Page 30 of Silenced

All the while, I don’t even bother wincing because though it stings, I’ve been through worse.

He tends to my hands, which hurt more. Those cuts are deep, and my thumb feels like it could fall off, never mind the splint that’s digging into my finger, but afterward, that’s when he surprises me yet again—he cups my chin. Gently. He smoothes his alcohol-scented thumb over my jaw.

When I study him in turn, his face bears no expression but his eyes are loaded down with…

Too much.

Much too much.

Confusion whispers through me.

How many times would I have killed for Harvey to look at me that way?

With my world shaking beneath my feet, the stranger carries me to the bed and rests me on top of the comforter, and it’s almost with relief that I settle amid the luxurious pillows and sheets that smell too good for my senses to handle.

That’s when he finally deigns to sign, “Sleep. You are safe now.”

When he doesn’t make for the door but for the bathroom, I quickly grab his arm, ignoring the jolt of pain as my thumb protests, so that he can see me reply, “You’re a stranger! I have no idea who you are. How am I supposed to sleep if you’re—”

But he isn’t around long enough to read the message I impart with my hands. Hands that arehurtingwith everything that I sign. This is the finger equivalent of talking with laryngitis. Every fucking word is precious but he dismisses me with a waft of his fingers then turns his back on me.

I refuse to look at his ass.

Re. Fuse.

A couple moments later, the shower powers on again.

Suddenly, my adrenaline soars and with it, some gumption. I sit up and start the hunt for another exit.

A quick scan of the bedroom reveals little.

It’s big, cavernous almost, but more than anything, it’s empty of any tchotchkes, possessing only the bare minimum of furniture, like the nightstands and a table that could either be a desk or for a woman to do her makeup at. There’s a wall of shelves that could be for books, but its emptiness is all the more jarring.

On the side wall, there’s another opening, much like there is with the bathroom, so ignoring the pain in my head and hands, I clamber to my feet and haul the comforter off the bed, swaddle myself in it, then groan with how much fabric there is as I nearly fall flat on my face.

The bed is as huge as he is, and the comforter is larger. Bulky, too.

Dragging the deadweight, I hurry over there as quickly as I can. Which, disconcertingly enough, is when I find what has to be a walk-in closet but the racks are empty, the drawers too. There’s not so much as a pair of boxers in here.

“Is this a guest suite?” I ask myself, perturbed by the barrenness of the space. “If it is, then how goddamn big is the master suite and why does everything smell of him?”

The shower’s still running, so I head back into the bedroom and move over to the shuttered windows.

I tug on one, trying to open it, pulling so hard that I almost knock over the chair that’s in front of the maybe-vanity, but it doesn’t budge. Nor do the other five.

My heart’s starting to pound again when claustrophobia settles in.

Desperate, I run to the door and try the handle a final time.

No dice.

Still locked.

It’s a massive room, beautifully appointed if barren, but it might as well be a five-by-five cell.

Mouth trembling, I stare at the blank canvas surrounding me and swallow down a bout of nausea that has nothing to do with the drugs Harvey fed me and everything to do with fear.

How did I leap from the frying pan into the fire?

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