Page 66 of Caged In

The male lifts his chin to the bunk, indicating Izz should sit down. He obeys, choosing to sit on the far end, as far away from the killer as possible, settling gingerly on the edge of the soft mattress.

It’s surreal . . . He’s alone in a serial killer’s private quarters. A killer’s territory. Their domain. He’s pushing his luck, how many chances is fate willing to give him. Is this the last straw? Is he about to find out how bad it can get in this Hell-hole—

No, he has already found out how bad it can be. Already seen how vicious they are in here. And not just the inmates, the guards are just as bad, if not worse. This killer is his only chance to get out of this horrible situation without being beaten to death by the other guards when they find out what happened—what he did . . .

“I-I . . . You kill people, yes . . . ?” Izz enquires timidly, keeping his eyes downcast. Wishing he still had the joint to fiddle with, to give him something to pretend to be doing. So he doesn’t have to focus on the killer’s gaze eating away at him.

Is this the right move to make—

He shouldn’t be here. This is a mistake. He needs to leave, pretend he never came here searching for the serial killer in the first place—

“What happened,” the deep voice demands an answer, an answer Izz finds he cannot withhold.

“It was an accident—I mean . . .” How is he supposed to explain. How does someone talk about this?

Coming here was a mistake—

“Where is it,” the male’s low rumble carries throughout the cell.

—he shouldn’t have come—Wait?

Izz’s head jerks up to gaze at the killer—had he heard that right?—the male is calm and rock steady, completely collected, like they’re talking about where to go for lunch, not where a body is located. And the killer has to know that’s what they’re talking about, why else would he ask the question?

He knows. He has to know, But how . . .

Izz has to be reading into it, coming to conclusions he’s made up in his head, with zero evidence. How would the killer know? Maybe it’s a guess, based on hisantsy behaviour? The killer is impossible to read, he can’t tell what’s going through the male’s head. He praysit’s a guess on the killer’s part. Prays he doesn’t have blood over himself that others can see and he can’t—

Izz glancesdown at his body, to double-check he isn’t covered in blood—nope still the orange prison assigned uniform.Bright orange, no bright red. No metallic, rapidly cooling blood anywhere in sight . . .

. . . ‘It’ . . .

The mohawked inmate had said ‘it’.The guard is not an‘it’.The guard is a human, a man. Albeit a terrible one, but still a human. A human Izz . . . killed . . .

Oh God, he really did kill someone. This isn’t a messed-up nightmare, this is reality. It’s his reality.

“The—um.” Izz takes a shuddering breath, reaching deep down into his willpower. He’s started down this path, opened this door, there’s no turning back. He has nowhere to turn back to. “The filing room, down the corridor from visitation.”

What have I done.

It’s out there now. Good or bad, he has to deal with the consequences. He’s no longer the only person who knows what he did.

Izz perceivesa hand squeezing his shoulder. A comforting gesture completely at odds to what he thought he would receive from a serial killer. He welcomes the human contact openly, taking in the reassuring touch.

“I’ll take care of it. You stay here.” It’s not said as an order, but the tone suggests it is. The firm hand squeezing down on Izz’s shoulder also suggests it isn’t up for argument, he is staying here no matter what he says, and he is okay with it. More than okay with it. “Right here. Until I get back. You understand.”

Izz nods. He’s not sure what else to do. He couldn’t stand up even if he wanted to. His legs are too numb to hold his weight. He can barelyfeel them, let alone send signals from his brain to his legs for them to move. His mind’s as foggy as his body. Far away and near impossible to see or connect with.

20

He’s not sure how much time passes before the killer returns—his thoughts are a blank haze. He’s slumping over, staring at the floor, when his ears pick out the soft footfalls lightly thumping over the second-floor platform. Heading for the cell he is numbing out in—turning into a stone statue.

A random thought pops free as the killer’s shoes step into view, he blurts it out, “what’s your name?” He was told the killer’s name once by Reni or Zidie, but he can’t remember.

“Sinn'ous.”

Oh, yeah. That’s it. Izz can’t believe he’d forgotten it. It’s a unique name, one you’d think would be memorable and impossible to forget.

Izz can see the killer’s—Sinn'ous’s—shoes in his peripheral vision. Filling the space in the cell’s doorway. Like he’s trying to give Izz space and not overcrowd him—a naivethought, why would a serial killer care if they made someone feel scared or unsafe?

---