12. Chapter 7
The first day I’m here, I scream and pound on the door. Pace the room. Kick at the tray of food and the pretty glass pitcher of water that magically appeared by the locked door while I was sleeping. Then regret it because I’m hungry and the tap water from the bathroom facet tastes metallic and old.
The second day, I know better, so I keep quiet and tear the room apart looking for any clues as to where I am. I find nothing and I’m left with the armoire drawers and their contents scattered around the room. The flowery vintage dresses and silky nightgowns all over the floor. All the bedding, a soft white coverlet and clean sheets, in a lump near the window.
Day three, I clean up my mess because it’s obvious I’m not going anywhere and I’m bored out of my mind, sick of trying to figure out what they want. Worried my father may not know where to look for us.
On day four, I shut the bathroom door and hyperventilate, but not a single tear escapes. Even as the hopelessness consumes my every thought, I can’t cry. All my tears dried up and withered like dead flowers that one awful day my mother was taken from me. Just like any hope I’ve clung to that my father may find us. When I can breathe again, I leave the bathroom and sleep the rest of the day.
By day five, I’m staring out the window, lost in thought. Hoping Zane isn’t dragging the company under in my absence or messing up the ledgers Cora and I kept.
Or just being Zane and trying to convince my father to buy another hotel chain from Snyder…. or whatever it was we actually bought. The sum Cora and I had to distribute and hide was astronomical for a chain of hotels.
On day six, I steep in my anger.
Several times a day, I tell myself that my father is coming. Clyde is coming. They have to. Someone, anyone, is coming to get us and return us home. Alive.
Even stupid, annoying Zane would be a welcome sight. He’d love the opportunity to be the hero.
By day seven, I’m boiling. A current of anger coursing through me as my mind spins, searching for answers, anything logical to hold on to while I wait for my father and Clyde.
Anger is easier to feel than fear.
Seven days is a long time to be alone, locked in a room with just your thoughts to keep you company. Seven whole days since Striker untied me. Seven days of pacing this room, suppressing the terror building inside my chest, squeezing my lungs. I don’t know where Cora is or if she’s safe. If they untied her too and left to her to her own thoughts, like they have me. If she’s in a room somewhere in this huge house, pacing back and forth, waiting for whatever comes next. If she’s scared like I am.
If she’s dead.
My sleep is erratic, and I’m only able to get a few hours at a time. At least I think it’s that long. Since I have no way of telling the time, I can only guess at the number of hours that pass. I’m lost without my phone and my watch. The two items I relied on so heavily every day.
I only think it’s been seven days based on the number of times I’ve seen the sunset and the number of times a tray of food has appeared while I was in the bathroom taking one of my quick, freezing cold showers. Every time I step into the shower, my heart races, stomach churning with black, oily fear. I had never thought about how vulnerable a person is in the shower before. But then again, I never had a reason to.
I’ve also never had a reason to care so much about how many days have passed. As I watch the sunrise on this seventh day, I place my hand on the cold glass, wishing they’d just let me see Cora. Outside my prison window, vivid splashes of orange wipe away the purply night and smattering of stars remaining in the sky as the bright sun rises over the water. It’s so breathtakingly beautiful, my heart pangs for home.
At least we’re still on the east coast.
The view outside my window has told me nothing beyond that the enormous house sits back from the short cliffs, with open greenery along the coast. At night, there are no other lights nearby, nor the pale halo of light pollution in the dark sky indicating a city close to here.
I keep calling it a house, but it’s really a vast mansion. Some late 18th century monstrosity, with massive wings jutting off to my room’s right and left, gables with ornate spindles, and a gothic feeling that reminds me of something a French vampire would inhabit.
During the day, I can’t see in any movement in other windows, but at night there are a few flickers of lights in the wing to my left and I think that might be where Cora is being held.
At least that’s what I hope.
I’ve tried signaling at night, opening and closing the curtains in some mangled form of morse code, thinking if it is her, then she must be looking out the window trying to find me too. But I never see anything.
The massive windows don’t open and no matter how hard I’ve tried, I can’t unlock the door to my room. I gave up once I realized it was a sliding lock on the outside. So I’m forced to sit and wait. Pick at the food on the platter they leave—hunks of hard cheese, dried fruits, crackers, and bread with a glass and a crystal pitcher of water—and then wait again.
Today, though, that is going to change. Whatever game they are playing, keeping Cora and me separated, keeping me isolated, is working and I’m going stir crazy, ready to get out of this room at any cost.
That’s why I have a plan. I know they have a camera on me in the bedroom. I hope not in the bathroom, because they only bring the tray of food while I’m in the shower or sleeping. The first time I came from the bathroom and found the tray on the floor by the door, I figured they were watching me. Then when I woke to find it replaced with fresh bits of food, it was confirmed.
They’re keeping me as a prisoner, but like all prisons, I’m being watched.
Heavy footsteps fall outside the bedroom and stop. Through the crack at the bottom of the door, I can see his shadow standing on the other side. I know it’s him. It’s like my body can sense his nearness. My heart jackhammers in my chest, even though he does this several times I day and I already know what to expect. There’s a part of me that fears he’ll slide the lock back and come in. But he again just stands outside the door saying nothing.
