He moves through the house like he’s in familiar territory, his steps measured and certain. But even sharks have patterns. Predators follow routines.
At exactly eight every night, shortly after he brings me dinner, someone calls his phone.
Right before that, he heads to his room. Then the ringtone slices through the silence. After that, he spends at least fifteen minutes talking in private.
And tonight, I’ll use that predictability against him.
I’ve counted time by the shift of light across the floor.
Five days in captivity.
Just one since he pinned me against the wall, his mouth claimed mine, and his hands…
I push the memory aside.
That moment of connection changes nothing. I’m still a prisoner. Ashley’s still in danger. And I still need to get out.
My plan is ready to go. I watch the sunset. Then I wait.
The bathroom wastebasket sits upturned in the center of the floor. The steak knife, a hairpin I found lodged in the plush rug, and the soft scarf that came with the clothes he provided stay snug in my waistband. Not much. But maybe enough.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, arranging my “sacred space.” Positioning the trash can directly in front of me, with the metal bottom facing up, I breathe deeply.
I need Kirill to pay attention.
“Ohmmm.” I work my throat, humming deep and resonant, keeping beat on the metal bottom of the trash can with the handle of the knife. The hollow and surprisingly loud gong bounces off the walls. “Cleanse this space! Purify this energy!”
I bang harder and faster to establish a deliberately jarring and asymmetrical rhythm. “The cycle of the moon demands release! I call upon the cosmic forces to realign my vibrational frequency!”
I’m shouting nonsense, but I’m praying for real. I’m asking for guidance. I’m open to opportunities, to chances, to fate’s red string. Please lead me to where I need to go.
More drumming. I add volume and hold the waste basket drum under one arm while beating with the other, dancing around the room half in meditation circle, half in tantrum. “The stagnant energies must be expelled! The spiritual matrix requires calibration!”
I hear shuffling outside my door. Quick, irritated footsteps.
Throwing my head back, I project my voice. “All negative entities must depart! I banish thee from my auric field!”
Is auric even a word? If I don’t know, he sure doesn’t.
Please let this work.
The door flies open.
Kirill bursts in, his phone already in hand, his face a perfect mask of controlled fury. I catch the faint sound of his ringtone.
Right on schedule.
“What the hell are you doing?” His steel-sharp voice cuts through my chanting.
I don’t break character or stop drumming. This is way more important than any live video I’ve ever done. “It’s a vital night for soul seekers. And the energy in this room is stagnant. I must clear it before it attaches to my spiritual matrix. My vibrational frequency is messed up and?—”
He closes his eyes for a second, his jaw clenched as his phone continues to ring.
In one fluid motion, he crosses the room, grabs my arm, and pulls me into the hallway. I let him drag me, stumbling just enough to appear compliant but ineffectual.
He marches me down the corridor toward a small bathroom I’ve glimpsed on my rare trips to the kitchen.
“Stay here. Be quiet.” His voice leaves no room for negotiation as he shoves me inside.
