Page 103 of Whistleblower

He looks me up and down. “I’m not here for any funny business, so just piss already. I won’t watch.” At the very least he turns around and faces the door.

“Talk me through this,” I plead silently to my rational brain. I beg the strong, logical side of my mind to get me through this.

Sit down on the toilet and just try. He has to hear the trickle so he doesn’t suspect a trick. He’s not looking at you, he doesn’t want anything of that sort. But you do have something he wants. You wouldn’t be alive if you didn’t. So be smart.

One step at a time.

Just pee, Eden.

And push the motherfucking panic button.

It’s incredibly hard to pee with an audience, but not impossible. His eyes are still fixed on the door, but, like a skilled actor, I pull the toilet paper down slowly, ensuring my warm finger touches the black flat sticker beneath the roll. Linc said it’d only take one second. I hold it for at least five.

I don’t know if I was expecting an alarm of some sort, but nothing happens. I have no choice except to stand, flush, and be escorted by a pistol back into my living room.

I wish I could see the time. Surely I’ve been held at gunpoint for several days and nights at this point. Or at least, that’s how it feels. Time stops for fear, so it can slowly swallow you whole while you futilely try to paddle against its powerful current.

“Sit down.”

I slump onto my couch obediently as he rummages through a black duffel bag on the ground with one hand. I nearly puke in my mouth when I see zip ties in his hands.

“What do you want?” I whisper.

“To talk.”

“Are those really necessary?” I nod at the ties in his hand. “Please.”

He smiles at me cruelly. “There’s a lot in this bag that isn’t necessary until it’s necessary. It depends on how quickly you’re willing to talk.”

“About what?”

“Empress.”

Of course, this is about Empress. Of course. It brings me great relief and another layer of panic. “What about Empress?”

“Don’t play stupid. Where is it?” he snarls.

“Where is what?”

Now, for the first time, I suspect I’ve pissed him off.

“Fucking stupid girl,” he bellows. “Let’s do this the hard way then.” Pointing his gun at my head again he tells me to hold out my wrists and I have no choice but to oblige. He loops the tie over both of my wrists and pulls so tight the plastic nearly cuts into my skin. He does the same with another set around my ankles, and once he is satisfied with his handiwork—

Slap!

I whimper as his palm collides hard with my cheek, disorienting me. The room spins as I see blurry specs against my watering eyes. The entire left side of my face is burning.

“Porky says it’s with you. So where is it?” he barks at me again.

I have no fucking clue what he’s talking about, but I’m scared to admit it.

Keep him talking. Say whatever you need to. Help is on the way.

“It’s not here, with me. It’s…back home. My home in California.”

“Where?”

How can I tell him where when I don’t even know what it is we’re talking about? I take my best guess.

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