10. Clara
CLARA
TITANIUM
A long silence stretches between us. Maverick’s hands are clenched so tightly, his knuckles are turning white. I can’t bring myself to look at him right now, so I fixate on Cruz’s notepad.
It’s full of notes.
Full of the night I trusted the wrong person.
“Did he ever say where he worked or where he lived?” Cruz’s voice is gentle, a balm to the heavy silence.
“No. Now that I think about it, he never really talked about himself. He always asked me questions and wanted to know more about me. I don’t remember him sharing anything personal about himself at all, only that he’s an only child. Like me.”
“Do you remember what happened when you woke up? Where you woke up?”
This is the part I dread the most.
This is the part where I have to relive both the devil and the hell he kept me in.
One week ago
This small room has become my prison.
I feel as if the gray cinder block walls are closing in on me.
There’s a pedestal sink, toilet, and dirty shower stall in the corner of the room, surrounded by unfinished walls.
The stall is completely visible, lacking a rod or shower curtain.
There’s nothing but a single bar of Irish Spring soap and a bottle of shampoo sitting next to the drain.
A twin bed is set up directly across from it, covered with a threadbare blanket and a single, thin pillow.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been here. A week? If it weren’t for the tiny window, the one just barely within reach of the chain around my ankle, I wouldn’t be able to tell if it’s day or night.
After I woke up the first time, I found Samson hovering over me.
I was lying on the mattress, bound to a chain connecting the metal bed post to my foot.
The frame is soldered to the concrete floor, making escape virtually impossible.
“Welcome home,” was all he said. It’s the only thing he’s said to me in days.
When he visits, he ignores my questions. My screams. My sobs.
After a few days of being ignored, I stopped begging to be set free.
I stopped asking what he wants from me.
He never answers.
He only brings food and water. A towel and washcloth every other day.
He’s always watching. It’s hard to imagine that I used to enjoy the feeling of his eyes on me. Now, it makes me sick to my stomach.
I dread the days when he has a towel and washcloth in hand.
I can only shower with him present. He never leaves me alone; never turns his back to give me a semblance of privacy.
I’ve never moved so fast to wash and get dressed in my life.
What was once a luxury is now strictly a necessity.
He doesn’t like it when I’m unclean. And he always hands me a large t-shirt and boxers.
No underwear. No bra. Always a large t-shirt and boxers.
They might be his, and the thought makes my skin crawl, but I’d rather wear his clothes than be trapped here naked.
The used towel and washcloth always leave when he does.
The chain stretches as far as it’ll go as I peer through the rectangular opening, studying the empty space beyond.
It’s vast and industrial-looking with concrete floors, pillars, and half-constructed walls.
I think I might be in an interior office of a warehouse or unfinished building, but I can’t be certain.
I watch for him now. I feel as though that’s all I do—stand at this window and keep watch. It isn’t as though I have anywhere to hide in this room, but I suppose it helps me prepare myself.
The door outside opens and closes with a bang. I see him cross the threshold and scamper back toward the bed.
It’s shower day.
He doesn’t knock; he just opens the door to my prison and enters.
Like the devil entering his kingdom.
He glances at me, curled in the corner of the bed, but says nothing as he walks toward the shower stall. I watch him turn on the water and check the temperature with his hand. I wonder if he thinks he’s being gentlemanly by testing the water for me so I don’t scald my skin.
I know what comes next, though. If I don’t hurry to undress and get in, he’ll force me. It wasn’t a pleasant experience the first time, and I don’t intend to give him that power again.
Standing quickly, I remove the two articles of clothing I’m wearing and leave them where they fall. He takes them with him anyway.
My legs shake with every step I take, but I make it into the shower without falling. I wash my body and hair with hurried determination. The sooner I get clean, the sooner I get dressed.
He stands at the edge of the shower stall, leaning against the pedestal sink. As silent as ever.
Something feels off.
Different.
Wrong .
The way his gaze devours me fills me with equal amounts of unease and terror.
I rinse the suds from my hair, then turn off the water. I wait for him to hand me the towel, but instead of giving it to me like he usually does, he walks closer. He holds the towel in both hands, raising it for me to step into.
I don’t move.
“Come here, Clara.” His voice is stern. Still husky and deep.
I fucking hate it .
My feet move before I realize what I’m doing, but maybe that’s my body trying to keep me alive. If I do what he says, maybe he’ll let me go.
Maybe that’s wishful thinking, but wishful thinking is all I have right now.
Once I’m within reach, he dries me off. Tears escape as he takes his time and runs the rough towel over every inch of my skin, paying attention to my chest and legs. He drops the towel when I’m completely dry and grasps my arm tightly, pulling me toward the bed.
No.
No, no, no.
No.
“I can’t wait anymore, Clara,” he whispers gruffly in my ear. “You’ve had time.”
I panic and attempt to pull my arm from his bruising grip, but he presses me forward, effectively trapping me between his broad body and the bed. “Please don’t do this, Samson. Please don’t do this to me. I’m begging you.”
Samson . I never want to hear or speak his name again.
He’s the devil.
I’m back to begging and pleading. I ratchet my attempts to break free when I hear the sound of his belt unbuckling. Of his pants hitting the floor.
“Stop moving,” he yells, yanking me back against him so hard I fear my shoulder might dislocate. His hand shifts from my arm to my wrists, awkwardly pulling both of my arms behind my back. “Keep still and I won’t have to make you. You don’t want that, do you, Clara? ”
I shake my head, my entire body quakes with the force of my sobs.
