It opens.
A wall of sound blasts me—a piercing, shrieking alarm that sounds like a banshee screaming.
WEE-OOO-WEE-OOO.
I slam the door shut instantly. The sound cuts off abruptly, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
My heart is thundering in my ears. He wasn't lying. I can't leave. The elevator is biometrically locked. The stairs are alarmed. I am trapped in a glass box a thousand feet above the ground.
I back away from the door, trembling.
I need to think. I need to find a weapon. I need to eat.
My stomach growls, a loud, angry reminder that I haven't eaten since a granola bar yesterday afternoon.
I turn toward the kitchen. It’s a chef’s dream—stainless steel, black marble, an island the size of a landing strip.
On the counter, sitting on a pristine white placemat, is a tray.
I walk over to it cautiously, half-expecting it to bite me.
There’s a silver thermos of coffee, a bowl of fresh berries—blackberries and raspberries, dark and ripe—and a plate with an omelet that is somehow still warm under a glass dome.
And a note.
It’s written on thick, cream-colored cardstock in black ink. The handwriting is jagged, sharp, assertive.
*Eat every bite. I will know if you don't.
?S*
I stare at the note. The arrogance of it makes my blood boil. He thinks he can just leave me here like a pet, put out a bowl of food, and I’ll just obediently consume it?
I want to throw the plate against the wall. I want to smash the glass dome and use the shards to slit the throat of the leather sofa.
But I’m starving. And I’m weak.
If I’m going to fight him—and Iamgoing to fight him—I need energy.
I sit on one of the high stools and lift the dome. The smell of eggs, spinach, and feta hits me, and my mouth waters traitorously.
I eat. I hate myself for it, but I eat. I devour the eggs. I drink the coffee—it’s black, strong, and expensive. It tastes like fuel.
As I eat, I look around the room. It’s impersonal. Cold. There are no photos. No knick-knacks. No sign that a human being lives here, let alone a monster.
Except for one door.
It’s down a short hallway off the kitchen, separate from the bedrooms. The door is dark wood, heavy, solid.
Curiosity pulls at me.
I finish the last blackberry, wiping the juice from my lip with my thumb. I slide off the stool and creep toward the hallway.
The door is closed. I reach out and turn the knob.
Locked.
Of course.
