Appetite for Innocence: A Dark Psychological Thriller Read online

  I’ve been refusing the food, but tonight it smells especially good. I don’t want to eat it, but my body betrays me and as soon as I bite into the slow-roasted chicken, I can’t help myself. I shovel it into my mouth as fast as I can. Before I know it, I’m devouring the mashed potatoes. They’re not the kind that come from a box. They’re the real deal—the kind you only make at Thanksgiving. The gravy is even more delicious and the string beans nearly melt in my mouth. I eat until I think I might be sick and guilt washes over me when I’ve finished.

  He likes to talk while we eat and tonight is no different. He rambles on about the deer he saw on his drive to work. It’s not long before he switches gears and starts in on what’s going on in the news and politics. He loves to talk politics and there’s nothing I hate more than politics. I just pretend to listen and feign interest.

  “Am I boring you to death?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “How about we talk about something you’re interested in? Are you happy to have a break from all of your school work?”

  I shrug.

  “Well, it must be nice to not have to worry about finishing up your history project. You were really having a hard time with that, huh?”

  My history project? How does he know about my history project?

  I shrug again.

  “Honey, when someone asks you a question, it’s impolite not to give them an answer.”

  He hasn’t gotten angry with me since the first night and I’m not giving him a reason to get angry again.

  “I guess,” I say.

  “How about Jaycee? Have you been missing her?”

  All the food I just ate threatens to come back up. He sees it happening.

  “Ella, darling, do you miss Jaycee?”

  “Yes, yes I do,” I force myself to respond.

  “At least she’s not going to have to worry about finishing in second place at your state finals meet next month. It’ll be nice for her to come in first for once. The two of you have such a fierce competition, it must make it difficult to stay friends.” He smiles at me with his perfect straight, white teeth.

  It hits me like I’ve been punched in the gut. I’m not just some teenager he grabbed when he saw the opportunity. He picked me on purpose. Somehow the fact that it isn’t random makes it worse.

  He must’ve been following me. That’s how he knew I’d be running that evening and almost to the end of my four miles, at the spot where I take out my earbuds so I can run the last mile in silence. I run the same route every time.

  Did he take me for ransom?

  He couldn’t have. If he knows me then he knows my family and we don’t have any money. Mom can barely afford to pay the bills every month. She’s worked two jobs for as long as I can remember.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” My voice quivers.

  He leans across the table and takes my hand. “I’m doing this because I care about you.”

  ELLA

  (NOW)

  Blake and Phil have been grilling me with questions for what feels like hours. I’ve told them everything I can think of that might help them. How John knew everything about me before he took me—my family, friends, where I lived, the color of my bedroom walls, my teachers, and my favorite books. He loved to ask me questions over dinner like he was genuinely interested in getting to know me.

  “And you’re sure you never saw him before the night he took you?” Blake asks even though he’s already asked me the question.

  “No,” I say again. “I’d never seen him before.”

  “Not just in passing even? Sometimes it’s hard to remember. Think back to any strange encounter you might have had in the months or weeks leading up to it,” he presses.

  I was a normal teenager before he took me. I was happy and my life was ordinary, but they act like I have a deep, dark secret I’m trying to hide. They’re obsessed with boys I was involved with at the time and even though they don’t come right out and say it, I know they think I had a boyfriend I didn’t tell Mom about. They don’t understand that she’d be the first person I’d tell if I had a boyfriend.

  We keep running the same circles. Did I notice anything unusual about the night I went missing? Had I noticed anyone following me? When did I see John? What color was the car? The make? The model? Was I able to make out any of the numbers on the license plate? Could I sense the direction we were going in the car? Was he alone? Was I sure he was alone? Did I ever see anyone else? Could I think of anyone who might want to harm me?

  They keep asking about Paige too. It hurts so much to talk about her, but I make myself do it. They still haven’t found her and every time they come in my room, I hold my breath and hope they’re going to have good news about her, but they never do.

  She was the only bright spot in that house. She made me laugh and kept me from crawling into myself and never coming out. She was impossible to ignore because she talked all the time, constantly and incessantly. The silence was too overwhelming for her and she had to fill up the hours with words like if she just kept talking she could ignore what was happening to us.

  She loved telling stories about her family. I know almost as much about them as I do my own family. We had a lot in common. Her dad left when she was a baby too. Unlike mine who’d disappeared two weeks after I was born because he never wanted to be a father, hers left to be with another woman he’d been having an affair with throughout her mom’s pregnancy. At least her dad still paid child support even if she never saw him. My dad has never given Mom a penny. He barely signed my birth certificate and left to get a pack of cigarettes and never came back.

  Both our moms had found religion since tragedy has a way of bringing people to God. Paige’s mom remarried a pastor at their local church. It wasn’t long before she had two twin brothers she adored. She never tired of telling funny stories about them. Last year, her family had rented an RV and spent the entire year traveling around, working and volunteering in various countries throughout the world. She said it was life-changing. As part of her homeschooling, she wrote essays about the things she learned on the road—about the orphanages she’d been to in Romania, the fields she’d helped plant in Tanzania, and the schools where she’d taught English. She’d done so many interesting things, like feeding koalas at a zoo in Australia, family work-camping at Jellystone Park, and picking vegetables for sale at a marketplace in Pike’s Peak. Halfway through the year, she’d fallen in love with travel and serving people. She wanted to become a missionary nurse when she was old enough.

