

watched you eat before eating himself, ate what you ate

huffed through his nose → sighing, annoyance, disbelief, at times amusement too

flared his nostrils → controlled anger (when you picked at your food instead of eating)

a twitch in his jaw → fighting the urge to lie

You had had your suspicions about the latter since your conversation with him about the how he had staged your death. You’d confirmed it by asking him where he had taken you. Where you were. Watching the twitch appear before he asked you why it mattered.

Not the truth but also not a lie.

Unfortunately, your why wouldn’t it? And, because I want to know hadn’t gotten him to budge. He wouldn’t even give you the state you were in.

The living room on the other hand, helped you shape the image of him further. You tore through it while he was outside, hanging bird feed. An excessive BlueRay collection filled the shelves on either side of the TV, a fair amount of books — plus you knew he had a library like setting upstairs, across from your bedroom; too.

Westerns, survival manuals, history books, repair guides, old paperbacks of the classics and even books on dog training and that was just the living room. Who knew what he had upstairs?

liked to read, did crossword puzzles

Neither reading or crossword puzzles were hobbies you would connect with a hitman.

The living room looked almost too big for one alone. Even with a dog as massive as Titan. Based on the wear and tear of the couch you could tell that he kept to the recliner for the most part, or the end of the couch nearest to the fire place. Where a blanket was neatly folded into a square, that pepper used as a cat bed.

There was no excessive liquor shelf or bar, just a set of different Bourbons.

drinker: not sure, if then Bourbon

And while the remote laid on the couch table, you didn’t think you’d ever seen it turned on since you getting here.

All of that was interesting enough, but what really drew your attention was a single photograph, the only one in the whole room — and house, so far you could tell; surrounded by books in a shelf near the hearth. A worn box beside it. The picture displayed a young girl, twelve or thirteen, if you had to guess. It showed her laughing, and from the looks of it somewhere outside but not here.

Less trees.

The box beside it was an old music box. Well loved, not a single speck of dust on it. The hand-carved details were delicate, the varnish covering them a little imperfect, like a child had painted them.

You glanced back at the photograph, hesitating for a moment. Not that you cared, after how he apparently knew everything about you, this still felt oddly invasive. But just for a moment, until you remembered that he’d packed up your fucking underwear — a thought that still repulsed you.

The melody that filled the air was a warped by age. But the princess still danced. A little stiff, a little slow, gears clicking over the tune.

You knew the song, melancholic, heavy. Almost too thick for a children’s toy.

Dancing bears, painted wings,

Things I almost remember—-

And a song someone sings,

Once upon a December.

The mudroom door opened, you instantly snapped the box shut. Carefully placing it back beside the photograph, just the way you’d found it, while a muffled “Gotta wipe your paws,” to Titan, came through the closed door to the living room. By the time he opened it, you’d long rushed back upstairs.

family: none? had a daughter?

──────────

“Who is she?” You asked two days later, lingering after dinner. Pretending to take the living room in, since he more or less told you he expected you to snoop. You had lingered in front of the photograph, making no move to reach for the music box. Unsure how he’d react.

The sound of cutlery hitting porcelain told you that that was the right decision.

“Sarah,” his voice sounded heavy, distant. And when you turned to look at him, his back was turned. Shoulders tense. “‘m daughter.”

You didn’t press, not until morning, when you sat across from him at the dining table again. Avocado toast with poached egg. Joel could really cook. “You have a daughter?” You asked, as casually as you managed, while watching him closely.

His fingers flexed around the fork and knife he held. Knuckles turning white. You had already learned that he took a moment before he answered, calculated in his responses and with what he revealed. But this was different.

He avoided looking at you. His jaw working like it physically pained him to reply.

“Had.”

Oh. “I— am sorry,” Joel looked as surprised about your words as you felt.

He’d abducted you. Quite literally ended your life in more ways than one and you offered him compassion?

“Thank you,” genuine, and something in your chest twisted. “Was a long time ago,” his voice carried the same heaviness it had had when you’d asked after the photograph. “In another life.”

