“Niki, please find me.”
I curl into an even tighter ball. The room is cold, and the blanket fell to the floor when that poor girl was forced onto it. It was thin and dirty and scratchy, but at least it was something. I regret all the water I drank earlier. It had seemed like a smart thing at the time, but now my bladder is full and I’m not sure how long I can hold it. Things are going to get worse from here on out, and I try to brace myself for that.
My mind keeps replaying images from the last few days. I swear I can hear Niki’s voice in my ear and feel his soft touch on my skin. Even here in this scary cellar of a room, I still feel his love, and I know he’s doing everything he can to find me. Cupid is wrong. Niki’s a thousand times smarter than him, and he’ll find me. He won’t stop until he does. I hold onto that hope, clinging to it with everything I have while I close my eyes and try to escape the hell I’m currently in.
I don’t expect to be able to sleep, so I’m not at all surprised when all I do is toss and turn. Every position I get in hurts my hands, and eventually I’m forced to sit all the way up soI can wiggle my fingers and try to get some circulation going. The light stays on, and soon I’m wishing I had a way to break it. In frustration, I kick my foot up, wishing like hell it was long enough to hit the wire mesh that surrounds the bulb. I’m grateful for it, but it’s also making it impossible for my head to stop throbbing. As much as I’m hating it right now, though, I’m glad it’s still on. Without it, it’d be pitch black in here. I haven’t seen any bugs yet, but this looks like exactly where a lot of them would choose to live.
Goosebumps rise along my skin just thinking about all the pairs of eyes that are probably watching me right now. I look around the room, trying to spot any movement, but I don’t see anything, at least not yet. I’m not sure how long they’ll stay hidden, but I sure as hell hope it lasts a while.
The clanging of my cuffs against the metal rail every time I move seems to echo off the walls, and it’s not long before I’m squirming like one of the kindergarteners I hope to teach one day who’s desperately in need of a bathroom break. Soon it’s all I can think about. I wiggle my feet and legs, doing anything to try and divert attention away from my aching bladder. At first it was annoying, but now it’s downright painful, and I know I can’t hold it for much longer.
I bounce my legs and think about my options. Pissing my pants is a last resort. I’ll be stuck in wet clothes, it’ll be harsh on my skin, and I just really don’t want to do it. Holding it is also not an option, and if I keep doing it for much longer, my body is going to make the decision for me.
With no other choice that I can think of, I grab onto the bed frame near my head. The cuffs bang against the metal as I slowly maneuver onto my knees and scoot as close to my hands as I can. When it’s not enough, I stand on the mattress and hunch over, angling my hips so I can reach the button on my jeans. Myfingers hurt and they’re still half-numb, but after several tries, I’m able to get them undone.
Wiggling them down is a lot harder, and by the time I manage it, I’m breathing hard and starting to sweat. I also feel like a giant idiot with my pants pulled down and hunched over. I’m not sure what I’ll do if Cupid chooses this moment to walk in. Wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible, I slowly scoot to the side of the bed and lower my feet to the floor. If I stretch my arms to the point of pain, I have just enough room to squat.
My heart races and my eyes keep darting to the door. I’m terrified he’s going to walk in and find me in this vulnerable position. As badly as I need to pee, I’m too freaked out to do it. I force myself to take a deep breath.
“I can do this,” I whisper to myself. “It’s no different than being on a toilet. I can fucking do this.”
After a couple more calming breaths, I feel my body relax, and when I manage to release a tiny trickle of urine, it’s such a relief that I laugh and will myself to keep going. It’s not pretty. I make a mess and end up peeing on my jeans a little bit, but it still feels like a victory, and the instant relief in my bladder is worth it. At least I won’t be forced to lay in a puddle.
