Page 46 of Tricked By Jack
Every muscle aches from curling on myself to conserve heat, every joint stiff from too many hours in the same narrow space. The blanket holds the shape of my body like an accusation, a pressed flower rotting in its frame.
Yesterday, I ate two granola bars after inspecting the wrappers for tampering—pressing along the seams, examining the glue, checking for needle marks. I still remember how badly my hands shook as I tore them open.
The sweetness hit my tongue like a drug, and I had to force myself to eat slowly, to savor what might be my only meal for another day. I won’t beg for more. I refuse to give him that power.
Jack sits in the chair by the window, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Smoke curls around his face like a living veil, obscuring his features in a gray haze. The bottle beside him is almost empty, and his movements have the loose, unpredictable quality of a man several drinks in.
He mutters to himself occasionally—fragments about consequences and deservingthis—whateverthisis. His wedding ring catches the light when he lifts the bottle to his lips. We’re married. The thought still feels foreign, impossible.
And if I’m completely honest, scary in a bad way.
“My dad used to drink like that,” I say, breaking the silence between us. My voice sounds strange after hours without use—rough, but steadier than I expected. “He’d go through a bottle a night after my mother died.”
“Don’t engage unless necessary,”my father’s voice whispers in my memory.“Observe first. Words give away leverage.”
He taught me that silence is a form of control. If you want to understand someone, watch them when they think no one’s looking. Watch long enough, and patterns emerge. Weaknesses reveal themselves.
Jack’s eyes flick toward me, narrowing slightly. “Don’t remember asking about your daddy issues,” he says, but there’s something in his tone—a flicker of interest beneath the contempt.
I mentally catalog the data point.Subject responds to family references. Potential emotional trigger.
“Just making conversation,” I shrug, careful to keep my posture relaxed despite the ache in my shoulders. “Three days is a long time to sit with nothing to do.”
He takes another longdrag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke in my direction. “You weren’t so chatty yesterday. Or the day before.” His eyes track over my body, clinical rather than lustful. Assessing.
“I was still processing being kidnapped and caged like an animal then,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “Today I’m bored.”
Jack laughs, a sharp, bitter sound with no humor in it. “Bored,” he repeats. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re a strange fucking woman, Eve.”
I tilt my head slightly. “And you’re a strange fucking captor. Most kidnappers have demands. Ransom. Sexual gratification.” I pause, watching him carefully. “What do you want from me, Jack?”
“Justice,” he says automatically, too quickly. A rehearsed answer that’s most definitely not the whole truth.
I file this away. “For what?” I push, gently but persistently.
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. “You know for what.”
“Ruby,” I say softly. Another data point;his tension spikes when his sister is mentioned.“I didn’t kill her, Jack.”
“You let her die.” The bottle clanks against the wood as he sets it down too hard. “You knew what was happening. What Valentine was planning. And you did nothing.”
I remain silent for a moment, letting his accusation hang in the air between us. His breathing has quickened, and the rhythm of his smoking has accelerated. He draws harder, holds the smoke longer, like he’s keeping the words he wants to spit from crossing the bars between us.
Controlled anger.
“So this is punishment,” I observe, gesturing at the cage with one hand. “Not justice. There’s a difference.”
Jack stands abruptly, crossing to the cage in three long strides. He crouches down, bringing his face level with mine, separated only by the metal bars. “What’s the difference, Dr. Death?” he asks, voice dangerously soft. “Educate me.”
I don’t flinch, though every instinct screams to back away from the predator in front of me. “Justice restores balance,” I explain, meeting his gaze steadily. “Punishment is about power. About making yourself feel better.”
A flash of something crosses his face—uncertainty, or perhaps recognition. “And what makes you think I want to feel better?”
Excellent question.The subject demonstrates self-awareness. More complex than the initial assessment.
It’s the first time I’ve really seen him without a mask—metaphorically speaking, of course. There’s no threat in his voice, no performance—only something raw and unguarded that slips through before he can catch it.
“Because you’re drinking yourself into oblivion every day,” I point out. “Because you’re chain-smoking even though I’ve seen the nicotine patches in your bathroom cabinet. Alcohol and nicotine are two of the most common vices known to soothe people.”