  “I had this dream that my husband would be a doctor and I’d be his nurse. We’d be this power couple serving parts of the world where nobody else wanted to go.” Her eyes filled with sadness as she spoke. “All that’s over now. Nobody is going to want me to be their wife now.”

  I tried to cheer her up that day, assuring her that her future husband would understand she hadn’t willingly given up her virginity, but we both knew it was wishful thinking. Once you’re dirty, you can’t ever get clean again and we’d both been defiled.

  “There is one thing that might be important,” I say.

  They perk up immediately. They’ve grown just as tired of the question loop as I have.

  “We were both virgins,” I say. My cheeks burn with shame and humiliation.

  “How do you know?” Phil asks.

  I clear my throat. “Well, because, I know I was a virgin and Paige told me she was too. She told me all the girls he took were. I think it might be why he took us.”

  Most of the time Phil does a great job of maintaining a neutral face and not showing any emotion, but a cloud of sadness crosses his face and he shakes his head in disgust.

  SARAH

  (THEN)

  Ella’s been upstairs with him for a long time. Last night he told me he wanted to cook for her himself tonight. He didn’t need me to do it. I’m fuming. He used to cook for me, but I can’t remember the last meal he prepared. We never even get to eat together anymore. He always e
ats with one of them.

  I don’t like being down here with Paige while he’s up there with her. It’s not supposed to be this way. It makes me feel like I’m still one of them and I’m not. I’m different. I’m special. He tells me that all the time. He calls me his treasure, but sometimes I wonder if he tells them the same thing.

  I’ve thought about listening at the bedroom door when they go in there, but he’d find out and punish me. I don’t know how often he reviews the surveillance video so I don’t dare risk it. Instead, I do the dishes and clean the kitchen. I set out his clothes for the next day and get his tea ready for when he’s finished. At least he still sits with me for tea after he sends whoever it is downstairs for the night.

  “Sarah?” Paige calls out.

  “What?”

  “Do you mind if I come talk to you?”

  “I’ll come out there.” I don’t like them coming into my space. I hate even being around them. I stand in front of the sheet with my arms folded across my chest. “What?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she says. “But, I really just wanted to talk.”

  I hold back the urge to roll my eyes. Paige probably would’ve grown up to be a therapist. She used to ask to talk to me all the time when she first got here. She’d say she had an important question, but it was always something trivial. Just an excuse to talk and not be alone. But tonight she seems different and on edge. She’s having a hard time getting her words out and formulating sentences.

  “I just... I just want to... I’m...” She’s trying not to cry. She always chews on her cheek when she’s trying not to cry and I can see her doing it now. “What happened to Rachel?”

  Rachel was here when Paige was in Phase One.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  She doesn’t believe me. I can tell. It’s not the first time she’s asked.

  “Really?” Her eyes beg me for answers.

  “Paige, I’ve told you this already. I don’t know what happened to her.”

  “And Erin?”

  I didn’t know she knew about Erin. Rachel must’ve told her. Rachel was the one who replaced Erin.

  I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t ask him questions.”

  “Please, Sarah.”

  “I’m not having this conversation with you again. I don’t know, okay? I don’t know. Now, unless you have something new that you want to talk about, I’m going back to my room.”

  I turn to leave.

  “Wait,” she calls.

  I stop.

  “What does he do when he’s finished with us?” she says super-fast, each word tripping over the next.

  I should’ve known this was coming. It was only a matter of time. They always figure it out. Every single one. I did the same thing when I was the only one and John brought home Tiffany. I remember what it was like to be her and the moment it hit.

  “I like to think we get to go home,” I say.

  I give her hope because it’s the nice thing to do. Just because I’m unattached doesn’t mean I’m cruel.

  SARAH

  (NOW)

  Officer Malone has been keeping me company all day but he leaves me alone when Blake and Phil come in for more questions. Maybe if they spent more time looking for John and less time asking me questions, they might be able to find him. They stand in front of my bed, a formidable wall in front of me.

  “We want to follow up on some of our questions from yesterday,” Blake says. “Is that okay with you?”

  I say yes, but only because I can’t say no even though they’re presenting it like it’s a question.

  Blake is carrying a folder. He opens it and rummages through. Finally, he finds what he’s looking for and hands me a photograph. “Do you recognize this man?”

  I take it from him. It looks like a mug shot. The man in the picture is staring at the camera wild-eyed. His hair is greasy and messy. His lips form a straight line and he sneers at the camera like he wants to attack it.

  “Nope,” I say and hand the picture back to him. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  Blake doesn’t take it back from me. “Take another look.”

  I humor him by staring at the picture longer this time. There’s still no flicker of recognition.

  “Sorry. I wish I did, but I just don’t.”

