Page 111 of Coach
Then, yes.
My dark home.
Trix on the floor.
Moving shadows.
Him.
My eyes flew open, but the brightness all around me was like knives stabbing my pained eyes, making me squeeze them shut again.
But I couldn’t keep them closed.
Not when I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious or what had been happening to me while I was.
I inched my eyelids open, ignoring the sharp stabs of pain and the nausea that rolled through my stomach, making bile rise up my throat.
It felt like it took a lifetime for my eyes to adjust.
But when they finally did, my stomach sank and twisted.
Because I was in a prison.
One that explained all the long days and nights of hammering, sawing, nailing, and sanding.
Coach Dover had been building a place where he could keep me. Not just for a few terrifying hours, but for an extended period of time.
What should have been cinderblock walls were instead bright blue and yellow soundproof tiles affixed to sheets of plywood.
The color choice wasn’t lost on me.
It was the old team colors.
The same colors I’d been wearing when he’d seen me for the first time.
Beneath me was unexpectedly soft, and when I looked down, I saw a mattress sitting on the cold cement floor.
No sheet.
No blanket.
The pillow behind me had no cover.
Everything smelled musty and dirty.
Now, it seemed, even I did.
My gaze slid to my wrists, finding zip ties around them.
Further down, my ankles had two interlocking zip tie cuffs as well, pulled so tight that I worried about circulation.
Not that circulation was at the top of my list of worries. Not as I heard the stomp of footsteps directly above my head.
What was he doing?
Getting supplies to torture me with?
My lower lip trembled, wondering what his plan was now. He’d never gotten me alone long enough to do any kind of real damage.
