Chapter 7 Guilty, Not Mad
Guilty, Not Mad
She had barely enough time to bolt for the bathroom when the hall door gave a theatrical creak.
Liv was entirely sure they had a quieter way of getting in if they really wanted to, so for the time being, hiding seemed like the best option.
That left her standing in sock feet on cold tile, hyperventilating and staring at heavy, white-painted wood.
Footsteps creaked through the room; there wasn’t the sound of the hall door closing.
Don’t. It’s a trap.
The footsteps paced slowly, deliberately, into the bedroom; it had to be the broad-shouldered, dark-haired one. Liv eased the bathroom door open, her fingers on the lock just in case. The hall door stood wide, and she thought she could almost feel a draft from that direction.
He told you he’d do this. It’s part of their little game; the others are probably waiting in the hall.
But maybe, just maybe the big guy wasn’t quite hip to the program the priest and the smarmy blond were running? Maybe he was giving her a way out but couldn’t say as much? Were the walls bugged?
Focus. She measured the distance. It was creepy enough that the ashwood bed had been piled with bags and boxes—jeans, sweats, T-shirts, underclothes, all in black, white, or grey. There were even two sets of cotton pajamas, both dove-grey. No shoes, but an array of black and grey socks.
The funny thing was, they were expensive, well-made outfits. Nobody had gone into a box store for them, no sir. And everything fit, even the big fluffy white bathrobe. The tags had been removed and everything was washed, but she couldn’t identify the fabric softener. It smelled high-end.
There was no way she was wearing those panties. Who knew what these guys had done with them?
Come on, Liv. Try it. Remember what that cop said?
“No matter what, fight like hell.” Easy for that particular law enforcement conference presenter to say, he’d been two-fifty if he was an ounce and nobody had ever catcalled him.
Still, the classes to keep her paralegal job, not to mention qualify for certification, were paying off in spades now.
She was moving before she was quite ready, throwing open the door and pitching forward. Her feet slapped hardwood; she skidded, recovered, hurled herself across faded, worn rugs—
And was dragged back, an iron bar around her waist and a scream welling from her diaphragm.
“I told you,” he said when she ran out of breath, a warm exhale touching her ear. “Every time, beautiful.”
Jesus Christ, where did he come from? Even if he’d been waiting in the bedroom, how in the hell had he caught her?
She’d barely taken six steps. Liv thrashed, screamed, kicked, tried to elbow him, tried to bite. He kept saying calm down, and didn’t react even when her elbow found something she hoped was tender and his breath huffed out.
“I told you,” he repeated. “It’s all right. See? Not gonna hurt you, calm down.”
She went limp again, staring at that traitorous door and the hall beyond, a window across the hall letting in a sword of pale sunlight.
Heavy, threadbare red velvet curtains flanked that tantalizing escape hatch, and the parquet between it and her was absolutely spotless.
“Let go, goddamn you, let me go,” she raved, but it made no difference.
He just waited until she sagged in defeat, still staring at the hallway.
“Better.” He even sounded soothing, for God’s sake. “Now, you can try that again, as many times as you want. It’s only natural. We understand.”
Understand, hell. She willed the hallway to move closer, willed the earth to open up and swallow this entire fucking place, willed her brain to think of a way out of this.
“Potential’s waking up,” he muttered. “Okay. Good. You want some breakfast?”
What the fuck? Her stomach cramped. “Let me go,” she said again, hopelessly.
“Not gonna happen, beautiful.” But his arms loosened.
“You can try it again, or you can have something to eat and I’ll answer your questions.
Or both. I’ve got time.” He set her on her toes, and she pitched forward again.
He let go, and she made it a grand total of two steps before he caught her once more.
This time he carried her into the bedroom, and she began fighting again until he stopped near a small, wooden table—too heavy to lift, too solidly constructed to take apart and smash the windows, she’d already tried—with two also-heavy wooden chairs.
There was a family-sized container of Trading Jay’s honey Greek yogurt and a carton of blueberries, along with a bottle of mineral water, arranged neatly on a white linen placemat.
What the fuck? The world came to a screeching halt. It had to be a coincidence.
