Left for Dead: A gripping psychological thriller Read Online Free PDF

jaw as he thinks.
    “Okay,” he says, sitting back, satisfied.
    I rearrange my legs to let out some tension and he moves to the other side of the fire and stokes the embers with a stick, throws on more wood. Then he is out of my line of sight, going to the car, popping the trunk.
    For one God awful minute, I think he’s going to make me sleep in there. But then he’s back by my side with that blanket, kneeling down to slip a zip tie around my ankle, securing it to his own so we are Siamese twins. My skin itches at the thought of being next to him all night long or that he may touch me again, accidentally or otherwise. To my relief, he keeps his distance and lies on his back with his arm under his head.
    “Would you look at those stars,” he says.
    He pulls the blanket up so that it covers our shoulders. I catch the scent of leather polish and salt and freshly laundered clothes.
    “Sleep tight, Amelia.”
    *
    I feel a tug on my leg. It’s Matthew rousing me for one of our rare Sunday morning brunches at that sweet little diner near Central Park, the one with the best eggs Benedict and freshly squeezed pomegranate juice, and a great window seat where you can watch little kids skip their way to the zoo. But when I open my eyes, I see the porous weave of the cloth, and remember exactly where I am.
    It’s daylight. The forest is alive with morning sounds. I see his outline, half-turned from me, putting the zip tie he’s taken from our ankles into his jacket pocket. He stands, stretches, and looks over his shoulder.
    “Morning,” he says.
    He kicks the ashes of the dead fire with his boot.
    “You like coffee? Of course you like coffee. Who doesn’t like coffee?”
    I pretend I’m asleep while he retrieves a large bottle of water and tips some into a metal container then puts the container on the small gas cooker to boil. He opens a cooler, gets out two plastic mugs, and spoons in some instant coffee, pouring in hot water last.
    He looms over me.
    “Sit up.” I don’t move. “Quit fooling, Amelia. I know you’re awake. You’ve got coffee coming.”
    I give in and try to raise myself up but it’s difficult with the zip ties on my wrists so he helps me to a sitting position and guides the mug into my hands.
    “Don’t burn yourself.”
    I think about throwing it in his face. Then what? Run again? Make him angrier than before? So I go with it and take a sip. It’s piping hot and way too strong.
    He makes oatmeal in the metal container and feeds me again.
    “Do your hands hurt? Your wrists?”
    I nod.
    “It needs be one or the other.” He sounds apologetic as he removes the wrist ties but secures my ankles.
    After he’s done, he stands up and rubs the back of his neck.
    “Okay,” he says, blowing out a breath. Like, okay, there’s work to be done. Okay, what can I do to her next?
    Okay turns out to mean performing the mundane duties of cleaning the breakfast bowls and coffee mugs then returning to the trunk to pull out a shovel and two brown tarps. He lays one tarp flat on the ground between two trees, and hooks three tartan bungee cords through the other tarp’s aluminum grommets and secures it to the tree like some sort of lean-to shelter. He retrieves something else. A sleeping bag and two pillows.
    Oh God. I’ve seen enough true crime documentaries to know how this goes. He’s in this for the long haul. He carries on, busies himself gathering wood, setting up the supplies, digging a latrine, and I lie down on my side and close my eyes because I don’t know what else to do. I can tell by his light-footedness that he’s happy and I wouldn’t be surprised if he started humming or whistling to himself. I try to think of a plan, some sort of plan, to regain some control, but I seem to be in this strange state of shock, a stunned paralysis of the mind where everything will not compute properly, as if I’m a survivor of a plane wreck, walking around in circles in my own mind.

12
    When he shakes me