After several more minutes of fumbling my way back onto the bed and getting my underwear and jeans back up, I scoot to the other side and try my luck at grabbing the blanket. Stretching my legs out, I’m able to hit it with my shoes and then slowly drag it closer. When it’s bunched up at my feet, I pinch it between them and haul it up to the mattress. Once I’ve used my legs to get it closer, I sit down and rest my head against the wall. I know it’s stupid, and I know I’m still a woman chained to a bed next to a puddle of piss on the floor, but it gives me hope. I figured out a way to go to the bathroom, and I have my ratty blanket back. Two problems solved. A million more to go.
It’s not much, but it’s a start, and I’ll take any positives I can get.
“Come on, Niki. I know you can find me.” I say the words to my empty room, but hearing them out loud makes me feel better, so I keep talking. I tell him all about the huge crush I’ve had on him for months, the hours I used to whine to Cindy about him not noticing me, and then I tell him all about how happy I was when he came to help me with my laptop and what I dream about for our future. I talk until my throat is sore and my voice is raspy.
I talk until eventually my eyes drift shut, and then I fall asleep with his name on my lips.
Chapter 19
Nikita
It’s been an hour since Cupid’s message appeared, an hour since I watched him rape a woman I thought was Savanna, and these sixty minutes have been the longest of my life. Every nightmare I can think of torments me, and my only consolation is knowing that Cupid wants me to see what he has planned. He’s not going to hurt her when I can’t see it and know there’s not a goddamn thing I can do to stop it.
Damien forced me into the bathroom after I got sick so I could get cleaned up. He was quiet while I went through the motions of brushing my teeth, barely registering anything I was doing. As soon as I was done, he handed me another drink and a sleeve of crackers and then parked his ass back on the barstool next to mine.
Even after an hour, every ten minutes or so, he nudges the crackers towards me, reminding me that I need to eat one. I chew the dry Saltine, not tasting it before swallowing it down. It seems to appease him, but I know he’ll be nudging the bag again in a few minutes.
Max sits on my other side, and between the two of them, they’re dead set on making sure I don’t dehydrate or get lightheaded from lack of calories. My dad stares at his screen,not saying anything, the only sound the clicking of his keyboard. He hasn’t stopped working since he got here, and everyone else is still waiting for news. There’s a vigil-like quiet in the apartment that’s starting to drive me a little crazy. We’re all anxious for news, and when the software finally finds a match in the archived photos, I lean closer, desperate for a breakthrough.
“There’s a match,” I say, and my dad quickly jumps up to come stand behind me, watching the screen as the others crowd in.
The image isn’t the highest quality, but there’s no denying he looks almost identical to the reconstructed images that were made.
“Matthew Calder,” I say, finally putting a real name to the fucker I’ve been hunting. I want to punch my screen, reach in, and rip the smug smile he’s giving the camera right off his face. I quickly run a search on him, not surprised when shit starts pouring in. I read them aloud, each new discovery worse than the last. It starts with charges of theft that were eventually dropped and then underage drinking and a few pranks on campus, many of which involved him hacking into places, but it all collapsed during his senior year. He was accused of assaulting a young woman from the Kappa Theta Rho sorority. Before he could be arrested, he disappeared.
“What else?” Damien asks, looking at me instead of the screen. “How did he end up teaching here?”
“Because even then he was a fucking coward,” my dad says. “He went to ground, bought himself a new ID and resurfaced decades later. He’s been hiding right under their noses.”
I keep digging and soon discover his parents died in a car crash during his junior year. They were wealthy, and he made sure to empty their accounts before he fled. There’s no way to know what he did during those years of hiding out, but the first legitimate mention of Andrew Ellison is from a college yearbookin upstate New York twenty years ago. He worked as a professor, teaching introductory education classes. I find a brief wedding announcement for him and his wife, and then it’s a steady progression of him working his way up. Ten years ago, he was offered the position here.
“I bet you anything he didn’t even earn his degrees,” my brother says. “He probably faked them along with everything else. He’s been teaching for decades, and this whole time it’s been a complete lie.”
I want to keep digging, but that same message box shows up on my screen, making me forget about everything else.
