FOUR
Coco
The Northshore: Across Lake Pontchartrain lies the Northshore, long used as a retreat from New Orleans’ noise and scrutiny. With its wooded land, scattered homes, and easy isolation, it has always been a place to step out of sight—and keep things contained.
I waketo a dull ache pulsing through my wrists.
It’s distant at first, like my body is still deciding whether it belongs to me, but then the weight settles in heavily. Wrong. My arms won’t lift. My legs won’t bend.
Every instinct tells me to move, and nothing listens.
My fingers tingle. They’re numb and burning at the same time. The sensation crawls up my forearms, sharp enough now to cut through the fog clogging my head.
I try to shift. Even that is too much because whatever has me tied up bites into my skin.
The memory returns in fragments I can’t quite hold onto yet. The sensation of hands. Shadows. Something pressed hard over my mouth. Then my eyes finally open.
The room is dim, lit only by a small night light pluggedinto the wall. It casts just enough glow to outline the ceiling above me and produce a dull gray over the room, but not enough to give me any clue as to where I am.
I don’t need to see more to understand what’s happening.
I’m restrained somewhere, by someone who doesn’t want me to leave.
My wrists are bound, my ankles secured, leather restraints drawn tight enough that movement is impossible. The mattress gives just enough to be uncomfortable, not enough to help.
I pull my right arm, testing the strength of the ties. Pain flares immediately and sharply where the leather cuts into my skin, racing up my arms and down my legs. My pulse jumps loud enough that it fills the room.
I pull again, harder this time, even though I know it won’t make a difference. Panic demands it, rising fast and merciless in my chest.
Nothing gives.
The bed doesn’t shift. The restraints don’t loosen. The only sound in the room is my own pulse, loud in my ears, and the rasp of my breathing as it turns shallow and uneven. Each inhale scrapes against my ribs, like my lungs have forgotten the rhythm they’re supposed to follow.
That’s when fear settles in for real.
It tightens slowly at first, then all at once, squeezing until the air is thin and unreliable. I draw breath too fast, too shallow, my nose filling with the scent of old wood, dust, and something faintly metallic that makes my stomach roll.
I force myself to stop pulling. Not because the panic eases, but because the pain is growing, and pulling isn’t doing anything to help.
Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. The restraints are precise.
There’s a dampness in the air, mixing with a chill that seeps into my bones. The coarse fabric of the bedspread beneath me is scratchy against my back through my shirt, making an already nightmare situation that much more uncomfortable.
This isn’t a dungeon. It’s more like a spare room that’s been stripped down to serve a purpose.
I try to lift my head, but the restraints will only allow me to lift it a few inches. All I can do is stare up at the plain ceiling. Its blank and oppressive canvas is dark gray and complete with cracks spidering out from one corner. The nightlight gives off enough light to at least make that out.
It’s silent. No street noise. No voices. Just a quiet that presses down on me, heavy enough to feel physical.
My eyes dart around the edges of my vision. The sheer curtains blur the view outside, but the shifting light tells me it’s dawn. Wherever I am, it’s far from the city.
Shadows cling to the corners of the room, pooling around dark, rough-hewn furniture. There is a wooden dresser, a single chair, both stark and cold against the gray walls. There’s nothing soft, nothing welcoming. Just hard edges and dim light.
The silence stretches on and amplifies the thudding of my pulse in my ears. It’s the only sound that fills the room with an eerie rhythm. I strain, listening for anything, any sign of movement, a whisper, the faintest footstep. But there’s nothing. I’m trapped in a vacuum, cut off from the world.
I try again, slower this time, to piece together how I got here. Past the hands. Past the dark. The last thing I clearly remember is leaving Indigo Blue after Delphine’s art installation, heading to my car, my mind already halfway home.
Beyond that, nothing. A blank.
