At some point, the tears stop. Not because I feel better. Just because there’s nothing left.
My head feels clearer now. I wipe my face with the back of my hand and inhale slowly, forcing the air deeper into my lungs than it wants to go.
Okay.
Enough.
I need to focus. I need to investigate. No more pathetic crying.
I stare at the butter knife on the table, daydreaming about it stuck in Adrien’s eye, blood spattering from the wound all around this beautiful rug.
Yes, I’m going to keep that knife.
But then I recollect how nervous he got when I started crying. He doesn’t seem like someone who would hurt me—or anyone, actually.
But the gun?
God, what was I expecting? That they’d use water guns? I mentally slap myself and sip my coffee.
Despite the walk-in closet full of my favorite fashion pieces, I chose a black sports set, leggings and top with a built-in bra and long sleeves together with some combat boots.
At least I look like I could run if I had to.
My weapon—the biggest, sharpest piece of the broken vase—is now tucked into my boot next to the butter knife.
Okay. Think. I need to figure this out. No more losing control.
He definitely kidnapped me.
He also definitely followed me outside, judging by all my favorite food and clothes being in this gothic hellhole.
How many times was he in my apartment? How many times was he or someone else really there, and how many times was it just my paranoia?
Maybe he was there just once to leave me the ripped article splashed with red wine, and the rest was my imagination. Or maybe it wasn’t even him.
Overwhelmed by my thoughts, I go for another trip around the suite. No windows I could break, no tools I could use. I notice two books taken out of the library, placed neatly on the table.
Before I can read the titles, I hear heavy footfalls heading toward my door. I put down the croissant and slowly slide out the shard from the vase. The footsteps stop in front of my door, hesitating.
This is not Adrien.
I feel it again.
The same feeling as in my apartment so many times. That same heavy thickness in the air. My heart is beating at a dangerous speed.
It’s him. He’s here.
I stand there, ready for anything. But then the person behind my door starts moving again and the footfalls disappear in the distance.
My shoulders relax.
Was it him?
My hand is shaking so I put the sharp glass back in my boot and calm myself.
Breathe in, breathe out.
If they wanted me dead, they would already do it, right? What information could I possibly have for them?