“This is what you like, right?” He even sounded a little wistful. Eager to please, maybe. “You want some coffee? We didn’t know if you’re coffee or tea, or one of those decaf people.”
I’d rather have withdrawal headaches than ask you for anything.
She stared at the familiar, cheery yellow yogurt container.
Had they been watching her? Dear God. She wasn’t interesting enough to be stalked, not that it mattered.
Stalking was about power. Control. At least, all the literature said so, and she’d heard all the stories.
Every single awful, murderous one. “Oh Jesus,” she whispered. “I don’t even know you. I don’t know any of you. Just let me go.”
“If you sit down and eat, we can talk. I’ll tell you everything you want to know, all right?”
It was an attempt to get her to collude in her own imprisonment, but there were nutrients in the yogurt and she needed all of them if she was going to avoid brainwashing. Sleep deprivation, infantilization, and lack of protein—the holy trinity of indoctrination, let alone Stockholm syndrome.
Liv didn’t intend to play along. “What did you put in the water?”
“The water? Uh, it’s municipal. Nothing but chlorine and fluoride. Why?”
“Bullshit.”
“There’s nothing in the water, beautiful. Nothing in the food either.”
From what she could see, the yogurt container was unopened. It might even be safe. There was silverware—a fork, two spoons, and silver was definitely the word. They looked heavy, too, and absolutely antique. No knife, but she could use the fork, right? If she could steal it, or a spoon—
“Put me down.”
Much to her surprise, he immediately did.
When she staggered, he also steadied her.
She flinched away; his hand fell to his side as she put the table between them.
He had his back to the bedroom door, and getting past him would be a chore and a half unless she could somehow stick the heavy silver fork in a vital area.
“You can try,” he said again, almost gently. “I don’t bleed easy, lirai.”
“My name’s not Larry.” Her throat was dry; the blueberries looked wonderfully tempting. Her stomach growled.
“Lirai. It’s a… look, this’ll go better if you eat. You’ll pass out if you don’t, you can’t fight without fuel.”
It didn’t help that he was probably right. Liv eyed the yogurt. “I thought you wanted me compliant.”
He shrugged. Either way, that little movement said, and she studied him from bootsoles to the top of his short dark hair. There was a stubborn curl to the strands and something in the cut said military, which was bad news. Failed service types were a dime a dozen in Serial-Killer Land.
Great.
“There’s nothing in the water,” he repeated. “And you don’t know it yet, but we’re keeping you safe.”
From what? Neal? Oh, my God. “From what?”
A muscle flicked in his cheek. “Sit down, eat, and I’ll tell you.”
She dropped into the chair, wincing as her muscles protested, then glared at him through her tangled hair.
“All right.” He folded his arms, legs slightly apart, a variation of parade rest. “So, there’s not an easy way to say this, but—”
“You sit down too.” She wondered if he’d comply.
“Yes ma’am.” Much to her surprise, he did—gingerly, as if he expected the chair to break. It didn’t so much as creak, though she vengefully wished for a leg to snap and spill him onto the nice hardwood floor. “Go on, eat.”
“Not until you tell me why you kidnapped me.” How far could she push? Was it better to play along for a little bit? She could leap up and bolt for the door again. Maybe she could toss the water bottle at him as well, slow him down for a second or two?
“It’s not kidnapping. We put you under guard, like Father said.
” He obviously meant the guy in the black high-collared coat; if these guys were looking for a Catholic girl, they were barking way up the wrong tree.
Gramma Poe had been a Baptist and Mom a Unitarian Universalist—a fancy name for hippie, she’d always joked.
It hurt to think of her mother, as usual. Which just made Liv angrier. “Fuck off with that bullshit. Why did you kidnap me?”
He paused, visibly shuffling through what to say. How many times had they grabbed someone? They were far too practiced for her to be the first. How many rooms were in this place?
Too many. Nausea squeezed inside her ribs with rubber fingers, pushing a thin thread of acid up the back of her throat.
Finally, he spoke, each word slow and very clearly enunciated. “You have very vivid dreams. You remember them more than normal people, too. You’ve dreamed about a door.”
