This is an excerpt from the forth-coming novel, River’s Rowan. You can pre-order the book, which will ship out in January 2024, from Hartprints Bookstore for discounted rates that include shipping and handling.

****

I live in a big house.

I close my eyes tight to picture it: my room sits at the top of the curved staircase. It’s larger than most bedrooms, especially if you count the closet that’s large enough for me to walk around in. There’s a small sitting stool in there for me to put shoes on and, on every wall, the latest in teen fashion. One of my favorite parts of my closet is the small vanity tucked into the corner: it has a large mirror surrounded by bright lights. A girl needs a space to get world ready, Mom says. The vanity has followed me many places: when I was very little, it sat in my room, not the closet, because I really liked the bright lights around it. It made me feel like a movie star. It got moved to the closet when I was in middle school because I thought it looked too childish… but I still liked it too much to get rid of it entirely. Besides, it’s where my jewelry lives.

In the left drawer is a box: a small, red velvet box where I keep my favorite jewels. The key to jewelry is not to overload yourself — I went through a phase where I literally wore a ring on every finger except the thumbs. This is not the way to do it: less is more, my mother says. She should know. She placed in every pageant she ever entered. These days, I only wear one ring and one bracelet. My favorite is the one Mom got me for Christmas: a simple emerald on a thin gold band. My name is engraved on the inside of the band. It was the ring I had on the day…. the day I went to the search. I normally take my jewelry off at night, but I didn’t that night. I was so tired.

I lay on my back in this dark room, twirling it around on my finger. I use my thumb and pinkie fingers to push it off, hold it up to the window so, with the light of the moon streaming in, can see my name engraved on the golden band. Willow.

I named you Willow because of the tree. They are beautiful: they’ve inspired many poems. But that’s not the reason I named you after the tree. I named you after the tree because it has healing properties. There is an element found in the bark of the willow tree that is similar to aspirin. In fact, when they grow antlers, male deer will seek out willow trees to help relieve the itch caused by the growing antlers. You healed a lot of pain, you’ve given me a second chance.

Modeling, pageants. Mom loves it all: the glitter, the make-up, the costumes, the lights. I like winning… but I’m not sure I like any of the rest of it. “Good morning, Willow.” The sound of his voice makes my heart leap into my throat. The ring slides back into place on my finger as I sit up, drawing my knees up to my chin. He drops a bag on the edge of the bed beside me: breakfast. the smell of a warm biscuit wafts towards me, and I can’t wait. I grab the bag, and pull the biscuit out, taking a big bite of it. He makes a tsk tsk sound, sitting in the chair to watch me. “My, my, how quickly you go from princess to dog. What would your mother say about all those calories you’re so excited to eat up?” His voice is light, sing song like, and it makes me hate myself.

I swallow hard, the biscuit pausing at my mouth. How does he know about my mother? Carefully, I continue eating because Mom also says, “Your strength is very important: you need it to carry yourself well. Someone who is sick cannot walk properly and will not win. She would tell me to eat. Still, a tiny part of me holds back now when I wasn’t before, afraid of something I can’t even name. The darkness of the room makes it hard to see him.

“While you’re working on that fattening up there, Willow, I’ll let you know what I’m thinking.” He leans back, crosses one knee over another, and looks around the room. “I’m thinking that your space here…. it needs some redoing, some decorations to it? It’s very different from what you’re used to, after all.”

My jaw stops moving quickly, my eyes widen as I listen carefully, trying to hear hat he’s not saying, trying to hear any lies or red flags. My heart beats against my chest. He smiles. “I like surprises, though, so I can’t very well let you stay in here while it’s redone. I’d rather it be a surprise for you. So,” he claps his hands together and the sound is so loud. “You’ll come back to the house again, just like before. Wear the ankle bracelet, be a good girl and, when you come back, you’ll feel more at home here. What do you say?”

