Chapter 13 Shay
Shay
I’m not dead.
That was the first coherent thought that surfaced through the fog. My lungs were working. My heart was beating. Air moved in and out of my throat, even if every breath felt like swallowing glass.
The second thought came slower, swimming up through layers of confusion: Where the fuck am I?
It took me several long seconds to orient myself, my eyes adjusting to the pale light filtering through the narrow window.
I was in the basement—Tom’s basement, to be exact.
I recognized his bookbinding bench, making me remember the careful way he repaired old books, replacing spines and rebinding pages with an almost reverent attention to detail.
I’d thought it was charming at the time. Endearing, even.
My laugh came out as a rasp, painful enough to make me wince.
The desk where he restored his books sat against the far wall, completely bare now. There were no tools, no sharp implements or heavy objects that could be used as a weapon.
It shouldn’t have been surprising. To expect anything else from him would be a disservice. I was dealing with a seasoned killer, after all.
I tried to move, and my body screamed in protest. My forehead felt tender, and when I reached up to touch it, my fingers came away sticky with blood.
I cleared my throat experimentally. The soreness flared bright and hot, and I tasted copper. When I swallowed, it felt like my esophagus was lined with broken glass.
How long had I been out? Minutes? Hours?
The window set high on the wall leaked that strange, colorless light—too weak for midday, too gray for anything but the uncertain hours of early morning or late afternoon.
My heartbeat was too loud in my ears, a frantic percussion that made me feel like my heart might claw its way out of my chest. The panic was there, coiled tight beneath my ribs, waiting to spring. I could feel it building by the second.
I needed to calm down.
I took in a long breath, then breathed out, nice and slow.
The panic ebbed slightly, pulled back like a reluctant tide, though I could still feel it lurking at the edges.
If I strained my ears hard enough, I could hear soft footsteps overhead, moving across the floor above me.
Tom was up there. Which—of course he was. Where else would he be?
I pushed myself up to a sitting position, ignoring the way my vision swam and my stomach lurched.
The cuffs around my wrists bit into my skin.
He’d secured me to a pipe running along the wall—far enough that I could move, sit up, even stand if I wanted to.
Close enough that I couldn’t reach the stairs.
The footsteps moved toward the basement door.
My pulse spiked. Every muscle in my body tensed, coiled tight with adrenaline and fury. The door at the top of the stairs creaked open, and light spilled down in a harsh yellow flood, making me squint against the sudden brightness.
There were footsteps once again, descending now.
Tom appeared at the bottom of the stairs, holding a plate of food.
The sight of him sent a fresh wave of rage crashing through me.
He’d changed his shirt, I noted with a detached sort of curiosity.
The scratches I’d left down his cheek had been cleaned, three parallel lines standing out angry and red against his skin.
There was a bruise forming along his jaw where I must have caught him during the fight.
The sight of those marks made satisfaction bloom in my chest. At least I’d managed to hurt him; it didn’t matter how little.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, maintaining a careful distance. His eyes found mine, and something flickered across his face—regret, maybe, or concern, or some sick approximation of both.
As if he had any right to either.
“You son of a bitch.”
My voice emerged gravelly and raw, barely recognizable as my own. Speaking hurt, sent fresh pain lancing through my throat, but I didn’t care. The rage burned hotter than any physical discomfort, consuming everything else in its path.
“I can see why you might be angry,” he said, and I wanted to punch him. Wanted to smash his face until bone gave way beneath my fists, until even his own mother wouldn’t recognize what was left.
“No fucking kidding.”
Tom’s gaze dropped to my neck. I could feel the bruises there myself—tender and swollen, the phantom shape of his fingers imprinted on my skin like a brand. His brow furrowed slightly, his jaw tightening. If I hadn’t known better, I’d say he looked apologetic.
He took a step forward, as if to come closer. His free hand lifted slightly, like he wanted to reach out and touch me, to examine up close the damage his own hands had done.
He stopped himself at the last second and let his hand fall back to his side.
Too bad. I really wanted him to come closer, to get within range. He’d taken me by surprise before, overwhelmed me with speed and strength I hadn’t been prepared for.
I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen this way,” he quietly said.
