Page 106 of Make Me Scream

“There are buses, which I would reimburse you for. I could also lend you my car, on occasion.”

“I see. That’s very kind, but I don’t know. I don’t have any experience managing a big piece of property. I’d screw so much of it up.”

“Nonsense. The work is strenuous, but not complicated. Mowing, cleaning, taking in any mail delivered by mistake. I have a breakdown of the whole thing. Come on, I’ll show you. My car is just up ahead.”

What, is he serious?

He stops at a black, full-size Lexus and gets into the driver’s seat. After a second rooting around in the glove compartment, he produces a spiral-bound booklet and holds it up to show me.

“Get in and we’ll go through it,” he says through the glass, barely audible.

This is crazy — I have a life here, I can’t be commuting upstate every damn weekend, no matter how much it pays.

I open the passenger-side door and lean in.

“Professor, I appreciate the offer, I really do, but-”

He slides something out from behind the booklet with his free hand, a black device like a remote control. Before I can back away it’s jammed against my chest, jolting me until I convulse and collapse.

I feel my legs being pulled into the car and hear the door slamming shut, followed by a slight prick. A needle, pressing through my skirt and into my thigh.

Everything blurs, then fades to black.

Chapter 25

Light scalds my eyes when I try to open them like someone’s prying my skull open from the inside. What the hell happened? I was in Union Square, I was talking to… Professor Mundell?

I’m lying on a gray, carpeted floor. White walls all around me, sketches hanging in cheap plastic frames — like an amateur gallery. I blink a few times to clear my vision, but the world refuses to reach high resolution. I try to stand up, but the room tumbles underneath my feet.

This is very, very wrong.

I’m not in a hospital. When I test out my arms and legs, my stomach and scalp, nothing comes back broken or bleeding. There’s a sore spot on my chest and-

There’s a collar around my neck. Not an accessory — an actual dog collar. I freeze, feeling a box on the back.

What the actual fuck?

Adrenaline pours through me, and when I stand up, I totter only a second before my balance returns. My sight squeezes into hard focus, allowing me to see the paintings clearly: they’re of me. Naked, bound in chains, imprisoned in a jail cell. Well, the face is definitely me, but the body doesn’t seem quite right. Longer legs, thinner arms, tighter abdomen — almost distended. Malnourished? It’s as if I’ve been superimposed onto another model.

Who made these? The style reminds me of Lane’s, but it’s not the same — and he’d paint my body accurately. I’ve seen him do it. Whoever it was, they had no right. Anger rising, muscles tensing, I reach for one of the frames. I’m going to smash every fucking one of these.

A piercing jolt explodes out from my neck. Instinctively, I step back, then whip around, searching the ceiling for cameras. Someone’s watching me.

There’s a door at the end of the room labeledPet. Is it a way out of here? It has to be. I have to get the fuck out, right now.

I race over, almost expecting it to be locked, but it opens. The gallery continues on the other side, though now the sketches have been replaced with proper paintings in professional, high-quality wooden frames. They depict a different girl instead of me; I don’t recognize her.

Keep going, there has to be a way out.

The next door isn’t labeled; on the other side I find two doors, markedArchivesandStairs. I immediately try for the stairs, but this door’s locked.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

The voice comes out of nowhere and everywhere. It’s scrambled, an electronic mashing of male and female tones.

“Where am I? Who are you?”

“You’re in my personal gallery and I am your Master.”

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