A misshapen replica of his childhood bedroom enclosed him. The walls were painted the same eggshell blue, but the wrong dimensions. Too narrow. The curtains were the same blue and green plaid, scrunched over too-small windows.
All the furniture was identical, right down to the scuffs on the red-painted bedposts. Kit reeled. Laird must have transported everything here. The shelves and toys and posters crowded claustrophobically in the smaller space.
After the first crushing wave of recognition, more incongruities stuck out. Kit was fourteen when he found the photos that destroyed his childhood. He hadn’t had this teddy bear at the foot of his bed by then. He hadn’t had those wooden train tracks on the little table. He’d broken that one silver engine years ago, but it was fixed or replaced now.
The room was a distorted blend of Kit’s childhood years. Kit trembled beneath the memories.
He was five when he played with the teddy bear. That was when Laird strangled another five-year-old, squeezing a collar of black bruises around the boy’s small neck.
Kit was eight when he last played with the trains. Laird killed three eight-year-olds that Kit knew of, each violated more brutally than the last.
Still no noise from outside the room. Laird must trust the sedative enough to leave Kit unbound. Clutching the syringe beneath his sleeve, Kit slipped from the bed. All the effort of remodeling the room and the door still creaked, so heshould have warning before Laird returned. Time to check for emergency escape routes.
Except twitching aside the curtains revealed not windows, but freshly laid bricks. This was a prison, not a nursery.
Kit swayed. His gaze darted to the corners—
Where camera lenses gleamed.
Too late. Kit was trapped. His every movement was recorded. The swing of his legs leaving the bed. The trembling of his hand pulling the curtain.
The shallowing of his breath as he met the cameras’ eyes.
Laird didn’t even need to touch Kit to violate him.
A disembodied voice spoke from every corner at once. “You were always terrible at pretending to sleep.”
“You don’t know me anymore,” Kit said, voice cold and far stronger than he felt. “Let me out.”
Laird chuckled. “The door isn’t locked.”
Kit hadn’t even considered the door.
But Laird was probably lying. If Kit raced to the door, he would scrabble desperately at the locked handle. Laird would laugh again, the sound sliding beneath the collar of Kit’s shirt.
Or worse. The door would open. And Laird would be right there, waiting.
This was all Kit’s fault. He wished for a brief selfish instant that he was safe at home, his real home, and Shiloh was here instead. That was just a defensive reflex, though. Not a real wish.
Hopefully Bishop, James, Darius, and Holden would understand.
Legs weak, Kit stumbled across the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, because if he stayed upright a moment longer, he would fall. His mind already spun, untethered.
Something dug into his palm. The syringe cap. Kit anchored himself around the hidden needle. He still had a chance. The plan wasn’t ruined yet, if he could just keep it together.
“Are you done acting up?” Laird asked through the speakers. “Good.”
The door opened. Kit’s gaze lifted involuntarily to meet his father’s eyes. For the first time in five years, there were no screens or panes of dark glass between them.
Any trace of laughter was gone. Sadness deepened the lines of Laird’s face. He looked ten years older, not five. Details sharpened. Paint stained his torn jeans. The long-sleeved t-shirt hung loose on his shoulders. Something weighed down his pocket. A phone or a knife.
Thinner, eyes shadowed, stubble more gray than dark. Kit expected to face Laird’s obsession. The burn of sickening desire. Or worse, comforting familiarity. No discernable changes from the architect of Kit’s happy childhood.
Instead, Laird looked disappointed.
“It didn’t have to be this way,” Laird said, approaching. The door remained casually, carelessly open.
Kit flicked the cap off the needle. “That should be my line,” he said, and lunged forward.
