Page 5 of The Escape Artist

“I've never seen you before in my life,” Ari said.

“No! You will NOT get inside my head. You know what you did. You know. You don't get to play the innocent victim. You know why we're here.”

“Refresh my memory.”

He jerked back when she bent and ran her fingertips over the scar that slashed across his chest.

But she ignored his question. Instead she rose back to stand and paced the floor, staring at the scar like it would leap off his skin and attack her.

“Why me? Why did you take me?” she asked, still pacing. Her voice trembled, and he couldn't tell if it was from fury or fear. Or a deadly cocktail of both.

When he finally decided what to say, he spoke slowly with a soothing tone. “I don't know what you're talking about. I think you're confused. I didn't take you. You took me. I'm the one in the chains, remember?” He rattled them as if to remind her.

“I mean BEFORE!” she shrieked. “Three fucking years ago? What you don't remember? How many women did you keep in that basement? How many did you kill? And you can't remember the one who got away? Bullshit!” She spoke so fast he could barely keep up with her words.

She raised an arm and slammed the beer bottle against the wall, sending beer and glass flying. She advanced on him in a blazing rush, holding the jagged broken bottle under his chin.

“I could slit your throat right now, so you better fucking start admitting to your crimes. Your amnesia act isn't amusing me.”

Ari's eyes widened. Things were escalating far too quickly, and he didn't know what to say to keep breathing. Anything could set her off. He sure as shit wasn't going to admit to any crimes he hadn't committed. For all he knew she had recording devices. Such an admission could land him in prison.

She backed off him and tossed the bottle on the floor. Then she went over to the door and put her thumb to the keypad and calmly walked out as if nothing had happened.

3

Claire leaned against the cell door. She couldn't make her hands stop shaking. She'd actually confronted him—actually spoken to him when she had the power. But she didn't feel like she had it. She'd had to fight past every instinct not to run out of the room the second his cold blue eyes had been on her—as if he could somehow attack her in those heavy chains. She'd tested everything. She knew the chains would hold him. Still.

His act was so convincing. She almost believed him, but it was him. It was definitely him. That scar across his chest. What kind of an idiot did he think she was? She sank into a large leather recliner and closed her eyes, trying not to return to that basement but knowing her mind was already halfway inside the memory.

He'd been drunk that night. He was going to kill her. Something had set him off and he was tired of her. He was antsy, ready to start the whole cycle again with someone new. Claire wasn't sure how she'd known this, but she'd known.

Maybe it was the knife. He'd threatened her with the knife before, but the way he'd held it... with such purpose, his grip on it so tight... She knew. She'd spent the last three hours struggling in ropes he hadn't tied quite right. It was just enough so she could struggle and have stupid hope but not enough to get free. She wondered if he'd done it on purpose to play with her, to make her think she had a chance against him. Or to make killing her more interesting.

Her wrists bled and burned from the struggle against the ropes, but she'd stretched the fibers. She was almost free.

He paced back and forth in the cell rambling again about the government and the elites. And rich bitches like her who had it too good. Too easy. In his drunken haze he waved the large kitchen knife around erratically.

Claire continued to fight with the ropes, biting back the pain as they kept cutting into her in her struggle, feeling the blood as it dripped down her hands. Her own warm life flowing down her skin.

She was nearly free. He laid the knife down on the table beside her and turned his back for just a moment. It was enough for her to slip out of the ropes and grab it. She stood and backed away. She was so hungry and weak. She felt dizzy, but she knew if she gave in to it and fainted, she'd die.

He turned and advanced on her. She stabbed at him, cutting him multiple times but not able to get a good solid jab. The knife was big enough that as long as she kept wildly swinging it around, he couldn't get too close. She slashed out and felt the knife slice through his chest. She turned and ran.

He was right behind her. She fell and the knife flew from her hand as he gripped her ankle and pulled her down.

“NO!” she shrieked, kicking at him, hitting him hard in the face with her foot. He released her and she half-crawled, half-ran up the stairs and out the door into the fresh open air.

Claire pushed the memories away, gripping the leather arm rests, willing her heartbeat and breathing to calm. That was him. She had him in a cell. That was the guy. He had a scar where she'd cut him. How could he lie to her with such a straight face when they both knew he had that scar and how he'd gotten it?

Because he's a sociopath, Claire. He isn't like normal people.

She couldn't let herself forget that—what he was. She couldn't let herself be tricked by the beautiful monster into setting him free and losing her own life. She got up and went to the kitchen, taking another bottle of beer from the fridge. This one she drank all the way down until a light pleasant buzz of calm skated across her skin. She took a long, steadying breath and grabbed the broom and dustbin.

When she returned to the cell, at least the arrogance had left his face. Maybe he was starting to understand his situation, that the tables had turned and he was now at her mercy. Let him lie about things, as long as she could wipe the smug smile off his face.

She silently swept up the shards of the beer bottle. The last thing she needed was for him to have a weapon. That had been his mistake with her after all.

“You can still let me go,” he said. His voice was so gentle and soothing. Calm and reasonable.

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