Page 33 of Pose for Me
A smile crosses my face as I continue walking, eager to play back the camera footage so I can see his face while he begs so prettily.
“Ryell! Don’t leave! I’m…I’m sorry. Please!”
I ignore him and jog upstairs, his pleading sounding sweet in my ears.
Once I reach the top landing, I open a panel and press a button that will leak nitrous gas into his cell. He’ll be unconscious in a minute, then I can clean up around him.
The sound of his voice while he was begging me… Yeah, he’s close. Soon, he’ll only need me. He’ll only want me, and he’ll do what I tell him.
I might even be able to keep him as a pet. I could come home to a docile Lane after I’ve found a victim. It’s doubtful he’ll join me on a kill, but it would be nice to have my current obsession and the life I want under one roof.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I see that Lane is passed out, lying on his bed with his food scattered on the floor. I didn’t think that through, which also serves to piss me off. The fact that Lane has me off my game is more fucking annoying than I can say.
After I clear the gas from the room, I grab a trash bag and a new tray of food and head down to Lane’s cell. I set the new tray of food on the floor beside his bed.
It only takes me a moment to clean up the trash. Before I leave, I gather Lane in my arms and place him more comfortablyon the bed, feeling an odd sense of protectiveness. Not because I want to keep him safe, but because I’ve claimed him as mine.
“Soon, Agent Bauer,” I say to him as I push his hair from his face. It’s grown since I’ve had him captive; I like it better this way. “Soon you’ll be mine, and I’ll take care of you how I want, and you’ll give me what I need.”
Fourteen
Lane
How long haveI been here? More than two weeks…I think.
I lost count after the first week. I was too busy trying to keep up the fight against Ryell. Now, I don’t think I have much left.
I’m taken back to a time I thought I’d gotten away from. A time in my life I thought I buried for good.
I was adopted when I was five after being given up by my birth parents when I was three. From what I could remember and what I dug up when I got older, my parents had six other children before I was born and they didn’t want another mouth to feed. So I went from a loud house with tons of siblings to being sent to a facility where I was ignored and mistreated by those who were supposed to help.
When I was adopted, I thought my life would change for the better.
That didn’t happen.
My adoptive parents used me as a prop, parading me in front of people as the perfect child, saying how proud of me they were. In reality, at home, they barely acknowledged me, speaking to me only to give me the most basic instructions. All I wanted was their love and attention, but I never got it. I was to be seen and not heard.
After I got away from them, I told myself I would never be in that position again.
But here I am, left alone with no one to talk to. I can’t stop the memories of my childhood from crashing into me, making me feel small and unloved.
I don’t want Ryell to love me—he’s a fucking murderer that kidnapped and is basically starving me. I don’t want his love.
Just his attention.
I’m fucking pathetic. But I can’t help it. Even though I tell myself that I can resist what’s happening, I find that I need his presence.
Tears well in my eyes as I think about how fucking pitiful it is that I need the attention of a fucking serial killer so I don’t feel inadequate.
As I lie on the bed in my cell, two fingers stuffed in my mouth, I regret ripping up that sketch. It gave me something to look at while I’m locked in here all alone. Even though I was pretending to enjoy the sketch initially, as the days passed, I took it out because I liked the lines and the shading…and how Ryell drew me.
That’swhy I ripped it up. I needed to deny myself that so I could remember my objective: do what I have to do so I could get out of here, deny Ryell what he wants until I can find a way to escape, to find a way to get the FBI here to lock this insane fucker up.
But it seems like my objective has changed. Now, I just want to hear another person’s voice, to know that I’m still here, that I’m seenandheard. Talking to myself only makes me more depressed because no one is answering me back.
I have nothing to keep my mind sharp, nothing to distract me from my predicament. And nothing of Ryell’s.
I turn onto my side and drag my finger against the wall, not sure if my tally is accurate, but adding another line to it. Twenty-three. If my count is correct, I’ve been here for over three weeks.