“How did she…” you trailed off, watching the twitch in his jaw you’d grown familiar with.

“Food’s getting cold.”

It was avocado toast. Not like it was a hot dish to begin with, but you got the message and dropped the topic. For now.

You crossed out the question mark behind the had a daughter, and wrote Sarah behind it, before opening a new page: Sarah

Collecting what little you knew, the music box, the tune, Joel’s comment about another life.

At this rate you’d need a new notebook soon. Although knowing Joel, he had a stack ready for you.

“Have you met her?” You asked Titan, who now shared the bed with you too. After tentatively curling up at your feet he’d eventually moved to the unoccupied side of the bed that was closest to the door.

You didn’t mind.

Pepper and Titan your closest companions now. And at least you could pretend that you were conspiring with them against Joel.

Even if you were sure that at least one of them, if not both would side with him when it came down to it.

The pup yawned, before stretching out. “Guess that’s a no,” you laughed, adjusting his collar. He hardly wore it, there was no point for it, but Joel had taken him on a walk after breakfast, only offering you a gruff, ‘Need some air,’ before heading out.

True to his word, letting you know when he was gone longer.

And if you had to guess, Titan had marched straight up here, paws not quite dry — you had seen to that before letting him onto the bed; and collar still around his neck.

You didn’t peg Joel for someone who forgot something like taking Titan’s collar off but, he’d seemed a little beside himself when he’d cleaned the breakfast table. Stuck in his head. You’d already added sore topic to Sarah’s page.

Titan huffed, when you unfastened the collar, like he’d been waiting for that, while you inspected the silver tag.

Miller.

No number, no address, no trace of the pup’s name. Hm.

Joel Miller?

You pulled your laptop closer, the collar forgotten for the moment, while you typed Joel Miller into the search bar, full on prepared to have to narrow the search. With daughter Sarah or Texas — assuming he was from the lone star state.

But the search results flooded with links. Newspaper headlines, more or less all similar.

Charges dropped, no jail time after vigilantism. (…) took law into his own hands (…) doesn’t have to serve time.

You clicked the top result, an online version of the Austin American-Statesman from 2003.

A mugshot of Joel greeted you, younger, sure. A little less beard, but it was unmistakably him, same stoic expression, right beside the headline.

Joel Miller (36), a former contractor from Arlington, Texas, was arrested last Tuesday evening in connection with the death of Sean Stevens (41). The suspected driver in fatal hit-and-run that killed Sarah Miller (12) three months ago.

According to Austin Police Department reports, Miller had repeatedly expressed frustration with the pace of the investigation in the weeks following his daughter’s death. Authorities confirmed that Stevens had not yet been formally charged at the time of the incident.

Police responded to reports of a disturbance shortly after 11 p.m. at an abandoned service lot in the outskirts of Travis County, where Stevens was found dead at the scene from extensive blunt force trauma.

Miller was reportedly discovered beside the body with visible injuries to his hands and clothing stained with blood. Witnesses stated that he made no attempt to flee or resist the arrest.

Court records show charges against Miller were later dropped under undisclosed circumstances. Officials declined to comment further on the decision.

──────────

You’d shut the laptop and scrambled off the bed fast enough to alert Titan. The pup instantly up and off the bed too.

“It’s okay,” you tried, attempting to breathe against the nausea and panic.

A part of you understood. The need to lash out, to do something. But the idea of him beating someone to death? Of not resisting arrest? Or attempting to flee? Waiting for police?

That imagery was terrifying.

Another life. Twenty-three years ago. If he was capable of that then, who knew what he was capable of now.

Murder and abduction. Murder for abduction.

A knock, followed by “Babygirl?” And for a moment you struggled to breathe. Convinced that he knew what you had found. “’s past one, ain’t ya hungry?”

Oh, oh. You’d only missed lunch. “No— yes, sorry. I fell asleep,” you lied. “Be right down.”

“Kay,” he called back through the door, “Imma heat it up ‘gain,”

“T—thank you,” you tried hard to keep your voice level, to hide your panic from it.

