Page 83 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

I have to do it. I have to free myself. This cannot go on!

Slowly, squeezing back the betraying tears, I let out my breath, attempt to calm myself by glancing around the small cabin that, though my jail cell, is also now my home—smooth hardwood on the floor, a flickering fire, a convertible couch of faux leather, and even a fluffy blanket. Overhead, the sleeping loft is comfortable, with a thick mattress and downy duvet.

Affordable luxury for the adventurous spirit.

A line from one of the brochures.

And yet it’s a damned prison.

My stomach turns queasy at the thought.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage.

I heard that somewhere—Dad had read it to me, hadn’t he?

Yeah, well, Dad, come live in this jail and see if you believe it then. It may not be constructed of stone walls and iron bars, but what about custom moldings, polished granite, gleaming glass tile, and decorative but strong dead bolts that work from the outside? I know the poem has something to do with the freedom of the spirit or mind, or possibly love, which makes my situation all the more ironic, considering the betrayal of it all.

Seated on the couch, I stare at the opposing wall, constructed of sturdy, smooth cedar, where a flat-screen television was supposed to be mounted. Of course, that space is bare now. No television or phone or computer allowed. Instead, I’ve been left with a mountain of books, fiction and nonfiction, but no newspapers, nor magazines, no connection to the outside world.

My life is slipping away. Hour by hour. I tell myself it hasn’t been that long, and yet it seems like an eternity.

I walk to the kitchen and glance into the small sink where a half-eaten sandwich sits, bread stale and dry, pulled pork congealing on a stained paper plate.

My stomach rumbles, then clenches.

I can’t be sick. Won’t be sick.

And then it happens. My stomach lurches.

Frantically, I scramble to the small bathroom, where without any further forewarning, I heave up the contents of my last meal—the sandwich—into the state-of-the-art composting toilet.

Dear God.

Tears bloom in the corners of my eyes, and my mouth tastes sour and foul. This imprisonment has to end!

Shaking, unsure I won’t vomit again, I straighten and glance down at my hands. Blood has bloomed on my left palm as I was still holding onto one of the pieces of plastic, gripping it so tightly it cut through my skin. “Shit,” I mutter, finally reacting to the pain and grabbing a towel to staunch the flow.

How easily the plastic slit my skin.

And at that moment, I can see in my mind’s eye the razor-sharp edge slicing across the smooth skin of a neck, then deeper through soft flesh, and into the hard cartilage of the larynx.

Crunch!

My stomach flips hard, and I throw up the rest of my half-digested sandwich and bile.

As I spit, straighten, and rinse my mouth I wonder: Can I really do it? Draw that knifelike edge across an exposed throat?

For a second, I stare into the oval of the mirror mounted over the small sink and smile weakly at my pale reflection.

Of course, I can.

CHAPTER 23

December 5

Sophia Russo was a looker, Rivers would give her that.

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