I don’t want to agree to anything he says, but…

He sprints up out of the chair, the sound of its legs scratching against the floor loud and disorienting. I don’t see his arm before his fist punches me in the face once, twice. I’m knocked backward on the bed, the back of my head hitting the wall. He steps away, his smile gone. “When I ask you a question, you’ll answer it,” his voice isn’t angry; it’s still calm. I nod, feeling my lip. A spot of blood stains my fingers.

He tells me let’s go, and I stand, although I don’t know how.

I’ve been to mansion before. Twice, each for a few days.

Sometimes he’s nice there. I’m fed well. I can move around, even go outside each day. I’ve even caught myself smiling. Still… part of me would rather stay in the Radical Redress, alone, than be in the house. I don’t know why, really, I only know it’s how I feel. People speak to you, but they don’t mean anything they say. The world looks funny as we ride from the shack to the house. The sun shines, it’s bright and colorful: I see the gardener, and the barn with two of the horses in the pasture. A mansion is never still. There are always people taking care of the details of living in a house of this size. I see the life… but I don’t feel it.

The ankle bracelet lays patiently on his dark. He watches me put it on, checks his phone to make sure it’s working, and then smiles at me, winking as he says, “Have a good day.” I’m dismissed. Swallowing, I pad down the hall toward the kitchen. Food. I think a lot about food these days. When I’m in the Radical Redress, I think about food because my stomach grumbles loudly every day. When I’m in the house, I think about food because I know I’ll go back to the Radical Redress. When I don’t eat, I worry about starving. When I do eat, I worry I’ll eat too much. It’s easy to do that: a few extra bites here and there and, suddenly, the dress for the pageant won’t fit right. I guess a part of me wants to make sure that, when this is over, I go back to being me: doing all the things I’ve always done. Write, model, worry about which colleges to apply to. When this is over.

The kitchen is quiet; only Nan stands at the counter, chopping onions. She glances towards me, smiles politely, like they all do, and returns to prepping food. I don’t want her to think I’m a slob, or that all I do is eat, but the rumbling of my stomach worries me. I should save at least some of it. I grab an apple, drop it in my pocket.

“I’m sure it’s very different being here than at home.”

I stop walking, turn my head. Nan still chops onions, but she’s twisted her head sideways to look at me. I don’t know if she knows about the Radical Redress. I don’t know if she knows about what he does at night in this house, but I don’t trust her. I swallow, my heart thumping loud in my chest. Before I can stop myself, I ask, “Can I … do you have a cell phone I could use?”

She frowns, looks away from me. “Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

***** ***** *****

There’s a few very tall oak trees outside the window in this bedroom. I lay in the bed, my arms wrapped around a body pillow, watching the wind swish the leaves back and forth. My eyes shift randomly, fall upon the small, discreet alarm clock on the nightstand. Eleven thirty. One sad thing is time. I crave knowing the time in the Radical Redress because there’s nothing but four walls, and it feels like a day lasts three years. There, I keep time by when I wake up, when he comes with food, and when I get sleepy again. But… here, in the house, time reminds me that life goes on with, or without, me. At eleven-thirty at night, Mom’s finally upstairs, getting ready for bed, after doing the laundry and wiping down the kitchen. No one’s world really stops because someone’s gone missing. Here, time breaks my heart, and sends fear cascading down my spine.

Unable to lay here, I walk quietly out of the room. Without a window, the hallway is dark. Frames line the walls: expensive abstract art, a painting of the downtown skyline, a few of River at various ages. I slide my fingers lightly along the marble banister, moving downstairs. I cut through the large living room with its curved sofa and wing-backed chairs. Downstairs, the windows allow yellow streams of moonlight in. I’m not sure where I’m going, but my eyes skitter to the front door as I pass into the foyer. My steps falter, and the thought just walk out crosses my mind. If I do, though, he’ll know: I can’t remove the ankle bracelet. How far could I get? Hating myself for not having the courage, I keep walking. The kitchen on my right, down a smaller hallway to the library on the right.

