Page 129 of Until Joy

Chapter 32

The world came back in pieces. First, the ache in my skull that felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my temples. Then the taste of metal coating my tongue. The sound of humming, cheerful and off-key, drifted from somewhere nearby.

I tried to lift my head, but it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. My eyelids fluttered open, and I blinked against the soft morning light streaming through windows that weren't mine. This wasn't the hospital. This wasn't anywhere I recognized.

Panic shot through my veins like ice water.

I was sitting in a wooden dining chair, my ankles bound to the chair legs. More rope circled my waist and torso, keeping me upright and immobile. One of my arms hung free at my side, but it felt sluggish and disconnected when I tried to move it. The other was tied to the arm of the chair.

Whatever Glenda had injected me with was still working its way through my system.

The kitchen around me looked like something out of a magazine. Pale yellow walls, white cabinets with glass fronts showing off mismatched china, and a view of a lake through the window above the sink. Quaint. Homey. The kind of place where families gathered for Sunday dinner.

Not the kind of place where some crazy lady held another person captive.

A plate sat on the table in front of me. Orange cranberry scones, perfectly golden and still warm from the oven. A plastic cup filled with lemonade. A small bowl of what looked like clotted cream. Even a plastic spoon, the kind you'd give a toddler.

My stomach lurched. Hell, they even smelled like the scones I usually baked.

“Oh good, you're awake.”

Glenda appeared in my peripheral vision, a mixing bowl cradled in her arms like a baby. She'd changed out of the clothes she'd worn to the hospital and now sported a floral apron over a yellow sundress. Her hair was styled differently too, softer somehow, and she'd applied lipstick in a shade of pink that made her look younger.

She looked like someone's favorite aunt. Someone who baked cookies for the church social and volunteered at the animal shelter.

Not someone who drugged people and stuffed them into car trunks.

“I was starting to worry that I'd given you too much of the sedative.” Glenda set the mixing bowl on the counter and wiped her hands on her apron. “But you have such a strong constitution, I knew you’d be okay.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but only a croak came out. My throat felt like sandpaper.

“Oh, you poor thing. You must be parched.” Glenda bustled over and settled into the chair across from me. “Please, have some lemonade. I made it fresh this morning, just the way you like it.”

Her table setting was completely different from mine. Real silverware gleamed against the wooden surface. A glass tumbler instead of a plastic cup. A cloth napkin folded neatly beside her plate.

She noticed me staring. “I'm sorry about the plastic, but I can't trust you yet with anything that could be weaponized. You understand, don't you? It's just a precaution until you realize how much better this is than that life you were living.”

I struggled against the ropes binding me to the chair. They held tight, cutting into my skin when I pulled too hard. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I fought the urge to scream. Nobody would hear me out here. Wherever here was.

“Please don't do that.” Glenda reached across the table and patted my free hand. “You'll only hurt yourself, and I don't want you to be in pain.”

I jerked my hand away from her touch. “Let me go.”

“I will. Eventually. When you understand that this is where you belong.” Glenda picked up one of her scones and broke it in half, releasing the scent of orange zest and dried cranberries. “But first, I thought we could have a nice little snack together. Then maybe you could help me with something.”

She took a delicate bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I got your recipe, you know. For the pineapple upside down cake. But I could never make it come out right. The pineapple always got soggy, and the cake part was too dense.”

My blood turned to ice. “How did you get my recipe?”

Glenda's smile was radiant. “Oh, that was easy. I made myself a copy of the key from the one I found in Miss Laverne’s junk drawer. It made slipping in so much easier after that first time I climbed in through the window. Most times I visited when you were both at church, but I really enjoyed my visits when you were both sleeping. You look like an angel when you sleep, Joy.” She took another bite of the scone and this time took a sip of lemonade afterward. “I learned so much about you that way. Your favorite books, your little habits, the way you organize your recipes in that adorable little box of yours.”

The room spun around me. She'd been in the house. In my space. Going through my things while I slept just feet away.

“I found your journal too.” Glenda's eyes sparkled with excitement. “The one where you wrote about London. About that awful man who hurt you. I wanted to find him and make him pay for what he did to you, but it sounds like he's moved on to terrorizing other women.”

She'd read my journal. The private thoughts I'd written down to try and process what had happened to me. The nightmares, the fear, the shame I'd carried for years.

“You had no right.” My voice came out stronger this time, fueled by anger.