Page 1 of Wildling

Chapter 1

Rust…

The color I picture as I consider which paints to use to get the hue right. Such an ugly color, but the only one that comes to mind as I recall my time in complete and utter isolation. I close my eyes and recall that memory⁠—

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Sitting alone in my Vancouver studio apartment, I dip my paintbrush into red and yellow paint, mixing the colors until it’s just right. I pause and imagine that rust spiraling up the wall of the bunker I called home for three months. Then I take my time stroking the canvas with soft, gentle ease. A mixture of dark tones splattered all over it. A pattern that makes no coherent sense, which is the manifestation of my brain and botched memories of pain and darkness. Though something more vivid creeps into the peripheral, only for it to seep out again as soon as I try to capture it.

A woodsy scent causes my stomach to sink and my heart rate to quicken, and I lose my ability to breathe. My eyes pop open as my breath catches itself, and my apartment comes back into focus. This flutter in my belly isn’t right given I was abducted by a monster. I shouldn’t be missing him with every fiber of my soul.

Regina, my therapist and an old family friend, told me painting these fleeting thoughts will help with my recovery. For three months, I was held captive in that dreadful place. Yet, all I remember are the grim, rusty walls, a persistent dripping sound that still echoes in my mind, and an aching sadness in my heart.

There is more—so much more. But my mind grows blank every time I try to recall anything. So, all I’m using is the rust color on a blank canvas, and hopefully my brain can fill in the rest. I grow dizzy as flashes come back to me. Blood, flesh, tears, and agony. My mind blocked these memories for a reason. Perhaps I shouldn’t be in such a hurry to draw them out.

Placing the paintbrush down, I grab the remote and turn the television on, leaning back on my couch, giving my mind a break. Regina told me to give myself some grace and never to force the memories. They will come back naturally.

A few moments later, the news program interrupts, and a photo of a man I recognize pops up on the screen. My mouth falls open when a photo of me pops up alongside him. My abductor, Toby Myers, has died in jail. But that’s not what my focus is on. I can’t take my eyes off the picture of me they chose. It’s typical. They always use a picture before I was taken when I was glowing and shiny, never showing what I turned into. Layla Ashby, the darling daughter of business mogul Beth Ashby, President and CEO of Stormwood Lumber. My dark hair is curled to my shoulders, and my red lipstick is a stark contrast to my pale complexion. I was the perfect image of her until I wasn’t.

They found me in those woods, barefoot, bruised extensively, and with no memories. Wild and feral. The slightest bit of noise alarmed my senses, causing me to bare my teeth. When they found me, I couldn’t speak, my voice coming out in grunts and moans like I hadn’t spoken out loud in months. A shell of what I once was. Isolation, apparently, will do that to a person.

The sight of my captor on the screen elicits nothing inside me. A dark, empty void of emotion as I read the headline carefully…

Toby Myers (52), charged with the kidnapping, forcible confinement, and torture of Layla Ashby (21), dies in incarceration from suicide. Layla Ashby is the sole heir to the Ashby fortune and daughter of business mogul Beth Ashby (39).

It’s been three months since they found me roaming on the edges of his property. The bruises have faded, but I still can’t remember how I ended up there. Missing for exactly ninety-six days after leaving the house for a morning run. Unfortunately, Beth pulled some strings, and he ended up in a maximum-security penitentiary. I guess he will never make it to the trial.

He denied it, of course, claiming he had no idea why I was on his property. Given he owned twenty-five acres of dense forest on the side of a mountain, perhaps he was right. He worked for my family company for years before getting let go five years earlier, but I never met him. He is and always will be a stranger to me.

My phone buzzes on the cushion next to me. Beth’s name pops up. I let out a deep sigh and answer it, keeping her on speaker. I have no desire to talk to her right now, but if I don’t answer, she will call Regina and worse? She might drive into the city to check on me. She only allows me to stay in the city because Regina’s offices are in downtown Vancouver and the world-renowned Dr. Price is the only person my mom trusts for my therapy.

Beth’s voice is frantic. “Layla, whatever you do, don’t watch the news and stay off social media.” Beth took my social media accounts away months ago, so I’m not sure why she thinks I would.

I chew on my bottom lip harder than I should as I watch the stranger on the screen. “It’s too late. I’m already watching it.”

A pause, then a sigh. “Laylabug, it’s over now. He’s gone, and he can never hurt you again.”

A twinge hits my stomach, and I grab my paintbrush again, now forming broad strokes, circles framing the formations of a face.

A face…not the one I’m staring at on the screen, either.

“I’m aware,” I say absentmindedly as I try to capture what’s suddenly popped into my head.

Eyes. Golden eyes and dark features covered by a mask. A burning sensation hits my skin as I skim the surface of my memories. Truth is, I do remember someone. I just can’t articulate who that someone is.

The local Stormwood detective on my case, Detective Sarah Crawley, found an empty bunker with my DNA all over it. My DNA and only mine. At least the DNA that was fresh. They scoured it top to bottom and found no concrete evidence that anyone else was with me during that time.

I gaze at Toby Myers on the screen, his face looking entirely wrong. His eyes aren’t golden like my masked man’s.

Taking the phone with me, I rise and cross the room to my bed near the open window. I enjoy the cool breeze while I sleep. The fresh air makes me feel free. But I haven’t been free since the day they found me.

I grab the small pill bottle on my side table and open it, shaking the contents onto my palm, and frown.

“Shit,” I mutter. “Two left.”

“Layla! Are you still there?”

“Yeah, Mom, sorry. I’m here.”