Floor to ceiling bookcases line each side of the room. The room is lit only by two small lamps. Am I the only one? This thought has been drifting through my mind at odd times. It feels like too much of a coincidence for Sierra and Brielle to show up missing. And now me. Fear lights my eyes: where are they? Jonathan Calloway has been eliminated as a person of interest. That’s what the police said. He has an alibi, voluntarily took, and passed, a lie detection test, and has offered a ten thousand dollar reward for information leading to the safe recovery of the girls. What if he offered that reward, though, because he knew the girls wouldn’t be recovered? Low in the pit of my belly, nerves collide, making me queasy. “You’re alive,” I whisper, reminding myself that he’s kept me alive. If he’s kept me alive, why wouldn’t the other girls also be alive?

Information. I need information. I’m a journalist and I’m in his house. Everything around me is a detail that might help. My eyes roam over the bookcase. Hundreds of books. What does he read? There’s John Grisham, Tom Clancy, history books, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury: the Greatest Closing Statements. My eyebrows pinch: legal books. But he’s not in the legal field, right, he’s in real estate? On the top shelf, I see a larger book without a name on the spine. I pull it partially off the shelf to see the cover: it looks like a notebook. I hold it in my hands and flip the cover open. The first few pages look like blueprints: sketches of a small building. The Radical Redress? From the drawings, it looks like there might be more than one room in the shack. My eyes move to the door of the library, but it is still closed, and I don’t hear anything. Cameras. I’m reminded he can likely see me. I can’t quell the curiosity, though: I turn another page. Newspaper clippings of River’s death. See October 14 post is written. My brain spins: October 14 post? What post? I scan the rest of the page, but don’t see anything about a post. I turn to the next page and there’s more clippings–on the page about the funeral, there’s a picture of Brielle standing alone at the gravesite. She went to the funeral? I shake my head, turn the page. There’s a picture of a girl I don’t know. Scribbled beneath her picture are the words, November 1: Sage. Who is Sage? I stare at her, trying to think if I’ve ever seen this girl before, but she’s completely unfamiliar. The next page is titled, Bullies. A picture of Sierra is in the top corner. Below her picture, the words: Racist. November 15. My heart skyrockets as a memory shoots through my nervous system: when I interviewed her, she said, He’s a racist. He asked my boyfriend what it was like to kiss a darkie. I swallow, cover my mouth with one hand. Beside Sierra is Brielle. Below her picture: January 8. Stardust. My stomach churns. What does stardust mean?

Below Sierra is a picture of another girl: I recognize her from school. Eden. Below her picture, the words, March 17. There’s a space beside Eden, but no picture. I’m not in this book. Yet? when the question wafts through my mind, I quickly flip the pages, but see nothing else. My mind whirls. “Think, Willow, think,” I murmur. How long has Eden been missing, did she go missing in March? What are the dates?

The turning of the doorknob makes my heart skyrocket. I scramble, pushing the book back into the bookshelf. I’m not sure why I do it, but I push the ring on my hand off, drop it on the floor and use my toe to push it behind the bookshelf. Without thinking, I grab a random book from the shelf and hold it tightly. I am shaking when he steps into the room. Shadows fall across his face; I can’t tell what mood he’s in. I rarely can. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t say anything. I put the book I hold back on the shelf, walk on knees that shake to sit on the couch, while he walks across the room to the desk. Sitting, and propping an elbow on his knee, he pulls his phone out, starts scrolling, a king in his castle. My eyes dart back to the library door, my mind spinning with what I saw in the notebook. Would I have time–

“River was impulsive, too. Like you.”

My eyes shift. I’m not impulsive. I know better than to say it, but I’m not. I think about everything a million times before —

He cocks his head to the side, raising a brow. “Dare to deny that you’re impulsive? I can prove it, if you’d like. Listen to this.” He pushes a button on the phone and holds it up in the air facing me. “Can I… do you have a cell phone I could use?” Color floods my face as I hear myself. There are devices recording you all over this house. I swallow repeatedly, fear making me feel sick. “Do you remember the conversation we had where I told you what would happen if you tried to use a phone?” I’ll kill you, I promise you I will.