The first time, I screamed and pounded on the door, giving in to my fear and desperation, only to be ignored. I won’t do it again.
Just as suspected, after a few minutes, Reaper turns and leaves.
It’s part of the mind-fuck.
That’s why I’m about to fuck with them.
My forehead hits the window panel, my breath fogging up the glass. It’s cold, bitter cold, but I found cable knit sweaters in the armoire my first day here, along with the old vintage dresses and simple cotton bras and underwear. Some fluffy socks and a pair of brown leather boots with long laces.
“You could at least light the fire when you sneak in here next time, Striker,” I say, not turning from the window. I don’t know if they can hear me through the camera, but I’ve been talking to them for days. At first I remained silent, refusing to give them the satisfaction that whatever they are trying to accomplish is getting under my skin, but at this point, who cares? If I don’t talk, hear my voice out loud, I’m going to go insane.
“If you’re going to kill me, can we just get on with it?” I ask. “I’m so tired of being in this room.”
My stomach rumbles with hunger, and I lower my hand from the glass to touch my belly. My appetite is gone, even if my body wants the nourishment. I can hardly stomach any more than few bites at a time. My nerves are too rattled. .
With all this time I’ve had to think, I have figured out a few things. When I first woke, I knew they were some sort of solider. Professionals, tasked with taking Cora and me.
But, too many days have passed with no sign of my father. If we’re being held for ransom, whatever the asking price for Cora and me to be returned safely may be too high for my father to get easily. He’d have to sell shares, hotel chains, and clubs if they’re asking for maybe hundreds of millions. My father is loaded, but it’s all tied up in real estate. It would take time to gather that much money. He’d have to liquidate all his assets if the price was steep. That would take a while.
Like maybe a few days.
And we’re already on day seven.
The second thing I realized is that my father knows exactly who took us, or rather who hired the four to take us, which complicates matters. This means it’s personal, which could be why the ransom may be high and why Reaper said he was seeking revenge. Whoever has a grudge against my father, and that could be literally anyone, is more than likely going to make him sweat.
That means my father may not have been told what he needs to pay just yet. If that’s the case, my father must be losing his mind.
A sliver of delight moves through me at the thought my father probably grabbed Dave and interrogated him in a fit of rage and fear to see if he has any connection to whoever took us.
The one time I acted out when I was a teenager, he sent Clyde to retrieve me. I had gone out on a date, something I wasn’t allowed to do, and we’d parked at the beach to make out, but then Clyde appeared. He’d dragged the boy from the back of the car and beat the shit out of him. I stood there and watched, learning as much of a lesson as that boy whose name I can’t even remember. I wasn’t to be touched.
And so I was careful after that. Then Dave came along and I knew he’d be safe if he touched me.
Now though? The cheating asshole”s probably black and blue and I can’t say I’m upset about it.
Zane’s handsome face flashes through my mind. I wonder if Rune questioned him. He’s been with Rune Corporations for years, but only stepped up, working directly under my father around five years ago. My father trusts him, but not like he does Dave.
I wonder if Zane’s covered in bruises too. Probably not. He’s good at playing the game and more than likely is helping Rune tear through his staff, looking for anyone who might be involved.
Another possibility why my father has yet to come for us is that they haven’t contacted him. At all. Once that thought crossed my mind, I had to shut it down because that could only mean one thing. We were being used as tools to get my father to corporate.
That means we’re expendable.
And once that thought took root, it grew thorns and snagged in my mind, and now I know we have to escape. I have to get out of this room, find Cora, and get help. Even if I have no idea where I am, and can only see the ocean spread out before me.
My mind flashes with the image of Manuel on the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut. These guys are murders. Reaper killed my father’s guard in cold blood to get us. I know for a fact he’d not hesitate to kill us if that’s what was wanted. We have to escape.
I shift, the cold metal fork I tucked in my sock poking into my skin, a reminder that I have a plan and it will work.
It has to.
Turning, I lean my back against the large paned window, keeping my eyes cast down to the rough wood floor. I think I know where the camera is located, but I’m not positive. I took a chance my second day here and slipped the small fork under my blankets when I sat down on the bed to eat from the tray.
My eyes drift up, right to the corner where I think it’s located, and say, “Or turn up the fucking heat. You’re aware I’m a south Florida girl, it’s November, and cold as fuck in here, right?” I lift my thick cardigan. “And this isn’t doing the job.”
Cold seeps through the sweater as I press my back to the glass, my gaze traveling to the chair by the vanity. It’s small, but made of solid wood, with the armrests covered in a worn blue velvet. Like the ones in those dramatic costume movies where the woman sits to brush her hair as she slowly goes insane. Like how I feel right now. Crazy. Driven to madness by isolation, the constant nagging of fear, and the freezing cold of the room I can’t escape.
My feet pad softly over the floor, the thin dress whispering around my shins. I stop next to the chair and inspect it. Then lift the arm to check its weight. It’s heavy, but not too heavy to lift.