A frustrated groan escaped my lips as I slapped my hand on my forehead. I rolled to the floor and lay on my back, staring blankly into space. I’d rather take my chances on the concrete than sleep on that thing.
It was going to be a really long night.
To distract myself, I closed my eyes, replaying the encounter with my captor. I recalled every detail about him: his storm-gray eyes, tousled black hair, and the faint serpent tattoo that curled behind his ear.
His hands were gloved, his black clothes sharp but carelessly worn—saggy tie, undone buttons.
The man’s presence in the interrogation room was unsettling. His restraint and control felt deliberate despite my sass. He never bothered to prove his strength like that idiot with the knife. Yet his calm disturbed me more than I cared to admit.
He wasn’t the kind to mess with, that’s for sure. The man could’ve easily ended my life, and no one would ever find my body. But he didn’t. Why? I wasn’t sure yet.
I knew how this game worked, and there was no way I was going to scale through unscathed. He already revealed his identity, meaning he was never going to let me walk—at least not willingly.
His restraint was a sign of weakness; it was a warning to tread carefully. He was disaster personified, chaos disguised as charm. That alone made me wary of him in a way fear never could.
I spent hours thinking about him, about the mess I’d found myself in, and the different ways I could attempt an escape. First off, I had no idea where I was, and this place was swarming with guards. It was a fortress.
If I were ever to pull off a successful escape plan, I’d have to keep my head down and do my due diligence. I would have to take stock of my surroundings, catalog exits, guards, routines, and potential weaknesses.
I couldn’t do that locked up in this cubicle. The only way to achieve my goal was to look beyond these walls first. I needed to know where I was before I could begin planning my escape.
In that stinking room, I lay on the floor, slapping my skin, trying to kill the pesky mosquitoes that were biting and buzzing in my ears. Sleep seemed impossible, and my mind wouldn’t quiet.
I kept tossing and turning, overwhelmed with emotions: fear, anger, sadness, desperation, et cetera. A part of me wished I had just listened to Jake and let the case go. But giving up or abandoning people who came to me for help wasn’t in my DNA.
This was my cross. And I was willing to carry it.
After hours of wrestling with insanity, I finally fell asleep at dawn. By the time I woke, the sun was already up, its golden rays streaming in through the small window.
I wiped the remnants of sleep from my tired eyes and sat up, ready to face my new reality. The first thing I saw at a cornerwas a dead rat. I knew it. I knew that foul stench was caused by a fuckin’ dead rat.
My face twisted into a grimace, and that’s when I spotted the mattress: thin and saggy. The fabric was a mottled portrait of grime with urine long soaked into the fibers. Stains spread across the surface like a map, intermixed with rust-brown blotches of dried blood.
Bile burned at the back of my throat, and my brows rose in sheer irritation. Thank God I’d taken my chances with the floor. I decided right then and there that I was never going to lie on that thing. Never.
I heard the door unlock from the outside before it groaned open with a heavy thunk. Slowly, I rose to my feet and stood facing the entrance.
A huge man walked in, carrying a bowl of steaming hot soup and a cup of water. His boots pounded against the floor as he approached me with a blank expression. I was expecting the angry man and his arrogant gloats. But it wasn’t him.
I hadn’t seen this one before.
He set the food on the floor beside the mattress. “Eat,” he growled, his voice a gravelly whisper.
I had no idea what kind of soup that was—watery, dark brown, with lumps floating in it. The stainless spoon was bent at the tip, the body squeezed inward as if crushed by a tight grip. And the cup, my goodness! It was the definition of filthy.
There was no way in hell any of that was coming anywhere close to my mouth.
“I would rather starve than touch that thing,” I said to him.
His expression remained unchanged. “Hmm.”
I met his intense gaze, refusing to show signs of intimidation even though it felt like looking at Lurch himself. Massive and inhumanly still.
Without another word, he headed out and slammed the door shut behind him.
While I stood there in the middle of the room, I realized that Lurch had closed the door. But he didn’t lock it before leaving. Did he forget? Or was that done on purpose?
I thought for a moment, wondering whether this was some kind of test. Was it a trap? Was I being baited?
