Page 116 of Coach
“I made you a kitchen.”
“I see that. That was… thoughtful.”
If I was expected to cook, my hands and feet would have to be released, right? And depending on what I was meant to cook, there would be knives. Maybe, if I was really lucky, a cast iron skillet.
I just had to keep him unsuspecting, make him think I was playing along, feeding into his fantasy.
After my migraine eased a little.
“I’ll be right here,” George said, making his way over to the dining set.
Lovely.
He was going to watch me while I rested.
Could the guy get any creepier?
Much to my horror, between the adrenaline, fear, and pain, I went from just trying to rest my eyes to drifting in and out of sleep.
It was that same heavy clanging sound that had me snapping fully awake. I jerked upright, the movement making my head spin, my vision swim.
My heartbeat ratcheted up, pulsing everywhere at once as I scanned the room, trying to locate my jailor.
But he was gone.
Judging by the footsteps above me, he was frustrated—clomping around the room, probably mad that dinner wasn’t on the table.
The basement was disorienting. There were no windows, no clocks, no way to gauge if it was the same night, if it was morning already, how much time I’d lost.
Was Trix better yet? Was she missing me? Had Saul taken her back to the clubhouse? Was he maybe looking for me to update me on her?
No.
No, I couldn’t let myself start hoping.
Hope was dangerous.
It might prevent me from doing what was necessary to get myself out of this situation.
I’d survived the past ten years without someone else coming to sweep in and carry me off to safety. I could get free again.
Even if, in my heart, I wanted him to be looking for me. Because he cared. Because he wanted to know what happened to me. Because he knew me well enough to know I would never willingly leave my dog that way. That I wouldn’t leavehimthat way.
Tears pricked my eyes, and I fought hard to keep them back as something upstairs slammed.
My heart lodged itself in my throat, worried that George was losing it, that he was getting pissed off at me and throwing things, breaking things.
Was I next?
Turning so my legs were over the edge of the mattress, I started scooting until I was on my knees on the hard floor once again.
It was true that the windows were boarded up, but I knew they existed. So did, I remembered, an exterior access door. Those big ones that had a staircase and double doors.
I just needed to orient myself, try to figure out where they were in the layout. Then I could, I don’t know, tear down the damn walls if I had to.
But what if the doors were barred from the outside?
Could he have prepared that much? Anticipated every attempt to escape? Or would he have assumed I would just accept my imprisonment?
