Page 25 of Searching for Hope

“And that’s when she was taken,” I say.

He nods and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “She went for coffee and just never came back.”

I frown. “So how come Ette is with you and not her father?”

Jericho squats down and places his hands on my knees. He chews his bottom lip a little more before answering. “Because I let everyone believe she was taken too.”

HOPE

HOPE

Three days. That’s how long he’s left me with my arms tied behind my back. Twice a day he comes down and unties me, allowing me to use the bathroom, then he ties me back up and spoon feeds me cereal. I don’t speak to him and he doesn’t speak to me. It feels as though he’s punishing me. Only I don’t know why. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve the hatred that resides in his eyes or the wrath in his actions. But this time it will be different. This time I am going to demand answers.

“Why am I here?” I ask as soon as I hear the groan of the door opening. His footsteps echo as he climbs down the stairs. He flicks on the light and jerks his head, indicating for me to turn around so he can undo the binds around my wrists.

“Why are you keeping me here? Is it because—”

A sharp slap slices across my cheek. I shake my head, startled by the brutality of it. It isn’t like him. He hasn’t shown one ounce of violence toward me before this. Of course, that’s if you don’t count the fact that he has me locked in a cell. My skin burns. Tears prick. Twisting my head from side to side as though it will help relieve the pain, I slowly lift my head, glaring at him.

He’s wearing the balaclava, so all I can see is his cold stare. He jerks his head again but I don’t turn around.

“Why am I here?” I ask again.

He slaps me again. This time harder. But it’s not something he enjoys. You can tell when someone enjoys inflicting pain. They can’t help it. You can see it in their eyes. But it’s not in his. In his, there’s almost regret.

“Why am I—”

He grabs my shoulders and pushes me to the bed, undoing the knots of my binds roughly, not caring when the rope cuts into my skin.

“Use the bathroom,” he commands as he undoes the final knot and gets to his feet. “We’ve got a visitor.”

I go cold at his words. A visitor? In the past, visitors meant getting watched or shared. I cut off the memories, blocking them from flooding my system in panic.

Getting to my feet, I rub my wrists one at a time, trying to work the blood flow back into them. I keep my eyes fixed on him as I walk over to the toilet.

“Aren’t you going to turn around?”

He shakes his head. There’s something different about him. Something more aggressive. Something more scared.

I’m still naked from when I woke to find him beside me, so I plop myself down, glaring at him as the sound of my release rushes into the bowl. His eyes stay fixed on me. Once upon a time this would have brought me shame. Now I don’t care.

“Wash yourself,” he orders once I’m done. “We can’t have our visitor thinking you’re a dirty little whore.” He chuckles coldly as he says it.

Rinsing the cloth under the faucet, I drag it over my body, washing away the grime and the grit and the sweat. I keep my expression impassive but it feels so good to be clean again.

“Your hair,” he says once I’m done.

Obediently, I hang my head over the basin. The water runs over my scalp, deliciously cold, and I shudder. He sighs loudly and out of the corner of my eye, I see him pick up the bar of soap. He lathers his hands before pushing them into my hair.

I force myself not to moan with the ecstasy of it. As he massages, I almost fall into a trance. It feels so good. He cups water with his hands, washing away the suds before repeating it all again with the conditioner.

“Hurry up,” he orders once he’s done and I’m wringing the water out of my hair. He stands behind me when I flick myself upright. My eyes meet his in the moldy mirror. He brushes my hair slowly, running the bristles through my matted mess until it’s soft and smooth.

“Sit.” He nods to bed.

I do as I’m told.

“Hands behind your back.”

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