And the terrifying silence from upstairs.
Daisy. He'd taken her upstairs hours ago, I thought it was hours; time was elastic down here, and I hadn't heard her voice since.
The absence of her cries was worse than the screams had been. So much worse.
At least screaming meant alive. Meant fighting.
Silence meant... I couldn't let myself think what silence meant.
I pressed my forehead against the cold column. Focused on breathing. In. Out. For her. I had to stay conscious, stay ready, for whatever chance might come.
My gaze, desperate for anything to anchor to that wasn't terror, found something.
There. In a crack in the foundation, maybe two feet from my face.
A weed.
A single, impossibly green weed. Not gray or brown or dying,green. Vibrant. A defiant fist of life pushing through concrete that should have crushed it. Its tiny leaves were perfect, catching what little light filtered into this tomb.
How? How was it alive down here in the dark?
But it was. It had found a way. Had pushed through impossible weight and found light and refused to die.
I stared at it, made it my talisman. My proof.
Life finds a way. Hold on. Just hold on.
The only other sound was the occasional, distant creak of the old building settling. It was ancient wood and metal sighing under decades of decay. And the faint, maddening drip of water from a pipe somewhere in the darkness. Each drop felt like it was marking seconds.
Drip. How many seconds until he came back?
Drip. How many until he decided he was done with us?
Drip.
Then—footsteps.
Not the frantic pacing of his associates from before. These were different. Slow and deliberate as he descended the metal stairs with purpose.
My entire body went rigid. Every muscle locked despite the exhaustion, despite the pain. Prey instinct.
Carter appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
He looked different now. Agitated. Wired. But with a chilling focus that was somehow worse than rage.
He ignored me at first, checking his watch, muttering to one of the other men, a hulking guy with prison tattoos creeping up his neck. Something about a "window." The associate nodded and disappeared back upstairs, boots clanging on metal.
Then Carter turned his full attention to me.
He walked a slow circle around my bound form, like a sculptor assessing a block of marble. Or a butcher considering a cut of meat.
"He thinks he won," Carter mused, his voice almost conversational. "Locking me away. Twenty months in a six-by-eight cell. All his money, his lawyers, his perfect little case."
He crouched in front of me, bringing himself to my eye level. His cologne, once sharp and expensive, was stale now. Mixed with sweat and the dank smell of this place and something manic.
"But prison teaches you patience, Anna. And clarity. I had twenty months to think about what justice really looks like for Jack Spencer." He grabbed my chin roughly, forced me to look at him. "Hurting you? That's obvious. That's just revenge. Personal."
His grip tightened, fingers digging into bruised flesh.
