Page 39 of Keep Me

“Both.” He chuckles, half amused. “He’s Wilson Goyle.” We pass police at the door and make our way through the lobby. I have to jog to keep up with his energetic steps as he takes the stairs two at a time.

A man in a navy suit standing in front of a door at the end of the landing smiles when he sees us. His suit jacket is unbuttoned, and a gold shield shines on his hip. “Hey, man.” He claps hands with Roan in a friendly shake. “He’s ready for you.”

“Thanks, Quincy.” He pats him on the shoulder. Quincy smiles at me, then walks off, leaving us alone at the door.

I catch a glimmer of anticipation that lights up the blue in Roan’s eyes as he opens the door to reveal the gray-haired man. He has duct tape across the mouth, and he’s tied to a chair in the middle of a plastic tarp that covers the carpet.

That’s when I realize what this is. Not telling me where we are going, not explaining the police presence. He was surprising me. When he asked what I thought, it was with the same eager hopefulness of someone who surprised someone with a gift.

Somewhere in Roan’s twisted, fucked-up criminal mind, this man, bound and prepped for a bloody interrogation, is a gift. An offering.

And I’ll be damned if I don’t find it at least a little cute. “Qué lindo, mentiroso.”

He walks to the other side of the room where a row of knives, pliers, and fire pokers is lined up on a grand desk. Goyle’s wild and frightened eyes bulge above the tape as they hurriedly bounce between me and Roan.1

He decides on a pair of pliers and walks around to take a testing tug on Goyle’s thumb nail. He screams into the tape and tries to wriggle away, but his wrist is tightly tied to the arm of the chair. “Yeah, that should do,” Roan says, releasing the nail, and Goyle slumps with a pathetic whimper of relief. “Let me tell you how this is going to work. She asks the questions, and you answer them.” He gestures to me with a flick of his chin. “If you don’t, I take a nail. Nod that you understand.”

His head bobs back and furth frantically.

“Good man.” He gives his hand a condescending rap with the pliers, then steps back to make room for me.

A powerful thrill starts at my feet and runs to the crown of my head as I hold the center of the stuffy office. It’s not stuffy in size—it’s almost as big as the safe house—but in soulless mediocrity. The walls are the most passionless cream color, and equestrian oil paintings that were made to remind the rich of their wealth hang around the room. Shiny awards on polished China plates and framed photos with former Governor Campbell are proudly displayed.

“You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” Roan pulls out a pack of cigarettes and waves it around like he’s actually asking for permission. He gets no response and lights up anyway with a shrug.

Face-to-face with me, the terror in his eyes fades away, and a look of something like relief replaces it. Like he took one look at me and thought the threat was gone.

That makes me mad.

Sexism and misogyny are so rampant that, even tied and gagged to a chair, he thinks he’s better than me. My lip curls, and I wave Roan over. “Take the thumb,” I say coldly, then watch the fires of hell reignite in Goyle’s eyes.

“You really are a menace.” He huffs a laugh before putting out the cigarette in Goyle’s eye and pulling the pliers from his pocket.

“You know what I love about pulling fingernails?” Roan muses as he makes a show of testing different angles to grip the nail with the pliers, unfazed by the blistering eye and sobs. Goyle mumbles incoherently through the tape between hitched breaths.

“He can’t answer with his mouth taped, Roan.” I purposefully lace my tone with condescension. Roan’s jaw ticks, and his lips flatten into a tense line. I hope he understands what I’m doing. “Tonto, remove the tape!” My voice cracks with a hint of hysteria. That’s what makes Roan give me a sly wink. He gets it now. I want Goyle to know that I’m the one calling the shots. I’m the one he should fear.

Roan rips the tape off with one hard yank, and bits of beard are pulled off with it. “I, I d-don’t know,” he blubbers.

“I love starting with the nails because it’s just the right amount of pain to incentivize.” Roan proves his point by wrenching our captive’s thumb nail off. Goyle’s unrestricted scream rattles the walls. “But if you cooperate early, you’ll be able to leave here with nothing too…” He pauses like he’s searching for a word. “Permanent.” Goyle rolls forward with a heaving sob.

I stare at him impatiently, like a parent waiting for their child to stop whining. His sweaty forehead scrunches as he looks up at me like I’m Lilith personified. “Why were you at the Chariot?”

“I, I wasn’t!” he insists immediately. I groan as if bored and flick my eyes at Roan in a silent order. Roan doesn’t give him a chance to change his answer before ripping off another nail.

“Would you like me to repeat the question, Wilson?”

“No, no…please, I was just there to meet someone.”

I look at him incredulously, “Well, who was it?”

“I can’t say. He’ll kill me!” Snot and spit fly as he begs.

I cock my head to the side and regard him like he has two heads. As I step closer to him, he flattens himself against the back of the chair, trying to rear away from me. At this distance, I can see the grotesque way his burned eye oozes. I lift a foot and press my boot into his crotch until his face twists in pain. “Oh, Willy,” I coo. “So will we.”

His watery and ruined eyes plead with me, filling with desperate hope as I lick my thumb and wipe a splatter of blood from his cheek. “Ponte las pilas, and tell me what I want to know.” I push off his dick and step back to allow Roan room to work with another finger.

“Wait! Wait! I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you,” he yells, and Roan pauses, hovering over his hand with the pliers at the ready. “I only know him as the Warden.”

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