I crouched beside the cot. “Cove.”
Nothing.
“I’ll bring you some bedding from the linen closet. A pillow, too.”
Nothing.
“And some water. You’re probably thirsty after all that.”
Still nothing.
“We need to take the bindings off once the door is secured,” I said to Ben.
His brow lifted. “Not immediately.”
“He cannot remain tied like this.”
“He can for ten minutes while we make sure he doesn’t try to hurt himself.”
“He will not hurt himself.”
“You don’t know that.”
I looked back at Cove.
His breathing was too fast, his body too rigid. His hands were clenched together in front of him, where the rope held his wrists.
No.
I did not know that.
And that was another failure.
Another variable I had not controlled because I had been too occupied by the disaster of his fear to think clearly.
I reached toward him, jerking my hand back when he recoiled so fast that he nearly rolled off the cot.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, desperate for him to believe me.
And when Cove’s eyes finally looked up at me, there was no trust in them, only betrayal.
I stood before I could do something useless, like attempt to comfort him again.
“Stay with him on camera,” I told Ben.
“I will.”
I looked at him, finding Ben’s expression tired and pained.
There was nothing else to say.
Nothing that would help.
Nothing that Cove would believe.
So I stepped out of the room, though every instinct in me resisted leaving him there, and watched as Ben followed.
The door closed, and the lock engaged.
