Page 16 of Killing Emma

“I’ll get you food,” he says in a low voice.

“And poison it,” I mutter under my breath as I ease toward the door. He doesn’t say anything else to me as he opens it for me. I’m met with a full gray-scale bathroom. I eye the tiled shower and claw tub, wishing for a warm bath or shower. However, I wouldn’t have any fresh clothes to put on.

Ugh.

A hand on my waist startles me, and I jump back, banging my lower back into the white and black granite counter tops. I yelp at the pain, and the masked man tightens his grip.

“I was just trying to help you,” he grunts. “You’re walking like a drunk.”

If only.

“I can get it,” I say, eyeing him. “Can I have privacy?”

He drops his hand, and I almost lose my balance, unaware at how much I was relying on him. He stands there for a few beats as if he’s trying to decide whether or not he should leave, but ultimately, he slips out.

I take a deep breath and undo my jean shorts, damp from the water he spilled on them. As I sit down to relieve my bladder, I gaze up, realizing that the bathroom light isn’t on…

The glow is being cast from a window above my head. A pang of hope hits my chest as I take in the shape of the opening. It’s small, and I’m not sure I could fit through it… If I could even reach it. However, it puts the thought in my head, and I know now it’s more important than ever that I play my cards right.

I finish up and flush the toilet, careful when I stand to my feet. I spent years learning to manage my postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, and while I never had it as bad as others, I did manage to pass out a few times in the beginning. Stress can be a trigger for me, and this is about as stressful as life can get.

Still trembling slightly, I turn the water on, waiting for the stream to grow warm. The bathroom is nice, and I know that if the basement is this nice, the rest of the house probably is, too. I squirt soap onto my hands and wash them, letting the scalding water from the black sink faucet remind me that I’m still alive.

At least my feet feel better.

I hadn’t even thought about them in the moments of nearly losing consciousness. I splash some water onto my face, and then grab the white hand towel. As I do, it hits me. There’s no mirror in the bathroom. I look up to see a plain black wall where a mirror should be.

Strange, but okay.

I turn off the water, and peer back up at the window one last time. It’s a big gamble to try to escape that way… But it might be my only shot if this guy is really out to kill me. Though I have to admit, I hate the mixed signals he’s giving. One moment he’s trying to drown me, and the next, he’s helping me get to the bathroom.

As I step out of the bathroom, I catch sight of him, lingering just a few feet away and leaning against the counter in the kitchenette. I eye him, not sure if I’m supposed to go sit back down in the chair, or if I’m going to be allowed to have the space of the basement.

“Are you hungry?” The question comes out stilted and awkward.

“No,” I answer him, finally able to wrap my arms around my body.

“Get back in the chair,” he says, nodding to it.

My chest tightens. “Please don’t make me do that.”

“You think I’m going to let you have free rein? You might try to kill yourself before I get to, and I’d hate that.”

Ah, so he’s back to being a dick again.

“It would save you time and energy,” I reason, eyeing the daybed a few feet away. “And I’d really like to lay down.”

“You think I’m going to cater to your wants, Little Red? I just don't want to clean your piss off the floor.”

I swallow hard, hating myself for the word I’m about to throw at him. “Please. I need to lay down. I’m not feeling well.”

“Are you trying to play me?” he suddenly growls, stepping toward me. He encroaches my space faster than I can suck in a breath, his hand around my neck as he guides me backward and pins me to the wall. I let out a cry of surprise more than anything, but also frustration. I don’t want my air supply cut off again.

“Please don’t,” I whisper as his grip tightens and my hands fly up to his thick wrist. “Please.”

“You’re mouthy one minute and then you’re weak the next,” his voice comes out in a deep grovel. “Choose what you’re going to be, Emma. This isn’t a good look for you.”

My lower lip quivers, and my emotions tug at me. I felt strong until I couldn’t walk to the bathroom on my own. He’s a brute when I’m snarky, and he’s cruel when I’m not. How do you beat someone at their own game when they’re so unpredictable? Of course, then again, I’m quickly proving to myself that I am, too.

---