In. Hold. Out.
Find the mistake.
The panic doesn’t go away, but it starts to organize itself. Fear with a purpose. Fear that’s looking for an exit instead of just screaming.
I force myself to think it through. The door is locked, hinges on the outside. The windows open three inches and stop. No exits. I searched every drawer, every cabinet. He’s removed anything that could be used as a weapon, reinforced everything else. The chair won’t break. The glass won’t shatter. The books just bounce off like they’re made of foam.
I haven’t found his weakness yet. But there has to be one. There has to be.
I stand up on legs that still shake. I walk to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. The reflection in the polished metal mirror is a disaster. Red eyes, blotchy skin, hair tangled and wild.
But I’m still wearing my own clothes. The jeans and henley I wore to the café this morning. The boots I put on before walking to the cathedral.
He didn’t change me while I was unconscious. Didn’t touch my clothes, didn’t undress me, didn’t put me in one of those silk things hanging in the wardrobe.
A small mercy. I’ll take it.
I start searching again. More carefully this time. Not looking for an escape, but for anything he might have overlooked. A gap in the surveillance, a flaw in the construction, a single thread I can pull that might unravel this whole elaborate cage.
Just have to find it.
The lock clicks, the sound is like a gunshot in the silent room. I freeze mid-movement, one hand still pressed against the wall where I’ve been searching for hidden seams.
The door swings open, and there he is. The man who drugged me. Who built me a cage and filled it with silk and leather harnesses. Completely composed, as if he’s just steppedout of a business meeting instead of checking on the woman he kidnapped.
I want to claw his eyes out. Ruin his expensive dove-gray suit. Mess up his perfect dark hair with my fingers wrapped around his throat.
His eyes sweep the room. Take in the chaos I’ve created. The overturned furniture, the scattered books, my tangled hair and shaking hands.
He doesn’t look angry.
His mouth curves, just slightly. Like he’s pleased. Like this is exactly what he expected.
Satisfaction.
“Good morning,tesoro.” His voice is warm and gentle. Wrong. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. The lock clicks again, a sound like a coffin closing.
He looks at the destruction I’ve wrought. Looks at me.
Not like I’m a problem to be dealt with. Not like I’m a prisoner who’s made a mess. Not even like I’m a woman he wants.
Like I’m a painting he’s finally hung in the perfect spot.
Like I’m exactly where I belong.
I’m not.
And I’ll find a way out of here if it kills me.
6
ELIO
The first book is flying at my shoulder before I fully register she’s moved.
Proust. Heavy leather binding, gilded edges catching the light as it spins past my head. I step left. The second one, Dickens, I think, sails past my ear close enough that I hear the pages flutter.
“You fuckingpsycho.”
