“—binding properties maintain the original porosity of the stone.” He finishes his thought like nothing happened. “Though I suppose it depends on the specific composition of the original mortar. Have you had a chance to examine the samples I collected from the cathedral?”
I want to scream. Want to claw that calm expression off his face. Want to make himreact, just once, just enough to prove he’s human under all that control.
But he just sits there. Waiting for my answer. Patient as stone.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stands, smoothing his jacket when after ten minutes I still haven’t spoken. “Same time.”
Then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him. The lock engages.
I sit on the bed, shaking with impotent rage, and realize his calm is worse than violence would be.
I wait an hour before going back to the studio.
The bowl is gone.
I search the worktables. The shelves. The corners of the room where an orange might have rolled. Nothing. Every single piece of fruit has been removed, like they never existed.
Of course he knew. He’s watching everything.
I’m running before I finish the thought. Down the hallway, past the guard who doesn’t move, into my room. I drop to my knees beside the bed and shove my arm into the gap between the mattress and the wall.
Nothing. The oranges I hid against the wall are gone, not even a peel left behind. Someone came in while I was in the studio, took them, and left no trace.
He’s always three steps ahead. Always. I can’t even stealfruitwithout him knowing.
“FUCK YOU!” I scream at the ceiling. At the cameras I know are there. At whatever sick bastard is watching me lose my mind. “You hear me? FUCK. YOU!”
The room absorbs my voice. Gives nothing back.
I’m shaking as I shove my hand under the pillow.
The caliper is still there.
Cold metal against my palm. Sharp points digging into my fingers. He left it. Doesn’t see it as a threat.
That’s his mistake.
He comes back at dusk.
The light through the windows has gone golden, then gray, and my stomach has progressed from cramping to a dull, constant ache that makes it hard to think. I’m lying on the bed, staring at the stupid angels, when the lock clicks.
This time, he’s holding something.
My phone.
“You can call your mother.” He sets it on the nightstand beside me. “I’m sure she’d like to hear from you.”
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just stare at the familiar cracked screen, the purple case I bought at a gas station in Phoenix three years ago.
All my contacts. Right there. Mom. Danny. Sean.
“The line isn’t monitored.” His voice is soft. Almost gentle. “You can say whatever you like. Tell her about your work. Ask about her garden. She’s been worried about the tomatoes, apparently. Too much rain this spring.”
My hands are shaking. I clench them into fists to hide it.
I want to hear her voice. God, I want it so badly my chest aches. Want to hear Danny’s laugh, that stupid bark that always made me feel like everything would be okay. Want to tell them where I am, what’s happened, beg them to find me.
But one wrong word. One slip. And he has their addresses. Their schedules. Theirlives.