  Blake takes the picture from me. He doesn’t put it back in the folder. He grabs a chair, slides it over to my bedside, and sits. He slaps the picture on my bed and points to it dramatically. “That man right there, Sarah? That man is your father.”

  I shake my head. “That man isn’t my dad.”

  “He’s your dad. His name is Enrique Manuel.” His eyes are locked on mine.

  I shake my head harder. “No, he isn’t. John’s my dad. I already told you that.”

  He pulls another picture out of his folder. He sets it on top of the picture of the man. “Take a look at this one.”

  It’s a picture of a girl standing with her arms in front of her, hands clasped together like she’s nervous. She looks about ten years old. Skinny legs peek out from underneath a red dress with small printed butterflies. Her eyes are partially hidden by her dark hair. She’s half-heartedly smiling at the camera. There’s a white board behind her. There’s something familiar about the dress but I can’t place her face. She might be one of the girls John brought home, but I can’t be sure.

  “She looks a little bit familiar, but I can’t say from where.”

  “I need you to tell me the truth. I’m giving you an opportunity to tell the truth.” He taps his fingers on the pictures.

  “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you, but I just can’t.”

  He pulls another picture out of his folder. This time he throws it down on top of the others. “How about this one? What about her?”

  It might be the same girl, but I can’t tell. Her head is hanging down, her hair obscuring all of her face. She’s holding out both her arms. Dark bruises run the lengths of them. Some of them look new, bright purple and red. Others faded and old, muted yellows and greens.

  “No. I don’t know her either.”

  He grabs the stack and holds the picture of the man out in front of him. “This man is your father.” He flips through to the first picture of the girl. “And this girl? This is you. Now, do you want to tell me what your name really is?”

  “Sarah. My name is Sarah Smith.” I clench my fists.

  “Sarah Smith?” His voice rises. “And your dad is John Smith? Come on, do you really think we’re that dumb? Stop playing with us.”

  “I’m not playing with you!” It comes out louder than I wanted it to.

  “Did you really think we wouldn’t find out? Like we’d somehow run around spinning our tails chasing after the millions of Sarah and John Smiths out there in the world? Why are you trying to help him?” He scoots closer to me. His breath smells like stale coffee.

  I scoot as far back as I can, pulling my blankets up to my chest. “Leave me alone. Just leave me alone. Go away. I want you to leave.”

  He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. “Did he tell you to tell us that was his name? Do you know his real name?”

  “His name is John,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Nope. I don’t believe his name is John any more than I believe your name is Sarah.” He fixes his eyes on me.

  He needs to shut up. My heartbeat explodes in my ears.

  “In fact, I already know what your name is. You see this picture?” He holds up the one of the girl covered in bruises. “This is you—Petra Manuel. It was taken at Belmont Children’s Services. It was the third time you’d been removed from your home. Do you remember why they took you away from your dad that time?”

  I glare at him. I want to shove the pictures down his throat.

  “He beat you up. Again. Your fourth grade teacher was the one who called social services that time.”

  I lunge for him and grab the pictures from his hand. I rip them into pieces and throw them at him. “Ge
t out! Get out! Get out!”

  He doesn’t move.

  “Help me! Please, somebody help me!” I scream.

  Officer Malone bursts through the door. I shake my fingers at Blake. “This man is crazy. He’s crazy! Get him away from me! Please! He’s trying to hurt me! Please!”

  Officer Malone rushes to my side. I grab him, pulling him close to me. The metal of his badge pokes into my arm. I jerk on his shirt again and again, “Please, make him stop. Make him stop.”

  I’m crying now. Animal sounds escape from my body. I flail against him, pounding on his chest, and scream at him to help me. The lights whirl around me. They’re too bright. I can’t see. There’s lots of movement around me. Everything moving too fast. The nurse is in front of me, peeling me off him. I swat at her. She comes closer and I try to bite her, sink my teeth into her arm like a dog. Now I can’t move. I’m surrounded. They hold me down. A sharp sting pinches my leg. Everything relaxes and goes still.

  ELLA

  (THEN)

  I’m starting to think I’m going to get lucky and he’s only interested in our twisted dinners. Paige says he should’ve tried by now, but he still hasn’t. I hope there’s something about me that he doesn’t like. Maybe I’m not his type. I’m afraid to hope but the more days that go on and he doesn’t make a move, I’m beginning to let myself believe it might be possible.

  Our dinners aren’t really even that bad. He asks me lots of questions about myself and seems genuinely interested, like he really cares what I have to say. It’s getting easier to just play along with him. I’ll do anything to keep him from touching me.

  I hate the baths, but I don’t fight them because they end quicker if I don’t fight. I’ve learned how to put my mind somewhere else. I’m getting good at it. I start by counting the tiles systematically from the top down. Then, I group them in threes and see how many times I can multiply them by four in my head. Once he moves down to my privates, I imagine myself being able to leave my body. Like the real me is this teeny-tiny person inside my brain that can step out and go somewhere else. Sometimes I walk on the bubbles. Other times, I dive under the water and swim near the drain. I do laps back and forth across the length of the tub. I’m usually still swimming by the time he pronounces me clean.