The woman paid me no mind as she continued sweeping the glass from the floor. The faint crunch of shards under the broom filled the silence.
Last time I was down here, I’d asked her who was keeping her trapped. Our conversation had ended with her screaming the word “monster.” She also hadn’t helped when the police were here. She could have opened that rock door—though if this place was soundproof, had she even heard us when the police came?
“You live down here?” I asked.
She shot me an irritated look and kept sweeping.
Obviously, she did.
I had to be smarter. Whoever she was, she didn’t seem like the type to tolerate small talk. She believed something or someone was keeping her here. A monster.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Cynthia,” she said without looking at me. Her hand froze briefly around the dustpan, like she was waiting for my reaction.
My breath caught.
Cynthia.
How was that possible?
When I didn’t say anything, she continued cleaning.
My eyes drifted around the room, searching for something—anything—that made sense. Cynthia. How the hell was her name Cynthia? My gaze caught on the open door leading into what looked like her bedroom. The bedspread was rumpled. On top of it, I spotted the silky pink pajamas that I’d seen upstairs—in Daniel’s parents’ room, right before I’d passed out. Beside them had been a folded pair of striped men’s pajamas.
And on the nightstand . . . goddamn pig figurines.
I leaned forward, my heart knocking against my ribs.
What the hell was going on here?
“I knew a Cynthia once,” I said. It wasn’t just the name. I could have ignored that. But the pigs...
She walked to the trash bin and emptied the dustpan with a soft clatter. “Of course you did,” she said. “It’s a common name.”
I nodded slowly. “It is. Strange thing, though. She also collected pig figures.”
Still unfazed, Cynthia returned the dustpan and broom to a narrow pantry cabinet. “Hmm. Did she also fight monsters, that Cynthia of yours?”
Cynthia’s torn, wide eyes flashed in front of me—empty and stretched with horror, her mouth frozen open in a silent scream as her brains scattered on the floor.
“She did.” My voice came out low. “But a monster killed her.”
That got Cynthia’s attention. She turned toward me. “That’s what they do.” Her voice softened, becoming almost gentle. It was like she was offering her own version of “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I hesitated, choosing my next words with care. “Do I...do I have to be afraid of the monster here?”
Her eyes narrowed. She was trying to read me.
“I saw what they can do,” I added quickly. “How dangerous they are.”
“Yes. Very dangerous.”
Cynthia turned and walked to the sink. Beside it, the dishwasher beeped faintly as she opened it. She began unloading dishes, placing them one by one into upper and lower cabinets, her movements smooth and practiced.
“They hurt people,” she continued. “Even kill them.” She picked up a pot, dried it with a dish towel, and stacked it below the counter. “The monster here at the Breakers is no different. But as long as I’m here, he won’t hurt you.”
That wasn’t exactly comforting. First of all, she was locked in a basement. Second, she didn’t seem any more stable than I was.
