Hours unconscious, hours alone in this room. A day has passed.
Carol’s been dead a day.
He regards me with those empty eyes, expectant, like he’s waiting for me to speak.
And say what? I can’t think of a single thing.
In that moment, with the way he looks at me, I know I’m going to die. I suppose the only question that remains is how: brave and defiant, or sobbing and begging for mercy.
Some middle ground seems aspirational.
“What are—” The attempt to speak after so long makes me cough, chest wracked, jerking in the chair. He watches with a polite interest, hands stuffed in his pockets, waiting until I’ve finished. I’m so desperate for a drink I can’t help glance at the bucket, and the water he’s brought. But I clear my throat and try again. “What are you going to do with me?”
“I would’ve thought you’d had long enough to figure that out.”
I’ve conducted enough interviews to know that’s not an answer. It’s a psychological play, feeding on my fears. But identifying it doesn’t make it any less effective. My mind conjures up all the worst-case scenarios, and my eyes flick to the silenced gun despite my best efforts.
“I’ll answer your questions,” I say, as calmly as I can, but I can’t help the tremor in my voice. “I’ve done nothing wrong and have nothing to hide.”
“Questions?” he echoes with a nonchalant shrug. “I don’t really have any.”
That’s not reassuring. Torture for the sake of it, then. That won’t make it hurt any less.
He pulls one hand out of his pocket and clicks his fingers. “No, not true—I’ve just thought of one.” He tilts his head in inquiry. “Do you have any heart conditions I should be aware of?”
“Yes.” It’s broken. It’s been like that for a while.
“Hmm.” He nods in sympathy. “I’m afraid I don’t believe you, but… if I’m wrong and you’re right, my apologies in advance.”
“So you’re not planning to kill me?” The questionslips out before I can stop it.
He grimaces, almost playful, like a boy caught out, and spreads his hands. “I can’t make any promises.”
A shiver grips me, running through my whole body, and it’s not even cold. It’s just pure terror, the confirmation that my life is over—or will be soon. I hate the feeling of helplessness, the menacing apprehension he’s creating, the intimidation he exudes. And I’m fucking done with it, with him, with this, with beingweak.
“So kill me already.” It comes out strong. I’m proud of myself for that.
“Bold of you,” he says. “Shall we see how long that lasts?”
He picks up his gun, holding it in the air, and I can’t look away. His lips twitch in cruel amusement, then he places the gun back down on the table, and gathers the cloths that lie beneath it. He drops them unceremoniously into the bucket, where they land with a wet splash.
I shudder, my eyes drawn from the gun to the bucket and back again. I’m not feeling so bold anymore, and he hasn’t even done anything.
My abductor stirs the cloths around with one hand, then pulls them out and deposits them, soaking and dripping, onto the table. Then he picks up the bucket and throws its contents into my face.
Water slams into me, drenching me from head to toe, and I gasp at the impact. It’s neither cold nor warm, but it’s still a shock to my body. My clothing is soaked, my hair dripping, and I have to blink it frommy eyes. Droplets run over my mouth. I can’t help but lick at them, but they offer no respite for my thirst.
My abductor sets the bucket down, his flat, creepy gaze running slowly over me, and my skin tingles where it lands. “That is a good look for you.”
He steps forward, right up to my chair. I cringe back, but there’s nowhere to go. He reaches out, cupping one breast through my damp T-shirt, the material translucent and clinging to my skin. His thumb rubs over my nipple, and I jerk in revulsion.
I want to tell him to go to hell. I want to shout and scream at him, but I don’t. I can’t. If I do, if I anger him, there’s nothing to stop him doing worse things to me. More than the hand that’s already on my body, leaving one breast to drift casually across and play with the other.
“Very pert, very firm,” he comments as he squeezes. “I must admit, you are attractive. It’s rare that I get a chance to work with such a pleasant… subject.”
Bile rushes up, and I swallow it down, saying nothing. I clench my jaw so tight it aches, and try to find a happy memory to hide within. But I can’t; if I have any, I can’t find them. I can only see Carol, dead in her apartment, and Alex, wondering where I am, thinking I’ve simply run from him again.
He’ll never find me. He’ll never know.