Of all the things she would have expected a kidnapper to say, that was the absolute last. Her stomach turned over, hard. “Everyone has dreams.”
“Stone sides, stone top, one step in front. The step’s slippery with something; it gleams. The door’s painted yellow, and it has a bright red splash on it, right in the middle. The red makes you sick to look at, but when you do, it seems less like splatter and more like writing.”
He’s guessing. He can’t possibly… Liv couldn’t quite finish the sentence, even inside her own head.
“The thing behind the yellow door,” he continued quietly, “is going to come out any moment, and you know it. But you can’t move.”
“Who the fuck are you?” she whispered. He’d just described one of her most intense recurring nightmares; how was that even possible?
She’d never told anyone about that particular dream. Not even her mother.
“Your protector.” He moved, very slowly, probably trying not to spook her. It was no use—she was already plenty spooked. He undid the leather cuff on his left wrist, peeling it free with a grimace. “The mark, okay? On the door. Looks like this, doesn’t it.”
He turned his wrist up, and there, pressed into the vulnerable, paler underside, a bright-red splotch moved against olive skin.
Right over the veins.
Liv grabbed at the table. Her throat shrank to a pinhole, bile crawling up its sides, and she stared at the thin red twisted symbol. It didn’t look like a tattoo.
No, it was more like a brand, something pressed against skin and burning, burrowing its way inward. The color was wrong, too. No needle artist in the world could get that bright oversaturated crimson.
Something in the water. Has to be. Or a gas?
Maybe a patch or something while he was holding me?
It was impossible, it was im-fucking-possible, and she held onto the table as if it could keep the earth from sliding further sideways.
“You’re crazy,” she whispered. “You’re a criminal, and you’re completely insane. ”
“I’m guilty, sure. Everyone who wears the mark is.
But I’m not mad. Not yet, at least.” He glanced at his wrist, tilting his head a little, examining the not-tattoo.
It pulsed, sickeningly, and she was suddenly very glad she wasn’t trying to eat, even if she could smell the blueberries—tart and sweet at once, full of delicious coolness.
“I’m gonna cover this up. You don’t want to eat with it looking at you.
” Now his gaze was on her. His eyes were dark brown, and very… still.
A thin, placid surface over something deep, cold, and hopeless.
It was a relief to have the mark covered up.
She suspected the feeling was short-lived.
“What did you put in it?” Liv studied the yogurt container.
Apparently unopened, but you could slip a syringe point through foil, right?
And blueberries—she didn’t know how you could drug fruit, but these guys probably had it figured out.
Where did they get the money for all this?
They didn’t seem like squatters, and the heating bill for this place was probably sky-high.
“Nobody spat in the berries, if that’s what you’re asking.
” He finished buckling the cuff and laid his hands flat on the table, regarding her with that strange, distant look.
“I left the yogurt unopened so you’d know it isn’t tainted.
Neither is the water, but I can get you sealed bottles if you want. ”
“I want to go home.” Her chin jutted out, what Gramma Poe would have called sulling up. As in, don’t you sull up, little girl, I don’t hold with that.
God, if she could just channel her redoubtable grandmother long enough, she might get out of this in one piece.
“You are home.” Patient and even, as if talking to a tantrum-prone child. “We’re protecting you.”
“Bullshit.” She gripped the edge of the table, her fingers bloodless, aching.
“How do I know about your dreams, Livvie? Answer me that.”
That was the problem. She’d gone for a psych degree to try and figure out if she was crazy, or just… imaginative, like Gramma sometimes said.
Liv fixed the dark-haired man with her mother’s patented Hairdresser Glare, the one that warned clients, overbearing attorneys, or prospective boyfriends they had Gone Too Far. “You don’t know fuck-all about my dreams,” she lied. “Fuck you, fuck your breakfast, and fuck your funky-ass tattoo.”
She pushed her chair back, rose with as much dignity as she could muster, and stalked for the bathroom. She didn’t try running for the open hall door again.
Maybe that was why he left, closing and locking it with a sound like a tiny bone snapping.