Chapter 46 #2
The dog crate sits in the middle of the bedroom floor, metal bars dull under the yellow light, hinges rusted near the base.
Seth carries her in first. Her limbs hang loose, dead weight in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. He sets her down on the bed and steps back while I check her pulse and watch her eyes for any sign of awareness.
We drag the crate into the bathroom and wedge it beside the tub. The thing is old and ugly, but the latch holds firm when I test it.
Seth lifts her again and eases her inside the crate.
Her body folds awkwardly, but he forces her knees up and shoulders down until she fits, spine bent, cheek pressed against the steel floor.
I grab her wrists and guide them through the front bars, one at a time, until both arms stick out past the metal.
Her hands dangle in the air, fingers limp and palms up.
I wrap zip ties around each wrist and cinch them tight to the bars. The plastic digs into her skin, pinning her bones against cold metal so she has nowhere to move once she wakes up. I test the restraints by pulling her hands toward me. The bars don't give. Her arms stay locked in place.
I go to the sink and pull open the drawer where the motel keeps its repair tools. A small hammer sits inside, the metal head worn and stained, the handle scuffed from use.
I take it and walk back.
She is still out.
Her wrists hang through the bars of the crate, zip ties cinched tight, leaving them exposed with nowhere to go.
I crouch beside her and take a second to look at her right wrist. It looks fragile. Too fragile for everything she has done. I adjust my grip on the hammer and line it up carefully over the joint.
I bring it down.
The impact lands with a dull, cracking sound. Her wrist collapses sideways against the bar, bending at an angle it is not meant to bend. The joint gives under the force, bone shifting beneath the skin.
She comes awake screaming.
Her body jerks violently inside the crate, shoulders slamming into the sides as her legs kick against the floor. Her eyes snap open, spit gathering at the corner of her mouth as the sound tears out of her.
She tries to yank her right arm back through the bars. The zip tie holds.
The motion only twists the broken joint further. The skin around the wrist swells fast and mottles deep, and the hand hangs limp, fingers spasming and curling.
“What the fuck?!” she screams, voice cracking. “WHAT THE FUCK?!”
I ignore her. I shift my attention to her left wrist.
That hand still moves, fingers clawing at the air, nails scraping against the metal like she can find a grip where none exists.
“Stop,” she yells. “Stop, Brooke. Listen to me. You need me alive. I’ll call off Elliot. I’ll—”
I raise the hammer again, this time over her left wrist.
Her eyes lock on the motion. Terror finally replaces that smug arrogance.
“Brooke, wait, please!” she shouts. “You want Elliot, remember. You want him more than me. Use me. Use my access. Use my—”
I bring the hammer down.
The second impact sounds worse, because she feels every millisecond of it. Bone cracks under the blow, and her left wrist snaps sideways against the bar, matching the ruined angle of the right. The skin puffs up in an instant, veins standing out, the hand twisting as nerves fire.
Her scream goes higher, shredding her voice.
She tries to curl into herself, but the crate gives her nowhere to go. Her shoulders heave. Her fingers twitch and claw at nothing. Both hands now hang broken outside the bars, destroyed and useless.
I watch her fight against the restraints, watch realization hit her through the pain.
Those hands held me under water. Now they will never hold anything again.
Sophie curls inside on her side, wrists zip-tied and pulled through the bars, ankles bound, hair a mess around her face.
Both wrists hang outside the crate, twisted at angles, and she screams every time the broken bones shift against the metal.
She still manages to look smug through the tears and spit.
“You fucking bitch, you psycho bitch!” she cries, voice hoarse and cracking. “You think this changes anything. You’re completely fucked, Brooke. Elliot will check in. He knows my schedule. He’ll realize I’m gone, and he’ll come for me.”
I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms, watching her test the bars with her shoulder.
“Nobody's gonna come for you,” I say. “You belong to us now, Sophie.”
Her eyes flick from me to Seth, who leans against the sink with his arms folded. He watches her like he is waiting for something worth reacting to.
“You really think you’re safe now,” she scoffs. “Huh, Brooke?”
I say nothing.
She turns her attention to Seth and smiles. “Seth, you should’ve seen her at the manor. Did she tell you everything? Did she tell you how she begged for Elliot’s cock? Your precious little Brooke offered her pussy to him. She said she wanted to please him.”
Seth’s gaze slides to me for a second.
We already went through this. I told him exactly what happened in that room, how I planned to use Elliot’s ego and his body to get close enough for a knife or a distraction. I told him I was willing to make him believe anything if it meant getting out alive.
I hold Seth’s eyes and don't look away.
He pulls a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and places it between his lips.
He lights it, takes a long drag, and then walks closer to the crate.
Sophie tries to shift back, but the space is too tight.
Seth exhales smoke directly through the bars into her face. She coughs once and glares up at him.
“You’re gonna need to try harder, you stupid bitch,” he says, voice calm and bored. “I already know exactly what happened.”
Sophie’s nostrils flare.
Seth leans a little closer. “I’m going to make sure you and Elliot feel every single thing you put her through, and more. You wanted a show at that manor. You’re getting one now.”
