"This is insane. You kidnapped me because of something that happened over thirty years ago?"
"I kidnapped you because your father took everything from me. And now I'm going to take everything from him." She stands, the knife glinting in her hand. "Starting with you."
My blood goes cold. "Killing me won't bring your mother back."
"No. But it will make your father suffer." She smiles, and it's the most terrifying thing I've ever seen. "That's all I've ever wanted, Dalla. To make him feel what I felt. To take something precious from him and watch him break."
"He'll come for me. He's probably already on his way."
"I'm counting on it." Her eyes gleam. "I don't just want to kill you. I want him to watch. I want him to see his precious daughter die and know there's nothing he can do to stop it. I want his face to be the last thing you see, and your face to be the thing that haunts him for the rest of his miserable life."
She's insane.
Truly, genuinely insane.
Thirty years of hatred and trauma and violence have twisted her into something that barely resembles a human being.
And I'm tied to a chair with no way out.
"It doesn't have to be like this," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "What happened to you was terrible. Losing your mother, the foster system, all of it. But this—revenge, murder—it won't fix anything. It won't heal you."
"I don't want to be healed." She crouches in front of me again, the knife tracing idle patterns on my knee. Not cutting, not yet. Just reminding me it's there. "I want to watch the world burn. Starting with the man who lit the first match."
"Please. You don't have to do this."
"You're right. I don't have to." She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a specimen in a jar. "But I want to. I've wanted to for thirty years. And nothing you say is going to change that."
She stands and walks toward the window, looking out at something I can't see.
The guards remain motionless at their posts, professional and silent.
I use the moment to take stock of my situation.
The ropes on my wrists are tight but not impossible—if I had time, I might be able to work them loose.
The chair I'm tied to is old, wooden, probably not very sturdy.
But even if I could break free, there are four armed men between me and any exit.
And then there's the baby.
The thought hits me like a punch to the gut.
In the chaos of the kidnapping, the terror of waking up here, I almost forgot.
But now it comes rushing back—the positive test, the life growing inside me, the future I was going to tell RJ about tonight.
I can't just think about my own survival.
I have to think about the baby. Our baby.
My hand strains against the rope, instinctively trying to reach my stomach.
To protect. To comfort.
The movement doesn't go unnoticed.
"Uncomfortable?" Solveig asks without turning around. "The ropes too tight?"
