Page 5 of Morally Grey

“I think you may have the wrong man.”

She shakes her head and says, “No, you’re the right one. I should know. I drew your face.”

As if this is a completely normal thing to say, she rises from the table and returns with a sketch. And she’s right. That’s definitely me.

I raise the mug and chug the rest of the coffee. She’s probably already called the fucking cops, and I’m well and truly screwed. I never should have stopped here. I should have kept?—

“I made this too,” she says as she shoves a purple piece of paper into my hands. She sounds so proud, but I’m terrified as I look down and see my images plastered all over it. “I guess I don’t really need those anymore, though. Not now that the real thing is right in front of me.”

A wave of dizziness washes over me. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. I was just going to come in, have a drink, maybe a bite of food, and pretend to make a phone call while I cased the place for something to sell for some gas money to get me out of the state.

“Are you going to turn me in?” I ask.

She smiles at me and grabs the papers. “I’m not sure. I haven’t decided yet. How are you feeling?”

I shake my head to will the dizzy feeling away, but it’s only growing. I pull the mug closer and look inside. Tiny white granules cling to the bottom of the glass, and judging by the bitter bite to the coffee, I don’t think it’s sugar.

“You drugged me?” I teeter on the edge of the chair as I try to stand. My hand goes for the gun in my waistband, but my hands are lead. My feet are lead. Everything is fucking lead, and nothing works.

“Whoops! You won’t be needing that,” she says as she snatches the gun away from me. “You might want to sit down. That shit hits really fast and pretty hard, and I don’t have what I need to patch you up if you split something open. I mean, I work at a hospital, but I’m no nurse.”

Her voice fades as I crumple to the floor. I’ve gone from the frying pan to the fire, and now I’ve transitioned to...whatever this is. Maybe turning myself in isn’t such a bad idea. I have no idea what this woman has in store, and I don’t think I want to find out.

Chapter Four

Grey

Something clicks in the distance, and bright light flashes through my eyelids. After a brief whirring sound, the room goes quiet again. Seconds later, the sounds repeat. I force my eyes open. I’m on a bed, and standing at the foot, with a Polaroid camera dangling around her neck and two newly minted pictures in her hands, stands the woman who drugged me.

“Gosh, you’re very photogenic,” she says as she studies the pictures. “Have you ever done any modeling? Your facial structure is really nice.”

I try to sit up, but something around my neck holds me to the bed. I reach toward my throat and realize I’m wearing a metal collar.

“Oh, goodness, let me lengthen that chain,” she says, as if that’s the most natural thing to say to someone you’ve taken hostage. She gets on her stomach and slithers under the bed. Metal clanks and clangs, and a few seconds later, she emerges once more. “There. You can move around now.” She smiles at me, looking very pleased with herself.

I move to sit up, and she’s right. I have more room now. Not enough to escape this bedroom, of course, but at least I’m not forced into a prone position.

After blinking to clear the medication’s haze, I look around. A single window lets some sunlight into the room. Judging by the fading light, I’ve been out for several hours. I lie on a white wrought-iron bed with a mattress that seems to sway with my movements, but at least it’s comfortable. A white dresser stands against one wall, and a large vanity dominates the wall in front of the bed.

“How long do you plan to keep me chained to your bed?” I ask. It’s a fair question.

She places the pictures on top of the dresser and raises the camera again. “I haven’t decided.” The bulb flashes, and the machine whirs as it spits out another picture. “Shit, I’m out of film.”

“How many pictures have you taken?”

Instead of answering my question, she places the photo with the others and leaves the room. She returns seconds later with something black in her hands. The camera still dangles from her neck.

“Do me a favor,” she says as she tosses the black object into my lap. “Put this on.”

Raising the clump of black fabric, I realize it’s my mask. She must have gone through my coat pockets. My eyes narrow on her, but I oblige and slide the mask over my face.

“Now smile,” she says.

So I do.

She shakes her head and groans. “No, no. Not like that. Wider. Happier.”

I do my best impression of a happier Grey, which isn’t easy, given my current circumstances.

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