He shrugged.Either way, that little movement said, and she studied him from bootsoles to the top of his short dark hair.There was a stubborn curl to the strands and something in the cut said military, which was bad news.Failed service types were a dime a dozen in Serial-Killer Land.
Great.
“There’s nothing in the water,” he repeated.“And you don’t know it yet, but we’re keeping you safe.”
From what?Neal?Oh, my God.“From what?”
A muscle flicked in his cheek.“Sit down, eat, and I’ll tell you.”
She dropped into the chair, wincing as her muscles protested, then glared at him through her tangled hair.
“All right.”He folded his arms, legs slightly apart, a variation of parade rest.“So, there’s not an easy way to say this, but?—”
“Yousit down too.”She wondered if he’d comply.
“Yes ma’am.”Much to her surprise, he did—gingerly, as if he expected the chair to break.It didn’t so much as creak, though she vengefully wished for a leg to snap and spill him onto the nice hardwood floor.“Go on, eat.”
“Not until you tell me why you kidnapped me.”How far could she push?Was it better to play along for a little bit?She could leap up and bolt for the door again.Maybe she could toss the water bottle at him as well, slow him down for a second or two?
“It’s not kidnapping.We put you under guard, like Father said.”He obviously meant the guy in the black high-collared coat; if these guys were looking for a Catholic girl, they were barkingwayup the wrong tree.Gramma Poe had been a Baptist and Mom a Unitarian Universalist—a fancy name for hippie, she’d always joked.
It hurt to think of her mother, as usual.Which just made Liv angrier.“Fuck off with that bullshit.Why did youkidnapme?”
He paused, visibly shuffling through what to say.How many times had they grabbed someone?They were far too practiced for her to be the first.How many rooms were in this place?
Too many.Nausea squeezed inside her ribs with rubber fingers, pushing a thin thread of acid up the back of her throat.
Finally, he spoke, each word slow and very clearly enunciated.“You have very vivid dreams.You remember them more than normal people, too.You’ve dreamed about a door.”
Of all the things she would have expected a kidnapper to say, that was the absolute last.Her stomach turned over, hard.“Everyone has dreams.”
“Stone sides, stone top, one step in front.The step’s slippery with something; it gleams.The door’s painted yellow, and it has a bright red splash on it, right in the middle.The red makes you sick to look at, but when you do, it seems less like splatter and more like writing.”
He’s guessing.He can’t possibly… Liv couldn’t quite finish the sentence, even inside her own head.
“The thing behind the yellow door,” he continued quietly, “is going to come out any moment, and you know it.But you can’t move.”
“Who the fuckareyou?”she whispered.He’d just described one of her most intense recurring nightmares; how was that even possible?
She’d never told anyone about that particular dream.Not even her mother.
“Your protector.”He moved, very slowly, probably trying not to spook her.It was no use—she was already plenty spooked.He undid the leather cuff on his left wrist, peeling it free with a grimace.“The mark, okay?On the door.Looks like this, doesn’t it.”
He turned his wrist up, and there, pressed into the vulnerable, paler underside, a bright-red splotch moved against olive skin.
Right over the veins.
Liv grabbed at the table.Her throat shrank to a pinhole, bile crawling up its sides, and she stared at the thin red twisted symbol.It didn’t look like a tattoo.
No, it was more like a brand, something pressed against skin and burning,burrowingits way inward.The color was wrong, too.No needle artist in the world could get that bright oversaturated crimson.
Something in the water.Has to be.Or a gas?Maybe a patch or something while he was holding me?It was impossible, it was im-fucking-possible, and she held onto the table as if it could keep the earth from sliding further sideways.“You’re crazy,” she whispered.“You’re a criminal, and you’re completely insane.”
“I’m guilty, sure.Everyone who wears the mark is.But I’m not mad.Not yet, at least.”He glanced at his wrist, tilting his head a little, examining the not-tattoo.It pulsed, sickeningly, and she was suddenly very glad she wasn’t trying to eat, even if she could smell the blueberries—tart and sweet at once, full of delicious coolness.“I’m gonna cover this up.You don’t want to eat with it looking at you.”Now his gaze was on her.His eyes were dark brown, and very… still.
A thin, placid surface over something deep, cold, and hopeless.
It was a relief to have the mark covered up.She suspected the feeling was short-lived.“What did you put in it?”Liv studied the yogurt container.Apparently unopened, but you could slip a syringe point through foil, right?And blueberries—she didn’t know how you could drug fruit, but these guys probably had it figured out.Where did they get the money for all this?They didn’t seem like squatters, and the heating bill for this place was probably sky-high.
