“And the cuffs won’t attach to anything down there without anchoring.”
“Can you anchor them?”
He looks at me for a long time.“Yeah.I can do that.”
“Good.”
We go upstairs together.Charles sees Luke and his expression changes—the lazy contempt replaced by something sharper.Something that recalculates.
“What’s happening,” he says.Not a question.
“You’re being relocated.”I gather his things.Leave the bell.“Think of it as a lateral move.Less natural light.More soundproofing.Same management.”
“Marin, don’t?—”
“You pissed the bed, Charles.On purpose.The fourth time, by your own count.”I start loosening the cuffs from the rail.“Actions have consequences.Even for hostages.”
Luke anchors one arm.I take the other.Charles fights—not hard, not effectively, his body is weak from being in bed—but enough that getting him down the stairs takes everything both of us have.He’s heavier than he looks.Or maybe resistance just weighs more than cooperation.
The basement is dark.Cool.The soundproofing Luke installed makes it feel like stepping inside a sealed box.
There’s nothing to anchor the cuffs to yet.Luke looks at the concrete wall, then at me.
“I’ll need to come back with a plate and bolts.Drill into the concrete.It’ll be a couple of hours.”
“What do we do with him until then?”
Luke eyes the old iron support column in the center of the basement.Threads the cuffs around it.“That’ll work for now.”
We get Charles secured.Standing room only until I can get another mattress down here.He’s breathing hard.Looking around.Taking in the padded walls, the sealed door, the absence of windows.
“This is inhumane,” he says.
“This is the basement, Charles.You’ll get a mattress, a blanket, and a bucket.Which is more than you deserve after what you did to those sheets.”
I turn to leave.Luke follows.
At the top of the stairs, I close the basement door.Lean against it.My arms ache.My back aches.My shirt is sticking to me in places I don’t want to think about.
Luke is looking at me.Not with pity.Not with judgment.With something I don’t have a name for yet.
Three knocks at the front door.Cheerful.Purposeful.
I look at Luke.He looks at me.I’m sweaty, disheveled, out of breath, and I smell like a man’s revenge.
Mrs.Mather.
39
Luke
Marin opens the door the way she opens everything—with a smile that costs her something.
She’s flushed.Her hair is sticking to her neck.There’s a smell coming from somewhere inside the house that she’s hoping Mrs.Mather won’t notice and Mrs.Mather absolutely will.
Mrs.Mather is on the porch holding a casserole dish wrapped in foil and a set of wooden prayer beads dangling from her wrist like a weapon disguised as a gift.
“Good afternoon, dear,” she says.Peers past Marin into the kitchen.Sees me.Her eyes drop to my hands, then back up.Filing.Always filing.“Luke.I didn’t realize you were here.”