When you finally headed downstairs, another ten minutes later after splashing water into your face and trying to calm yourself, you clutched Titan’s collar. Buying yourself another moment by disappearing into the mudroom and hanging it up on the hook between your coats. Where you’d seen it countless times.

“Oh,” he was leaning against the counter by the stove, a bowl of leftover chili on the island for you. “Thank you for takin’ it off. Forgot ta.” You only managed to nod, a little stiff, a little mechanic, watching Joel pet Titan, absentmindedly. A large hand resting on the pup’s head.

You really didn’t feel like eating, but you forced yourself to. A couple of spoons full. Just enough to placate him. “You alright babygirl?” Apparently not successfully so. “Look like ya saw a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” you lied through your teeth, praying that he didn’t poke. “Shouldn’t have napped.”

“Ah,” he nodded, “Woke up disoriented, eh?”

“It’s not like I know where I am,” you snapped. Snark was better than avoiding eye contact and praying that he didn’t notice how unsettled you were.

“Touché.”

You managed about half a bowl before you had enough, excusing yourself again to rush upstairs. As eager as you were the first night, to get away from him. The only difference? Titan was following you.

After a long moment of contemplation, you settled down to add the newly acquired information into your notebook.

Both, about Sarah:

age: 12

deceased, 2003, → hit and run

And Joel:

full name: ??? Joel Miller

age: ??? ~58 (36 in 2003)

former occupation: ??? (ex-military) contractor

accent: southern → Texan? from Arlington, Texas

capable of extreme violence under emotional distress → beat a man to death → outside too, killed to get you here

doesn’t fear consequences → didn’t resist arrest

terrifying

Before you can think better of it, you add:

loved daughter deeply

And on a new page: Charges dropped? And a list of potential reasons under the headline.

political connection?

corruption?

blackmail?

organised crime? → hitman? problem solution? → bought fee and hired?

Whatever it was, you doubted he would answer, if you asked.

But why hadn’t he blocked the search results? If he could block comment sections and location tracing — you even had tried over the IP Address but to no avail. They kept changing, jumping every couple seconds. Gotta make sure you leave no digital footprint. Something told you, that Joel didn’t want to leave a digital footprint either.

He hadn’t blocked them because he wanted you to know.

──────────

You couldn’t sleep, feeling utterly exposed and as scared as you had your first night. You’d half contemplated setting up camp in the bathroom again. But ultimately decided against it.

With Pepper on your chest and Titan curled into your side.

And the knife still on the nightstand.

You would be fine, you told yourself. Again and again. You would be fine. If he wanted you dead, of that much you were sure, you would already be dead. So you could be fine.

He hadn’t come onto you either. Giving you space.

Six weeks in — it was almost December now, and you had no fucking clue what he wanted from you. Why he’d kept you trapped in his house.

But you were no prisoner. No, you were here because he wanted to keep you safe.

Fucking freak.

A hitman, wanting to play house.

But why?

You were in the alley, behind your apartment building. To look after Pepper, like you did every evening when you came home. She’d been gone for the last few nights.

Worry twisted your gut.

Where was she?

A noise startled you, gravel crunching under a heavy boot.

“‘m sorry babygirl.” The world didn’t go dark, instead there were bloody knuckles, the sickening sound of fists connecting with a face.

Yours, not yours, one meant to look like yours.

“Babygirl,” a hand on your shoulder, “’s just a dream babygirl.” A worried face hovering over you—-

You didn’t think when you reached out, fingers curling into a shirt, arms wrapping around you. “’s okay, I got you babygirl. ’s just a dream,” a soothing voice you barely heard over your racing heartbeat. “’s just a dream,” a large hand moving along your back.

Joel.

“Get off of me!” you pushed at him, “Don’t fucking touch me!” You had reached for him. He let go of you in an instant and you scrambled away, to the corner farthest from him. The same one you’d stood in weeks ago.

The knife in your hand, pointed at him.

“Get the fuck away from me!”

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