Though dying would release me from this hell, there’s a part of me that still holds out hope. A flicker inside me that thinks I might survive—might find a way to escape.
So I stop fighting and take refuge in the one place he can’t breach: my mind.
I can’t see Cruz or Maverick through the tears, but I hear the sharp scrape of Maverick’s chair as he pushes himself away from the hospital bed. His heavy footsteps move back and forth, the telltale sign of pacing.
“That’s enough. No more, Cruz,” he all but barks at the detective. Cruz looks at me, his light brown eyes full of sympathy, and moves to close his notepad.
“No!” I rub my eyes with the palm of my hands, clearing my vision and focusing on Maverick’s face. He’s angry. It should scare me, but it doesn’t. “I need to do this. I need to finish this, Mav.” My voice is shaky but firm.
Maverick stops beside my bed but doesn’t look at me. He looks like a sentinel with his legs in a wide stance and his arms crossed over his chest.
“Please sit down, Maverick,” I whisper, and the sound of my voice draws his espresso eyes to mine. “You’re making me nervous… just standing there like that.”
Reluctantly, he folds his body into the chair. As soon as he does, I reach out and grasp his hand. The strength of his hold anchors me to the present .
Three days ago
I watch, motionless, as he buckles his belt and leaves the room.
My hope that he won’t return today is slashed when he walks back in a few minutes later holding a plate of food and a bottle of water.
He shoves the ham and cheese sandwich at me before I even have the chance to sit up. “Eat.”
I stare blankly at the layers atop the styrofoam plate. White bread. Ham. Cheese. Mayo. Another slice of white bread.
I hate mayonnaise. And I’ll forever hate ham and cheese sandwiches. In this moment, I swear to myself that I’ll never eat another one.
If I live long enough to see that through.
Any flicker of hope that I could survive this, that I could escape, is long gone. He killed that flicker within days of the shower that went wrong.
“Eat, Clar. Or do you want me to feed you?” He leans toward me, reaching for the plate, but I bring it closer to my chest.
“I can do it. Thank you,” I keep my tone even. Soft. I learned that he doesn’t like it when I’m firm with him. He doesn’t like it when I don’t thank him for feeding me or letting me shower. Dressing me. Touching me . The healing bruise on my cheekbone is proof of that.
I eat but taste nothing. When he uncaps the water bottle and shoves it into my hand, I drink.
Minutes later, he takes the plate and water from my lap then leaves me alone in the room. In my prison.
It isn’t until the door shuts completely and I hear the lock snap into place that my world starts to spin.
I lean back against the cold metal bed frame and close my eyes, trying to soothe the dizziness.
Maybe if I take a little nap I’ll feel better.
A rhythmic rocking lulls me. I’m floating in that space between waking and dreaming, momentarily forgetting the hell that has become my life. It’s only when the rocking stops and the trunk lifts up that I regain consciousness.
Trunk?
Before I can process what’s happening or what it means that I’m inside a trunk, his face hovers above mine. I move to sit up—to possibly make a run for it—but he’s lightning fast. There’s a pinch in my neck, and then I’m being lifted out of the vehicle.
He has my arms pinned to my sides in an ironclad hold, manhandling my body so that I’m pressed against him and suspended just above the ground.
“You’ve been so good to me, Clara.”
I can’t move, I can’t pull away, but I feel him trace his nose along my neck and jaw.
He brushes his lips against mine before trailing them toward my ear. “I’m going to miss you.”
I stare into the face of a monster before darkness consumes me.
The devil in disguise.
“And then I woke up in the hospital.” The rawness of my throat mirrors the rawness in my soul.
I stare out the window, though my sight is unseeing. I’m lost in my head. Set adrift in places I don’t want to be. The coffin. The warehouse. The moments where pieces of me were pilfered and stolen.
“Hey. Look at me, Clara.” I turn my head toward Maverick’s voice on command, but I don’t see him. “Look at me, sunshine.”
I refocus on his face. What is it about this man that calms me instead of scares me?
“You’re safe now. Do you hear me? You’re safe.”
I nod absently and notice Cruz watching us curiously.
“He’s right, Clara. You’re safe now. You’ll be protected until we find him. Did you ever catch his full name?”
“Smith. Samson Smith.” It takes everything in me to say his name, but I remember it from his driver’s license. “I looked at it when I carded him.”
“You’re a brave woman, Clara Santos. I’m going to leave you alone now, but is it okay to reach out if I have any more questions?”
“Uhm, sure. I don’t know what else I can tell you.” Cruz has been patient and understanding, but I really don’t want to talk about this anymore. Ever.
The detective is just about to open the door when he turns toward us again. “Maverick, can I talk with you outside? It won’t take long.” He aims the last comment at me.
“I’ll be right out,” Maverick grumbles. “I’m going to be just outside, Clara. Yell if you need me. ”
“Okay.” I won’t. Because as much as Maverick’s presence calms me, I need some space. Recounting the horror of my captivity has left me empty.
They’re about to walk out the door when a beautiful face surrounded by curls pops into my head. “Wait! Detective… er, Cruz, did you let Tamara know where I am? Could you tell her if you haven’t? I don’t have a phone or I’d do it myself.”
“I’ll call her. Get some rest.”
Suddenly, a rest sounds like the best idea I’ve ever heard.