Sophie stares at him with pure hatred. Her lips curl back over her teeth.
She spits toward him, aiming for his face. The spit lands near his boot instead, flecking the floor at his feet.
“That is why your fucking bastard baby didn’t survive.”
Hatred rolls through me in one clean, vicious thought, and every part of me agrees she deserves to die screaming in that cage.
Every instinct in my body tells me to draw my gun and put a bullet through her skull, to erase her voice and everything she has ever done.
I keep my hand away from the weapon and force myself to calm down, because killing her now will waste what I want from her and what we still plan to do to Elliot.
I step forward before I really think about it. Metal scrapes across the tile as I grab the side of the crate and drag it toward the tub. The weight strains my arms, and the sound scrapes through the bathroom.
“Lift it,” I say to Seth.
He stubs the cigarette out on the cracked sink edge, sets the butt aside, and steps in beside me. He hooks his hands under the bottom of the crate and lifts it easily. Sophie yelps as the crate jolts up.
He sets the crate down inside the tub. The metal leaves marks on the porcelain.
Sophie’s breathing picks up.
“What are you doing?” she demands. Her voice has lost a small layer of control. “Brooke, I’m sorry.”
I reach for the faucet and turn the handle.
The pipes rattle before water rushes from the spout, clear at first, then slightly discolored from the old system. It splashes against the tub floor and around the bottom of the crate.
Sophie jerks away from it as far as the cramped space allows.
“Brooke,” she snaps. “I’m sorry, okay. Please, I only did those things because they wanted me to.”
I watch the water level climb slowly around the base of the crate.
“There’s nobody else at this motel,” I say. “You can scream as much as you want. Nobody will hear you. Nobody will come for you.”
She presses her back against the rear bars, trying to lift her knees.
Seth leans against the wall near the door, arms folded again, eyes steady on her.
“Hope you can hold your breath,” he chuckles quietly.
Her eyes fly to him again. “If you leave me here, Elliot will find me.”
“Elliot will have his hands full later,” Seth says. “He’ll have enough to worry about when we arrive.”
The water reaches her calves.
Sophie shifts again, trying to keep her feet under her. The crate doesn't give her much room. Her shoulder knocks against the bars, and the metal rattles.
“You can’t do this,” she says, voice climbing. “You’re reckless if you think you can walk into that party and walk out again. Grant will be there. Security will be everywhere. You’ll get killed before you reach the door.”
“That sounds like planning advice,” Seth nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The water reaches her knees.
She tries to lift them higher and presses against the top of the crate, but there is too little space. Her movements grow smaller as she realizes each shift makes less difference.
Sweat gathers along her hairline.
“Brooke, listen to me,” she shouts, focusing on me again. “You want revenge. I understand that. I understand wanting him dead. Elliot deserves every single thing that is coming. You don’t have to kill me for that.”
I step closer to the tub and look down at her.
“I don’t want revenge, Sophie. I want you to suffer. I want you dead.”
She tries to push her body up to keep her head higher. The motion only lasts a few seconds each time.
Her breathing turns shallow and fast.
“Brooke please. I’ll drown if you keep doing this,” she pleads.
I raise an eyebrow. “You tried to drown me first.”
Her mouth opens, then shuts again.
The water climbs to her waist.
She bends her knees tighter, pressing her back harder against the bars, trying to keep her chest above the surface. Her wrists stay tied. Her ankles stay bound. Her movements grow jerky.
“Please,” she begs finally, voice cracking. “Brooke, think about this. You’re a good person. I’m sorry.”
I watch her eyes, not the water.
“You’ll never touch anyone again,” I smile. “You’ll never hurt anyone again.”
Her jaw clenches, and she swallows hard.
The water reaches her ribs. Her breathing hitches every time the surface rises higher.
Seth checks his watch casually. “We shouldn’t be late. It sends the wrong message at these events.”
The water keeps rising. It reaches the base of her chest, then the top of it. She strains upward, trying to gain another inch.
“Turn it off!” she yells. “Turn it off, Brooke. You made your point. You win. Turn the water off!”
Her voice cracks on the last word.
I let it run a few seconds longer, watching the line near her chin.
Then I turn the handle and shut it off.
The tub is nearly filled. The water reaches almost to the top of the crate. Her knees press against the metal ceiling. Her neck strains upward to give her nose room.
She pants, each breath shallow and quick.
Her nose hovers barely above the surface. Each slight movement sends ripples across the water, touching her lips.
Her eyes are huge now.
I crouch so she can see my face clearly. Her gaze locks on mine.
“We’re going to go get Elliot at his party,” I say. “We’re going to handle him, and then we’re going to come back for you.”
Her throat works as she swallows.
“If you hold still, you’ll keep breathing long enough for us to finish,” I add. “If you panic, you’ll speed everything up. The choice is up to you.”
Seth opens the bathroom door and steps out into the main room.
I stand up and follow him, glancing once more at the crate in the tub. Sophie’s chin trembles as she fights to keep her nose above the line.
I flip the bathroom light off and close the door.
Seth walks toward the bed where our clothes are laid out for the party. He picks up his shirt and looks over at me.
“Time to crash a party.”