He’s watching me want it. Not even hiding it. Just sitting there with those dark eyes cataloging every crack in my resolve like he’s keeping score.
“Fuck you.” My voice comes out steady. Cold. “I have nothing to say to them.”
“Whenever you’re ready,tesoro.”
He leaves the phone on the nightstand. Walks out. The lock clicks behind him.
I wait until I can’t hear his footsteps anymore.
Then I pick it up.
Mom’s contact is right there. Her face smiling up at me from the photo I took last Christmas, flour on her cheek, rolling pin in hand. One tap. That’s all it would take.
Hi Mom. Just busy with work. The cathedral is beautiful. Yes, I’m eating enough. No, I haven’t met anyone.
While guards patrol outside. While cameras record every breath. While he watches me on a screen somewhere, waiting to see what I’ll do.
I can’t. Not yet. Can’t hear their voices and lie. Can’t pretend everything is fine while I’m trapped in this beautiful cage.
I hurl the phone across the room.
The screen shatters against the marble wall. The case cracks. The phone bounces once, twice, then lies still.
He’ll bring another one. I know he will. He’s patient. He has all the time in the world.
I fall back onto the silk sheets, my stomach cramping around nothing, and stare at the ceiling until the angels blur.
No food. No oranges. No phone.
But the caliper is still hidden.
I fall asleep clutching it in my hand, plotting where I’d strike. Throat. Eye. Femoral artery.
Somewhere to make him bleed.
9
VIOLET
I’m awake when the lock clicks.
Day five. Or maybe six… I’ve lost the ability to be sure. The days have blurred together, one endless loop of his morning visits and my silence. Day three, he brought another phone. I threw that one at the wall too. Day four, he talked about Bernini for twenty minutes while I lay on the bed with my eyes closed, willing him to disappear.
He didn’t.
Now I count by the light through the windows, the way it shifts from gray to gold to gray again. My internal clock is fucked, but the sun doesn’t lie.
He walks in like he owns the air I breathe. Same expensive suit. Same pristine white shirt. Same expression of patient interest, like I’m a puzzle he’s enjoying solving.
I sit up too fast. The room tilts sideways and I have to grab the headboard to keep from face-planting into the silk sheets. My vision goes spotty at the edges. Black dots dancing across the angels.
When did I last eat? Feels like months ago.
“The collection in the east gallery includes several Renaissance pieces you might find interesting.” His voiceis conversational. Pleasant. Like we’re colleagues discussing museum acquisitions. “A Botticelli sketch. Two Bellini studies. Nothing major, but the provenance is impeccable.”
I don’t respond. Can’t, really. My tongue feels thick and dry, stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“I’d like to show you something.”