I don’t even know what I’m doing until my feet are on the floor and I feel myself running toward the library door. I don’t get far when, from nowhere, I feel him yank my hair. My head is pushed forward and slams into the door I tried to reach. Pain shoots through my head. Arms fly as I try to scratch his face, my fists connect with his skin, but I’m suddenly thrown hard onto the ground. I feel my head shaking from side to side like a maniac, my legs try to kick, and I twist my body, fighting with everything I have. I bite down as hard as I can on the hand that’s locked over my mouth. When he grunts, loosening his fingers, I scramble again, making it up to my knees. I scream, as loud as I can, and am trying to stand when something crashes against the back of my head.

The world goes black.

The sound of my name jerks me awake. I jolt upright, but my arms won’t move. I look down and see that I am tied to the desk chair; I can’t scream because cloth is in my mouth. Terror pools in the pit of my stomach. Jonathan–tall, handsome, and furious Jonathan–sits in front of me. “Clearly, I win that argument: you are impulsive. The next time you try to run, or raise even a finger to me, I will kill you. Do you understand?”

Answer me when I ask you a question.

I nod, unable to speak because of the cloth in my mouth.

Something wet trickles into the corner of my eye and I realize my whole face hurts. Is it tears? It is hard to breathe with my heartrate racing. “Your little stunt is getting you kicked out of the house. I thought you would behave, but I see that you won’t. First, you try to use a phone, then you attack me in my own house. You have a long way to go, a lot to learn. And you’ll do it at the Radical Redress.” He stands. “Fortunately for you, I did get to the remodeling of your room earlier in the day. I think you’re going to like it. I’m going to untie you and you are going to walk until I tell you to stop. Got that?”

I nod.

He does as he says, unties my wrists from the chair. I do as told: I put one foot in front of the other. As we walk, he talks: “If you want to save your life, Willow, I suggest you get with the program. I have no reason to keep you alive. You need to give me that reason. The sooner you accept this is your life, the better you’ll be.” The front door opens. The moon is but a sliver tonight, only offers a sprinkling of light. It casts shadows along the fountain in the drive, along the columns of the house, along the expensive truck. My bottom lip is split and swollen. My eyes, too, and there’s a knot on the back of my head. Bruises dot my arms; my legs shake.

Jonathan doesn’t speak as he parks the truck in front of the shack, but staring at The Radical Redress makes breathing difficult. Thunder rolls inside my head; my heart pumps hard. He’s been here for hours, grilling me about my parents, about my writing, about my modeling, about everything. Exhaustion curls through me. Memories of what he calls ice breaker games roll through me in waves. I can’t do that again. Like he’s in a distant room, I hear him tell me to get out of the truck. Like a wooden doll, I obey.

It isn’t until he says, “Enjoy the view,” and closes the cell door that I realize what’s different. Mirrors. Every wall is now a mirror, from floor to ceiling. Light floods the room. He’s given me light. I can’t process that, though, because of the mirrors. I stop breathing. My face. My fingers lift to touch my cheek; a long gash mars the left side of my face, cutting from just under my eyelid diagonally down to my chin. On my forehead, just above my eyebrow, the word BULLY is carved.

I don’t realize the scream that fills the room is me: it doesn’t sound like me. It is the shrill, piercing scream of death. I turn, but I can’t get away from the mirrors. They are everywhere. My shaking fingers slap the switch on the wall, but the lights won’t turn off. Once jailed here in pitch blackness, now light traps me. The scream fills the soundproofed room, but I still can’t recognize it as me. It morphs from the high-pitched, shrieking noise to a guttural moan that sounds like a bear growling.

Who am I?