15. Chapter 15
The message comes through as I’m stepping off the bus from my impromptu mall visit, one hand already digging in my pocket for my bus keys. Really trying to shove my insipid little crush on my therapist aside as I tug my phone free and look to the screen.
Unknown Contact: If you’re serious, I’ll talk. Tonight. Buy the drinks and I’ll tell you what you want to know.
I gasp softly, my nerves electrifying as my brain scrambles to catch up to what this means.
Crush officially wiped clean, because my quiet plans for the night have seriously taken a left turn.
I had planned on painting some and holing myself up in my cave, but if I can get some grip on Plague and Pitch?
I’m going.
I type back as I shove through my bus door.
Sadie: Name the place. I’ll be there.
The reply comes a minute later with an address and time, nothing else. I don’t breathe properly as I dump all my crap onto the bench and dart to my closet. I change my shirt, then change it again because I don’t want to seem like a try hard.
Then say screw it and pull the first one back on.
It’s not a date. It’s research. So it really doesn’t matter how I show up, just as long as I do.
I all but dart from the bus, making sure to lock it at my back before heading around the bar back to the curb.
My hand waving down a cab as it crawls past looking for fare.
I dive into his backseat, more excitement than sense, and the driver glances back at me in the rearview like he’s trying to decide what category of passenger I fall into.
I give him the address of the bar across the city and he decides I’m the paying kind when he starts the meter.
I do a quick google search on it, finding that it’s the kind of place that doesn’t advertise itself beyond a flickering sign and mostly word-of-mouth.
When I arrive, it’s still early enough that the crowd is thin so I take a seat at the table near the back where I can watch the door.
Not that I would know who this guy is, but it settles my stomach in a way.
And I wait.
And wait.
Two hours pass.
Long enough for the ice to melt and my nerves to fray. Long enough to convince myself he’s not coming and that maybe that’s for the best.
The door opens with a whoosh of cold air, and I don’t know how I know, but I know.
The man that walks in is of average height with broad shoulders.
Dark hair cut so short to his scalp that it might as well be bald as he looks about in a tired way that has nothing to do with sleep.
His eyes scan the room once before landing on me.
My picture was in my profile, so I know he recognizes me.
He freezes for just a second before he turns and makes to walk out.
“Hey!” I blurt, scrambling from the booth. “Wait, I’m—”
“I know who you are,” he snaps, rounding back on me as I reach him.
“Drinks on me? That’s the deal.” I rasp, desperate.
He hesitates, then drops into the booth near the door. I follow after him and carefully take the seat across from him. When the waitress slips by he mutters something about making it strong and I order the same.
“You said you survived him,” he says abruptly, eyes locking onto me. “What the hell does that mean for you?”
Well, I’m not telling him I fucked him—not with that attitude.
“It means I got out,” I offer instead.
He laughs once, and I hate the sound of it. How degrading it is as his focus slides across me. “So did I. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Then tell me what happened to you.” I bite back.
His eyes drop to his glass when our drinks arrive, jaw working. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter.
“He didn’t touch me at first, but that was the worst part.”
I frown. “The worst part?”
“He talked and asked a lot of questions,” he continues. “Freaky as shit and all calm. Like he was doing me a favor by listening. Every answer I gave him just gave him something else to pull apart.”
I swallow, my fingers tightening on my glass.
“He knew things, or he figured them out fast. My family and insecurities. Things I hadn’t said out loud in years. He’d circle them like pressure points, press just enough that I would react.”
“That sounds like—”
“Like therapy?” he cuts in, eyes flashing. “Yeah. Except there was no pretense of helping.”
My pulse spikes, and I keep my mouth from asking questions so he can continue.
“He kept me in that mirror room,” he murmurs. “Hours or longer. Time got weird. Every time I thought what he did to me was over, he’d come back with another question. Another observation. Another way to tell me exactly who I was.”
“What do you mean what he did to you?” I press gently.
He pulls up the hoodie over his stomach, pushing out of his seat so that I can see the skin beneath. I balk at the ragged scars that cross him like stitching.
“And when I stopped answering? That’s when he got creative.” He croaks and shoves his hoodie back into place.
I don’t ask for details, because I don’t need them. It’s clear the man was tortured.
“He liked it,” the man hisses, shaking his head. “You could hear it in his voice. The satisfaction of watching someone break.”
My stomach rolls, and I’m suddenly very aware that if I mention what happened to me it will land about like I expect it to—badly.
“By the end, I was begging him to just kill me,” he breathes quietly.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating.
“I thought Pitch was supposed to be fun,” I murmur.
He snorts. “Pitch is a hunting ground.”
I think of the mirrored room and the calm voice asking me to choose. Of the way he’d laughed when I grabbed his wrist.
Why was I treated differently?
“What did you do then, to get out?” I ask carefully.
“I gave him nothing. I quit giving him reactions and answers. I shut down completely.”
“And?”
“And he got bored,” he growls. “Or frustrated. I don’t know. He just let me go like I wasn’t worth the effort anymore.”
A chill rolls down my spine and he shifts forward onto the table, lowering his voice. “That’s what scares me the most. He wasn’t even angry. He wasn’t out of control or anything, he was just methodical. Like he was testing something.”
I nod slowly, pieces shifting in my mind.
“He talked about patterns and people repeating the same mistakes because they don’t understand why they make them. He said pain is just data if you know how to read it.”
Jesus.
“That’s…” I trail off, searching for the word. “That’s unhinged.”
The man barks a laugh, and nothing about it is humorous. “You’re telling me.”
He drains the rest of his drink and signals for another, hands shaking just slightly. When it arrives he looks to me again, eyes narrowing. “What about you?”
“About me?” I chirp, taking a long swig of my beer.
“What did he do to you? What was your experience?”
Heat creeps up my neck. I was foolishly hoping we could avoid that. I hadn’t come here thinking about how different my truth would sound next to his.
“I—” I start, then stop.
He watches me closely, and something like disgust flickers across his face. “No, you didn’t…”
I force myself to meet his gaze. “I slept with him.”
The words hang there, ugly and exposed. But he had told me his truth, and he was at least owed mine in return. No matter how badly I didn’t want to give it.
He physically recoils like I’ve slapped him. “You what?”
“I didn’t know what he was capable of,” I rush to fix this. “I thought—”
“You thought what? That you were special?” He snaps, pushing back from the table. The shame hits hard and fast, my cheeks burning.
“I didn’t mean—”
“That’s sick. You’re fucking sick.” He seethes and I swallow hard.
“I didn’t know,” I repeat, voice barely above a whisper.
He shakes his head, repulsion etched into every line of his face. “You should’ve run.”
Then he turns and walks out, leaving his glass and my pride shattered on the table. I sit there for a long time after he’s gone, staring at nothing.
My mind races, replaying everything he had said. The calm cruelty and the methodical dismantling. The way Plague chose his victims and seemingly spared me.
Why?
Fuck, I just need to know why.