Chapter 2: Racing Against the Dark

02

I sprang out of bed, snatched my keys, and bolted for the door.

Didn’t bother with socks or a jacket—just shoved my feet into sneakers and sprinted into the cold Ohio night. The slam of my front door echoed down the empty hallway. My hands shook so bad I almost dropped my keys unlocking my beat-up Camry.

I kept calling my sister as I sped through the streets, but she never picked up.

Every unanswered ring twisted my gut tighter. The city lights blurred past the windshield as I blew through red lights, praying I wouldn’t get pulled over and lose time.

Anxiety clawed at me. I called 911, voice cracking as I told them everything I knew.

I didn’t care if I sounded hysterical—I gave them every detail: the address, the apartment number, the names, even the color of her shower curtain, desperate for anything that could help.

The dispatcher’s voice was calm but urgent, promising over and over that backup was already on the way. I clung to that thread of hope in the fog of fear.

Only then did I let myself feel the faintest relief.

Just knowing someone else might reach her before me eased my chest a little. Far-off sirens sounded like angels coming to save her.

That old creep had always been a sleazebag, even when he was younger. The worst was when he caught an STD from cheating and gave it to his wife.

I remembered the whispers at family barbecues—snide jokes, pitiful glances. He was always the guy double-fisting beers at the Fourth of July cookout, the one who made the waitresses at Applebee’s flinch. Even as a kid, I knew to steer clear.

Then he blamed her, accusing her of cheating and giving him the disease.

The audacity—twisting his filth into a weapon against the only person who’d stood by him. He’d never taken responsibility for anything in his life.

His wife had been stunned. "You’re the only man I’ve ever been with. How could I get something like this?" she’d said, hands nervously twisting her cardigan at Thanksgiving. She sounded more bewildered than angry, as if she was trying to solve a puzzle that made no sense.

She was always with her girlfriends or home with the kids. The truth was obvious.

Anyone could see she barely had time for herself, let alone anyone else. Always running the church bake sale, picking up grandkids, never late, never unreliable.

But the old creep changed his story: "Then you must be dirty and unhygienic!"

He always had a comeback, always with a sneer, like he was doing her a favor by explaining it.

Back then, no one talked about things like this. His wife actually believed him, never asked anyone for help, and ended up caring for him even more.

That was the era—shame kept behind closed doors. She’d go to the doctor late at night, sunglasses on indoors, pretending it was a cold, not something that broke her heart. She tried to love him better, as if that could erase what he’d done.

He even bragged about it to his friends.

One Christmas, I overheard him at the neighborhood bar, boasting to his buddies about how clever he was. His grin was grotesque under flickering Christmas lights as he said, "She got sick too, so she couldn’t go out looking for men. Now I could finally relax."

They all cackled, clapping him on the back like it was just guy talk. I wanted to puke behind the rack of dusty pool cues.

We’d always heard the old creep had a terrible reputation, but never imagined it was this bad.

There were always rumors from the neighbors—"watch out for that one"—but no one ever said it outright. The truth turned out even worse than the whispers.

At first, my parents were dead set against my sister marrying into that family. But she was young, naïve, and obsessed with their son. The old creep swore he’d changed, and his son, Ethan, seemed nothing like him.

She was head-over-heels, blind to everything but love. My parents tried bribes, threats, even cutting her off—but love makes you stupid, and the old man played the part well enough to fool us. Ethan seemed like a decent guy—quiet, hardworking. Or so we thought.

That’s how our parents finally caved, though they never felt good about it.

I still remember Mom’s face at the wedding—a half-smile, half-wince, clutching her purse like a life raft. Dad just clenched his jaw all night, never relaxing. We all tried to believe it could work, but the dread never left.