Chapter 26
Marin
I can hear Luke in the basement. The steady rhythm of a man measuring, cutting, placing. Methodical. Unhurried. Like he didn’t just find a hostage in my spare bedroom and decide to finish the job anyway.
I’ll deal with that later. Right now, I have a boyfriend to feed.
Charles is more awake today. Which is unfortunate.
I can hear him before I reach the door. Not moaning. Not slurring. Full sentences, sharp and loud, fired at the ceiling like someone might be listening.
Someone is. But not the someone he’s hoping for.
I open the door. He’s pulled himself upright against the headboard, wrists straining against the cuffs.
He’s healing, which means the mouth is coming back online.
Charles has always been at his most dangerous when he’s lucid.
Not dangerous like a threat—dangerous like a lawyer.
He doesn’t yell. He cross-examines. It’s one of the things I fell in love with.
It’s also the reason I bought restraints.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Where are we?”
It comes out more like a demand than a question. He’s asked before but he was foggy then. Now his eyes are clear. Focused. The sedatives have worn off almost completely and the man looking at me is the real Charles—sharp, cold, already calculating.
“I told you. Upstate.”
He looks toward the window. The curtains are drawn but light pushes through the edges—warm, golden, wrong.
“It’s eighty degrees in here, Marin. This isn’t upstate.”
“The AC doesn’t work yet. It’s on the list.”
He doesn’t buy it. I can see him filing it away. One more piece of evidence for the case he’s building in his head.
“Upstate where? What town? What county?”
“We’re together. Does it matter?”
“It matters when I file a police report, Marin.”
I set the tray on the nightstand. Water. Toast. Ibuprofen. Two days ago he threw the toast at me. Today I’m betting on progress.
“You’re not filing a police report.”
“The hell I’m not. When I get out of here—”
“When you get out of here, you’ll what? Call your lawyer? Call Vanessa? Call your mother?” I sit on the edge of the mattress. Leave a fair amount of distance. “And tell them what exactly? That your girlfriend drove you to the country for a fresh start and you didn’t like the accommodations?”
“That my girlfriend drugged me and tied me to a bed.”
“You’re leaving out context.”
“There is no context for this!”
His voice cracks on the last word. Not from emotion—from strain. His throat is dry. He’s been yelling at the ceiling for God knows how long. I hand him the water. He stares at it.
“Drink,” I say.
“Untie me first.”
I nod at the glass. “Drink first.”
“I’m not negotiating with you.”
“You’re not in a position not to.”
He holds the stare for three seconds. Four. Then he takes the water. Drinks. Not gratefully—angrily. Like hydration is a concession he resents making.
“People are going to notice I’m gone,” he says, wiping his mouth on his shoulder. “I have a job, Marin. I have clients. I have a life.”
“You have a two-bedroom on the Upper West Side and a Peloton you never use. Your assistant thinks you’re in Tulum. I sent the email myself.”
That lands. I see it—the flicker behind his eyes as he realizes how much I’ve planned.
How far ahead I’ve been thinking while he was unconscious.
He’s recalculating. Adjusting. Trying to find the gap.
What I don’t tell him is why I told his assistant he was in Tulum, and it sure isn’t for vacation. Not exactly.
“My phone,” he says. “Where’s my phone?”
“Safe.”
“People will track it.”
“I turned it off. It’s in a Faraday bag in the trunk of my car.” I pause. “I watch a lot of true crime podcasts, Charles. Don’t insult me.”
He goes quiet. Not defeated quiet—processing quiet. His eyes move around the room in a way I haven’t seen before. Not panicked. Methodical. The window. The door. The distance between the bed and the wall. The way the restraints connect to the rails.
He catches me watching him do it and stops.
“The toast is cold,” he says. Easy. Casual. Like we’re not both pretending I didn’t just watch him case the room.
I bring him fresh toast because that’s what a good girlfriend does.
But I check the restraints twice before I leave.