Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Dark
I’m dead.
I’ve crossed over, and this is my penance for all the horrible shit I’ve done.
Otherwise, none of this makes a lick of goddamn sense.
Why am I naked, sitting on an old concrete slab with my back against the wall of what is obviously a barn or some shit? Shackles, like those from olden times, are locked around my ankles, and handcuffs are tight around my wrists. Tight enough that they’ve already left marks.
My body… Ugh! It hurts everywhere. The pounding in my head is damn near close to making me throw up.
Groaning, I pull my knees closer to my chest and drag the thick chain along for the ride. My elbows rest on my thighs as I close my eyes and rub my temples.
Christ.
What’s going on?
The last I remember, I was in the Hamptons. I’d gotten snacks and then… nothing.
A whole lot of blank.
Fuck.
What did Harold do?
Is this some weird initiation ceremony?
A horrific scream rips through the stillness. “No! Please!” a man pleads.
There’s a sob. It’s quiet, but close. I strain to hear through the wails.
“Hello?” I whisper, eyeing the wooden door to my room.
It’s ancient. Sunshine filters in through the cracks, giving me just enough light to see everything.
The drain in the floor. An old stool in the corner.
A blue plastic bucket without a handle. A paper plate with a slice of bread on top.
A Styrofoam cup within arm’s reach, with what looks to be clear liquid inside—water.
“What the fuck?” I croak, looking around. The air smells stuffy, like mildew and sawdust mixed with the outdoors, fresh but not. The concrete’s chilly under my ass.
I rub my thighs.
There are bruises all over them, some small, some not.
There’s another on my arm and…
I touch my stomach and wince. Guess I’ve got some there too, though I can’t see them through the ink in this light.
Whoever’s sobbing turns up a notch when the man’s wails slide into “I’m being tortured” territory.
I know the sound well. Anyone with half a conscience either makes it quick or shoves something in their mouth to kill the screams. Whoever’s wrecking this guy’s life is a sadist fuck, obviously getting off on his pain.
Which doesn’t bode well for me, does it?
Tuning out the man, I focus on whoever’s crying.
“Hello?” I try again between the screams, hoping someone will hear me. “Hello?” a little louder this time.
“Maxim?” Penelope cries through the wall between us. “Max, is that you?”
Oh. Shit.
Twisting around, I press my palm against the worn wood. “Pen?”
“Yes. It’s me. Oh. My. God, you’re alive.”
“Yes. I’m alive.”
“There’s a dead man in the room with me,” she blubbers. “There’s blood all over the floor. His eyes are staring at me. I don’t know what’s happening.”
Shit.
“What do you remember?” I ask.
“I don’t remember anything.”
“The Hamptons?”
“Yes. We had dinner.”
“And nothing after?”
“No. I… I have a headache. My mouth is so dry.”
Licking my teeth, I notice my mouth is the same. “Do you know the man in there with you?” I check.
“Yes. He was one of Daddy’s friends.”
That checks, given we’re both here and don’t remember a damn thing.
A rustling outside the door has me shutting up as I prepare to fight whoever decides to pay me a visit. Not sure what good it will do, given these shackles, but I’ll fuckin’ try.
A pink nose pokes through a broken section at the bottom of the door. Nails scratch the wood as it sniffs, sniffs, sniffs along the edge, testing the barrier at the bottom before finding a rotten spot that gives way, and it squeezes itself into the room with me.
It’s small, with white, gray fur.
An opossum.
You know, those hideous creatures with beady eyes and an unnaturally long tail. One of those things.
It takes one long look at me, hisses like I’ve ruined its day, then passes out right in front of the door.
Great. Just one more fucking thing to deal with—an overly dramatic opossum that better not attack me once it gets up.