Chapter 4
POV: Gabrielle:?
I groaned as I forced my eyes open a crack and was met with streaming, bright light.
My head ached—it practically felt like a hammer was pounding its way against it.
Groaning, I tossed over to my side, expecting to see a half drank bottle of cheap, drugstore wine on my nightstand next to me, but instead found a black empty nightstand.
Panic slowly flooded through me as I blinked twice, fully forcing my eyes open.
This wasn’t my room.
I jolted in bed, forcing myself into a seated position and looked around the room.
This definitely wasn’t my room.
Dark grey painted walls. A black metal bed frame.
Abstract paintings on the wall that were colored with hues of brown—black—grey—and red splattered paint, almost like a Jackson Pollock painting.
A small window was at the very top of the wall, as bushes waved in the wind, obstructing any view of where I was.
And on the upper left wall was a small vent.
I looked down at the blanket wrapped around me—black, soft, and the sheets were almost like they were black silk, expensive.
There was a television hanging on the wall but no phone.
As I placed my foot down, the wood felt newly stained and finished, rich mahogany floors and a noir colored area carpet.
Then I saw it—a door on the right side of the room.
I ran towards it instantly.
But as I opened the door all I saw was a bathroom—a luxurious bathroom with black marbled flooring, white marble shower-tile, a clear glass door and a black metal shower head. The sink had a gold spout and handles, even the damn toilet flushing mechanism was gold.
Where the fuck was I?
My head hurt, but not from physically being hurt but from dehydration or too much alcohol.
I ran out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom, looking for an exit, but finding none.
There was an outline of a door but no door knob, no way of exiting.
Then I saw it, a blinking blue light right above the door’s outline.
A camera.
Someone was watching me.
And I actually had been kidnapped.
For all the true crime docs I watched and for all the serial killer podcasts I listened to, you’d think I’d be smarter than this. You’d think I wouldn’t have allowed myself to be kidnapped in the first place.
I couldn’t think straight right now. I felt dizzy. I felt like I was out of my own body. I felt like I was going to pass out.
But for everything I learned about getting kidnapped or dealing with a serial killer, I knew that those three options were the last things that I should do.
I thought about yelling but remembered that screaming for help never actually helps. It never works.
I needed to find a way out. I needed to run. I needed to fight. I needed to do whatever the fuck I needed to in order to become a survivor and not a victim.
This guy fucked with the wrong girl.
But as I sat down on the bed and began thinking of how I possibly got into this situation—the memories began to come back to me.
Him.
Clark.
The man who I believed could be interesting and was interesting, but also happened to be a serial killer.
Well, I guess I’m getting ahead of myself a bit now, I don’t have any reason to believe he’s a serial killer, just a kidnapper—for now.
His cold eyes flashed inside my mind.
The way he watched me. The questions he asked. The way he took control. The way he felt dangerous…
I’m an idiot.
I actually believed because he was incredibly attractive and alluring that he was safe.
Serial Killer rule number one—just because they’re hot doesn’t mean they are safe. I mean, look at Ted Bundy. Case and point. And I fell for it.
I guess in my defense, I never thought I’d actually end up in a situation like this, though I should’ve predicted it since I go around advertising my interests.
I slumped my head down towards my lap and curled up into a ball and began to think.
Then I heard it.
His smooth voice.
I got to my feet quickly, bunching my fists and getting in my defensive mode. If this asshole was going to go hand to hand with me then I’d give him his money’s worth.
But all I saw was the blinking light of the camera, pointed right at me.
“Good morning, Gabrielle.”
That snarky asshole.
I didn’t respond.
“There’s no need to be rude.”
Silence.
He wasn’t getting a response out of me.
I wouldn’t plead or beg or even speak to him.
I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
“That headache should wear off soon. It’s just a side effect.”
A side-effect of what?
Then it hit me.
Oh, god he drugged me.
That caught me off guard.
“You psycho!” I yelled to the air.
He laughed. He actually laughed. As if he was enjoying this. And I guess he was being kidnapped—potential serial killer—psychopath and all.
“That’s a wonderful compliment, coming from you. You would know.”
He’s got me there. I would know. That’s all I watch and listen to.
“You shouldn’t have taken me!” I warned, still clenching my fists and glaring at the camera.
He laughed again. “And why’s that?”
“Because people will look for me! They have my location on my phone.”
“Gabrielle, do you really believe that I didn’t disable your phone and leave it at the restaurant?”
Good point.
He was smart.
I narrowed my eyes more as I stared back at the camera.
But I was smarter.
“Right now, your friends and family believe you are on a wellness retreat in Bali. Far, far from Denver, Colorado.”
I scoffed.
“You even posted photographs. Lovely photographs if I must say so.”
“You’re fucking sick!” I yelled.
“And you knew that when you agreed to our date.”
I gulped.
I knew there was something off about him but I had no idea what. And now I know. He was off his rocker-crazy.
“I didn’t know you were a serial killer!” I boomed.
He laughed, louder this time. So loud that it echoed throughout the room. “I don’t have any plans to kill you, Gabrielle.”
My stomach dropped.
Then what did he want? To rape me?
“Or to rape you,” he paused, his voice deepening. “You’ll give yourself to me on your own. After you get all of this nonsense out of your system.”
“I will not!”
“You will and you’ll beg me when you do.”
“Go fuck yourself, Clark! That’s probably not even your name.”
A deep chuckle sounded through the camera again. “Smart girl.”
“Smarter than you!”
Silence.
I yelled again, “You better let me out of here!”
Nothing.
I fell back into the bed, back first and stared up at the ceiling and glanced down at my clothes. Pajamas. Black silk pajamas.
The psychopath undressed me—touched me—-probably even fondled me.
God, I was going to be sick.
I closed my eyes, hoping this was just another one of my nightmares.
But as I blinked my eyes open and stared back at the blue light of the camera, I knew it wasn’t.
“You’re fucking sick, whatever your name is! You better keep your hands off of me!”
No response came.
But I knew he was watching me.