Page 14 of Captive

Stuff to tie someone up. A super sharp knife. A rudimentary kill kit, to be sure, but a kill kit nonetheless.

It was as I stared at my reflection in the knife that I had an epiphany. Abby mentioned she wasn’t hurt by Brock. It would be naive of me to believe we are the only ones around who know of Brock’s rapist proclivities. There is a lot of assuming involved, but I think I have it figured out.

There have been a few deaths that were attributed to D.D.K., deaths that were not ours. Deaths we did not have a hand in. The details of said cases weren’t identical to our methods, but they were close enough that the police linked them to D.D.K., and since we aren’t in the habit of contacting local law enforcement and informing them how wrong they are… well.

Could Abby be responsible for those deaths? There aren’t many. Just two, I believe. Brock would have made number three, if that’s what this is.

Is Abby a wannabe serial killer? Is she trying to copy D.D.K.’s methods? So many questions swirling around my head when it comes to her and her reasoning. I need to know the truth. If her reasoning behind her methods aligns with ours, perhaps there is a future where we can work together instead of simply keeping her here as a captive.

A captive. A prisoner. I still can’t believe it, but unfortunately keeping her here is the only solution I see, for now.

After I go downstairs for a coffee refill, it’s a short wait before I’m joined in my office by Abby herself. Once she slips through the door, she quietly shuts it behind her and stares at me from across the room.

I gesture to the chair on the other side of my desk, an old leather chair that has seen better days. “Please, sit.” I sound so stiff and formal, but I suppose stiff and formal is better than the alternative. This whole thing is not something I could have ever prepared myself for.

Abby is slow to move toward the chair and take a seat, and once she’s seated she has to adjust her position a good three times before she’s comfortable. It’s clear I’m not the only one who’s a tad apprehensive about the other person. Given everything, it is remarkable she’s as composed as she is.

“Abby,” I say her name gently, wanting and hoping to start out on a good foot with her, or as good of a foot as we can possibly start off on, since she was kidnapped and brought here against her will to begin with.

“Hawthorne,” Abby says, mimicking my seriousness.

I figure it’s best to cut to the chase, so I bend over and retrieve the bag from beneath my desk—I assumed it would be best if she didn’t see it the moment she walked in. The very second I place it on my desk, I note the way she stiffens.

Just a hair. Not a lot, but enough that someone like me notices.

“This bag,” I start, setting a hand atop it. “It is yours, isn’t it?” For now, the bag remains closed, but I know what rests on the top of all the items within: the knife. The knife she would have surely used to kill Brock, would Royal and Ezra not have killed him themselves.

“Somehow,” she says, dryly, “I don’t think you’d believe me if I say no.”

“You’d be right. This bag doesn’t belong to Royal or Ezra, nor does it belong to Brock. It’s yours. I’d like for you and I to get down to brass tacks. Cut to the chase, if you will. If you tell me the truth, I’ll tell you what I can about us. Does that sound like a deal?”

You’d have to be blind to not see the way she perks up at the possibility of hearing more about us. Abby is a deathly sort of curious about the three of us, about D.D.K. and our whole operation. Bartering with the truth, or at least some of the truth, is my only bargaining chip.

Abby must then realize how it looks, how eager she is and how plain it is to see, because she coughs and attempts to act nonchalant. “Uh, sure. I mean, I guess that would work for me. I’m already stuck here, right? Might as well know more.”

If it was anyone else sitting across from me, I’d hesitate to believe them. I’d wonder if, perhaps, in the back of their mind, they were planning on escaping at the first given opportunity. Abby does not act like a normal person would. Given the bag, its contents, and its intended use… her reactions track.

I level the truth at her: “You were there to kill him, weren’t you?”

“I—wait, you’re not a cop, are you?” She makes a big show of glancing around the room. “Are there cameras in here? Is this some sort of sting?” She can barely get out that last question before she chuckles at herself. “I’m kidding, obviously.”

I don’t laugh. Her sense of humor might be her deflecting.

“If I say yes, I was there to kill him… what would you say?” she hedges.

“I would say that it is a coincidence almost too impossible to be real. After all, what are the odds that you would go after Brock the same night I send Royal and Ezra to dispatch of him?”

Abby echos, “To dispatch of him. Damn, is that what serial killers are calling it these days?”

“That’s what I call it, yes.”

She runs her hands along her knees. She still wears the same all-black outfit she wore when she was carried into this house. It makes her gray eyes and the light, pastel color of her blue and pink hair pop.

She’s pretty. Maybe early twenties. Smart, if she’s killed and gotten away with it. A little out there when it comes to her sanity, but in this house we’re all a little mad.

Then, out of nowhere, she shrugs. “Fine, yes, I was there to kill him.”

“Why were you targeting him?”