I mean, I vaguely knew we needed them, but does doing things to make her and Lucky more comfortable here count?
No, that’s shitty.
They need to be gifts specifically picked out forher.
Malachy was right.
We need Lucky’s insight on what Charlotte likes.
Next Christmas, we’ll have a much better understanding of what to purchase.
I know she likes to read mysteries, thrillers, and fantasy books when she has time. That’s a solid place to start. I’ll buy her a bookshelf and fill it withallthe books.
Hmm.
I wonder if my prisoner has insight into anything Charlotte used to like. It wouldn’t hurt to at least ask him.
After dinner, Patrick disappears to handle a few minor work things. Malachy, Charlotte, and Lucky settle in the living room to watch a movie, and I excuse myself to check on my prisoner.
My father was fond of mental torture, and I am too to a degree. However, I draw the line at forced nudity. Sure, it can hasten the process of mentally breaking someone—clothing can feel like an added layer of protection, even if it’s a farce—but that’s a line I won’t cross.
My biological father also believed in forcing prisoners to use buckets for their waste. I installed flushing toilets because I’m not about that life. I have no interest in cleaning or disposing of human waste.
If someone doesn’t appreciate the facilities they’ve been given, then I would consider downgrading them to the bucketsystem. At least so far, I’ve never had anyone purposely avoid using the available toilet.
Having to maintain a food plan for someone who won’t live past next week is always tedious.
My guest needs enough nutrients and water to avoid dying before I gain the information I need, but he doesn’t need to be well-fed either.
As my father told me many years ago, it’s best to remember the people we work with down here are not like other human beings. They’ve done something truly vile to earn their stay.
Although, that might be semantics.
McCarthy views me as the villain in his story, but if the tables were turned, and I was his prisoner, how would he treat me?
More importantly…
How would he treat Charlotte?
What heinous things would he do to Charlotte or Lucky if he had the chance?
Those are the types of thoughts that keep me focused if I ever experience a shred of empathy for a guest.
It’s a quick process to get myself into my gloves and jumpsuit.
I collect the bottle of water and food and make my way to McCarthy’s room. His right arm and leg are chained to the floor, and it appears we’re making progress. He doesn’t lunge, curse, or spit at me; instead, he blinks from where he sits on the floor at the back of the cell.
“Good evening,” I say, placing the items within his reach. Well, he can’t grab them now, but if he moves across the room and stretches, the chains will allow him to access his dinner. “While you’re more coherent, I thought the two of us could have a chat.” I make my way to the chair just inside the door. “If you’re feeling up to it?”
He continues to stare with a blank look on his face.
Hmm.
I’ll be disappointed if he skipped the bargaining stage and settled into acceptance this quickly. The bargaining stage is surprisingly where I tend to learn the most. It’s rarely outright admissions, but if you pay attention, you can put the pieces together.
“You came to Boston to find a woman,” I say calmly as I cross one leg over the other. “I’d like it if you could tell me everything you know about her.”
There’s no reaction.
