“Darrel Vlovsky, you say?” I pull out my phone. “Let’s see…”
Concern flashes across his face as he realizes what I’m about to do.I knew it!He wasn’t being honest with me, and I’m about to prove it.
Unfortunately, there is no reception down here. I tell him I’ll be back and dart upstairs to the ground floor, taking care to shut the door behind me.
A quick search for Darrel Vlovsky in the UK produces no social media pages, no LinkedIn profiles, yearbook photos or anything that match the man in our basement. I ask the all-knowing Internet about the UK database of missing persons.Hallelujah!It’s publicly accessible through the National Crime Agency’s website. I query the database for a Darrel Vlovsky. It turns out no UK nationals with that name are missing.
Got you, liar!
I return to his side. “I may not have gone to college, but I’m good at looking things up.”
His resigned expression tells me he already knows what’s coming.
“No UK nationals called Darrel Vlovsky have been reported missing,” I say. “What’s more, it’s unclear if such a person exists at all.”
He mutters a curse before apologizing for it.
I cross my arms. “Why don’t you tell me the truth? What’s your real name?”
“Darrel Vlovsky is my actual name.”
“Oh, really?”
He nods. “I have a very real British passport, which I must’ve lost during my endless fall.”
“What fall?”
“Into a crevice somewhere in this area. Hence my broken bones.”
“Aha.” I narrow my eyes. “Did you know my parents before?”
“No.”
“Did you have a chance to give them your name and tell them you didn’t want to be here?”
“Yes.”
I don’t believe you.“So, you’re saying you’re just some guy who fell into a crevice. My parents found you, tended to your injuries, but also made you their captive for the fun of it.”
We stare at each other. I want him to know that I don’t believe his story.
“I’m going to ask my parents about you,” I say finally.
“Don’t!”
His outburst gives me pause.
In a much calmer tone of voice, he starts again, “Stella, my instincts and my training tell me you have nothing to do with your parents’ crazy little cult.”
“What are you talking about?”
He opens his mouth but seems to have difficulty talking. “May I have more water?”
I help him drink.
He drains the bottle.
“Would you like me to refill it from the tap?” I ask.