I stared at him, waiting for the rest. Waiting for something—anything—that would make sense of this nightmare. But there was nothing. Just silence and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
“What did you imagine, then?” I asked, my voice dripping with venom.
Tom didn’t answer. He just stood there, holding that stupid plate of food like a peace offering.
“No, seriously.” I leaned forward as much as the restraints would allow. “What did you think would happen? Did you have a plan, or were you just winging it? Because from where I’m sitting, this seems pretty fucking improvised.”
“I never went that far.” His voice took on an almost contemplative quality, as if we were discussing a hypothetical rather than the fact that I was chained in his basement.
“What, you thought you’d never get caught?” I scoffed, bitter laughter scraping my throat. Just how fucking arrogant was he?
“No one else would have caught me except you.”
The words hit like a slap. Fury exploded behind my ribs, hot and acidic. “Don’t you fucking flatter me right now.”
He had the audacity to look hurt. Actually hurt, like I’d wounded him somehow with my rejection of his twisted compliment.
How could he just stand there, looking at me like that? Like none of the last few hours happened.
“Are you going to kill me now?” The question came out flat, matter-of-fact. I was almost curious to hear the answer, in that distant way you might wonder about the weather. I wasn’t sure which god I’d pissed off to end up in a situation like this, but I wasn’t feeling optimistic about my odds.
“Of course not.” Tom recoiled as if the thought were absurd, as if keeping me tied up in his basement was completely reasonable but killing me was somehow beyond the pale.
“Excuse me for looking at the circumstances and coming to that conclusion. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
What other option was there, really? The logic was simple. He was going to kill me. Maybe not right at this moment, maybe not today, but soon. He just hadn’t figured out how to do it yet. Hadn’t worked out the logistics.
I was a detective. He couldn’t just make me disappear without raising questions. Most people would suspect foul play. And everyone knew that Tom and I were involved, which only complicated things further.
This whole situation was insane. Beyond anything I’d dealt with before. I kept waiting for it to fully sink in, for reality to crash down and drown me. But it stayed at a distance, hazy and surreal, like I was watching it happen to someone else.
Tom came closer and set the plate down, sliding it across the concrete floor toward me.
“Shay—”
“Don’t.” I bit the word off. “Don’t say my name like that. Like you have any right to it.”
He fell silent.
I pulled against the cuffs, testing them. They held firm, unyielding. The metal dug deeper into my already raw wrists, and I felt something warm trickle down my palm. I didn’t care.
“I just—” I stopped, swallowing past the razor blades in my throat. “I don’t know how I never saw it before.”
But that wasn’t entirely true, was it?
I’d always known there was something off about him. Something not quite right beneath the surface. But I hadn’t trusted it. I’d told myself I was being paranoid, that I was imagining things. Tommy was such a nice guy. An absolute sweetheart. Helpful and considerate and kind.
Fucking Naomi. She was the one who’d been pushing me toward him in the first place, insisting we were perfect for each other.
I couldn’t wait to see how she’d react when she found out her matchmaking had set me up with a serial killer.
If I ever had the chance to tell her, of course.
The thought sent a fresh spike of fury through me. I looked at Tom again, trying to reconcile this person with the man who’d cooked me dinner, who’d been kissing me in his kitchen only a few short hours ago. That sweet and gentle man was nowhere to be found.
“I knew you were bad news,” I said, the words coming out harsh and ugly. “From the moment I saw you, I knew.”
Maybe I had always known, on some deep, instinctual level. Maybe I’d just chosen to ignore it.
Tom didn’t respond. He just watched me with those calm, unreadable eyes—the same eyes that had looked at me with what I’d once mistaken for love.
I grabbed the plate he’d set down and hurled it at him with all the strength I could muster.
It sailed through the air and shattered against the wall beside his head. Food splattered across the concrete—some kind of sandwich, it looked like. How thoughtful. How fucking considerate of him to think about my nutritional needs at this moment.
“Fuck you!” The words ripped out of me, ragged and vicious. “Fuck you, Tom!”
He didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. He just stood there while I screamed at him, while the anger poured out of me in waves that seemed to have no end.
“You had no right!” My voice broke, fracturing around the edges. “You had no right to do this to me. To make me—”
I couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t say the words out loud.