Page 13 of Devoured
“Please,”I whispered, hating the sound of it in my own mouth. “I just want to go to my room.”
“Please,”he mocked in a falsetto. “That’s better. That’s how you should talk to me. With respect.”
He stepped back—just enough for me to breathe—then grabbed my arm again, yanking me along.
We passed more doors. One had a narrow window, and I glimpsed a woman inside, standing in the corner, facing the wall. She was naked—skin pale as paper—and drawing on the wall with something dark.
“That oldie is Margaret. Don’t look at her,”Tobias warned. “She doesn’t like being watched.”
She kept her back to us, one arm moving in slow, ritualistic loops across the plaster. Like she was trying to summon something.
“Why’s she here?”I asked before I could stop myself.
Tobias’s jaw flexed. “She stayed with her husband. Serial killer. Took little girls. Carved ’em open like Sunday roasts. Buried their teeth in the garden.”He didn’t blink. “She knew. Slept beside him while he cleaned the blades. Said love means loyalty. Loyalty means silence.”
I blinked hard. The hallway tilted slightly, like the floor wasn’t sure it wanted to stay level.
“She waited. Kept quiet for decades. Then, after he died of old age, she walked the cops through the house. Room by room.”He paused. “Should’ve done it while he was alive.”
Then suddenly, he brightened. Like a switch flipped behind his eyes.
“But don’t worry,”he said, sing-song, almost cheerful. “She’ll be free soon.”
My breath hitched. “What does that mean?”
He didn’t answer. Just yanked me forward again, his grip tightening. “Don’t ask questions. Walk.”
We reached Room N-17 at the very end of the corridor. The door was metal, the number barely legible beneath layer after layer of flaking paint. Rust bled through in jagged streaks, patterns that almost looked intentional.
He swiped his card. The lock clicked.
“Home sweet home,”he said, shoving me inside so hard that I hit the ground on hands and knees. The floor was stone. Cold enough to burn.
“Dinner’s at six. But you won’t get any.”
“Why not?”I asked, voice barely above a whisper as I pushed myself up.
His grin widened. “Because you need to learn to be grateful for what you get. Besides, fatties like you could stand to miss a few meals anyway.”
The door slammed shut. The automatic lock engaged.
I was alone.
The room was small and made of stone. No warmth. No welcome. A metal bed frame with a thin mattress. There were no sheets—just a rough blanket that looked like it had never been washed. An exposed toilet in the corner. No privacy screen. A cracked porcelain sink that dripped in a steady rhythm, already burrowing into my brain. There was one window, wire-reinforced and narrow as a mail slot.
This was it.
This was where women like me ended up.
The ones who fought back.
The ones who burned it all down.
The ones who chose fire over fear.
Chapter 5
How many women had sat on this bed before me? How many had stared at these same stone walls, counting water drops from the same leaking sink? St. Dymphna had to be old. Everything about it felt ancient—from the stone floors to the way sound echoed weirdly in the corridors. Decades of women who’d done things they couldn’t take back. Who’d crossed the line that separates the broken from the dangerous.
