Chapter 38
Marin
I’m still standing at the counter trying to figure out how to answer a question I wasn’t expecting when I hear it.
Not a yell. Not a scream. Just Charles’s voice, calm and clear, floating down the stairs like a man ordering room service.
“Marin? We have a situation.”
Luke looks at me. I look at the ceiling.
“I’ll be right back,” I say.
I go upstairs. Open the door.
The smell hits first.
Charles is propped against the headboard. Same position. Same cuffs. Same expression of bored contempt. But the sheets are dark and wet and the room smells like a subway platform in August and he’s looking at me with the satisfaction of a man who has just made a point with his bladder.
“Couldn’t hold it,” he says. Flat. Casual. Like it’s my fault for not anticipating this exact scenario.
“You could have rung the bell. Or called me.”
“I’m restrained.”
“You can use the bell. You use it all the time.”
“I was sleeping.”
“You weren’t sleeping, Charles. You were lying in wait like a man planning a war crime with his own urine.”
He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t need to. We both know what this is.
This isn’t incontinence. This is negotiation.
This is Charles telling me that if I won’t let him go, he will make every single moment of his captivity as unpleasant as humanly possible.
He can’t fight the cuffs. He can’t overpower me with them on.
But he can piss on everything I’m trying to build, literally, and make me clean it up.
I strip the sheets. This requires the system—roll him left, pull the sheet, roll him right, pull through. Except now the sheet is wet and heavy and warm in a way that makes me want to shower in bleach and rethink every decision I’ve made since approximately the seventh grade.
“This is the third time,” I say.
“Fourth.”
“You’re counting?”
“I have a lot of free time.”
I get the fresh sheets on. Hospital corners. Because standards don’t die just because your hostage has declared biological warfare. Charles watches me work with the lazy interest of a man watching someone else clean up his mess. Which, metaphorically, is the story of our entire relationship.
“You know what,” I say, tucking the last corner. “You’re right. This room isn’t working.”
Something shifts in his face. Just a flicker.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the bedroom was a privilege, Charles. Pillow. A bell for Christ’s sake. Movies. And you’ve responded to every kindness with the emotional maturity of a man who pisses his own bed to prove a point.”
“Marin—”
“So we’re going to try something new.”
I walk to the door. Open it. Luke is standing at the bottom of the stairs. I don’t know how long he’s been there. Long enough to hear the conversation, probably. Long enough to smell it, definitely.
“Change of plans,” I say.
He looks at me. Waits.
“About your question…” I lean against the doorframe. Sweaty. Out of breath. Smelling like a mattress I never want to see again. “How about we start by moving him to the basement?”
Luke looks at me. Looks past me toward the bedroom. Looks back.
“The soundproofed basement,” he says.
“The very one.”
A pause. Something crosses his face—not reluctance, not enthusiasm. Assessment. The same look he gets when he’s measuring a wall.
“You’re going to need help getting him down the stairs,” he says.
“I’m aware.”
“And the cuffs won’t attach to anything down there without anchoring.”
“Can you anchor them?”
He looks at me for a long time. “Yeah. I can do that.”
“Good.”
We go upstairs together. Charles sees Luke and his expression changes—the lazy contempt replaced by something sharper. Something that recalculates.
“What’s happening,” he says. Not a question.
“You’re being relocated.” I gather his things. Leave the bell. “Think of it as a lateral move. Less natural light. More soundproofing. Same management.”
“Marin, don’t—”
“You pissed the bed, Charles. On purpose. The fourth time, by your own count.” I start loosening the cuffs from the rail. “Actions have consequences. Even for hostages.”
Luke anchors one arm. I take the other. Charles fights—not hard, not effectively, his body is weak from being in bed—but enough that getting him down the stairs takes everything both of us have. He’s heavier than he looks. Or maybe resistance just weighs more than cooperation.
The basement is dark. Cool. The soundproofing Luke installed makes it feel like stepping inside a sealed box.
There’s nothing to anchor the cuffs to yet. Luke looks at the concrete wall, then at me.
“I’ll need to come back with a plate and bolts. Drill into the concrete. It’ll be a couple of hours.”
“What do we do with him until then?”
Luke eyes the old iron support column in the center of the basement. Threads the cuffs around it. “That’ll work for now.”
We get Charles secured. Standing room only until I can get another mattress down here. He’s breathing hard. Looking around. Taking in the padded walls, the sealed door, the absence of windows.
“This is inhumane,” he says.
“This is the basement, Charles. You’ll get a mattress, a blanket, and a bucket. Which is more than you deserve after what you did to those sheets.”
I turn to leave. Luke follows.
At the top of the stairs, I close the basement door. Lean against it. My arms ache. My back aches. My shirt is sticking to me in places I don’t want to think about.
Luke is looking at me. Not with pity. Not with judgment. With something I don’t have a name for yet.
Three knocks at the front door. Cheerful. Purposeful.
I look at Luke. He looks at me. I’m sweaty, disheveled, out of breath, and I smell like a man’s revenge.
Mrs. Mather.