The man hauls me upright by my hair and forces me to look at Beckett. His face is bloody — nose, streaming, and his lip is split. He's gagged, too. His eyes find mine across the dark room, furious and helpless and awake.
The masked man leans toward my ear. His voice is quiet. "Where's the laptop?"
I try to answer through the gag, but it’s nothing comprehensible.
He peels the tape back and pulls the cloth from my mouth.
"Bottom drawer," I say immediately. My voice shakes so badly the words barely form. "Under my clothes."
The second figure goes to the dresser. He yanks the drawer open and finds it.
Beckett tries to get up. He almost makes it. The second man drives a knee into his face, and the sound of it makes my stomach lurch.
"Please," I whisper. "Please stop. Don’t hurt him."
The man behind me grabs my jaw and turns my head forward. His voice drops lower. "Watch him suffer because of who you are."
He ties me to the desk chair — chest, waist, legs — and positions me facing the desk. My back to the room. To Beckett. I can hear him behind me but can't see him, which makes me panic. The masked man shoves the fabric back in my mouth and tapes it shut.
The laptop opens. The startup sound fills the silence.
The screen illuminates.
The first video loads.
Cody.
Unmistakable. His face clear, sharp — the same face I've been memorizing for two years.
But the way he moves is wrong. The way he sounds is wrong. Not tender. Not careful. Something harder, louder, crueler. I search his expression for something familiar and find nothing I recognize.
He’s driving himself over and over into the woman who’s moaning his name.
My gut sinks at the thought of seeing it anymore. Tears slide down my face as I watch him enjoying his pleasure.
The second video loads before the first finishes.
Different girl. Different room. Same Cody.
Then another.
I stop registering the bodies. I start listening to his voice. The words he uses. The tone. The way he laughs at something she says is low and indulgent and completely foreign to me.
He has never laughed like that with me.
Video after video. Each one taking something and replacing it with something I don't know what to do with. The boy I built my life around, piece by piece, becoming a stranger in increments.
I stop crying somewhere in the middle of it. There's nothing left to cry with.
And then the screen changes.
The image is high-angled. Slightly tilted. A familiar room — the clawfoot tub, the frosted window, the shelf above the toilet where I keep my candles.
My bathroom.
My breath stops.
And then I see myself.
