Page 503 of The Harmless Series

I inhale slowly, deliberately, as quietly as possible. On the Island, the constant start and stop of golf carts on the grounds was like a sitcom laugh track, punctuating the rhythm of the days.

No golf cart hum.

On the Island, helicopters came and went at least twice a day. So far, no helicopter other than ours.

And on the Island, ice cream trucks didn’t exist. The tinkle of a truck’s melody announcing its presence to kids and ice-cream-hungry adults shatters my theory.

No.

Not the Island.

My heart races as I take in the scent. It’s nothing like the Island, inside or out. All of the buildings there had an institutional, bleach-like scent. And outdoors was filled with salty ocean air.

This smells like someone’s home.

Oh, God, please don’t tell me I’m at John’s house.

“Sleeping Beauty awakens,” says a new voice, not John’s. It doesn’t sound like Blaine, who is California cool, inside and out, born and bred.

Must be Stellan.

How does he know I’m awake?

Before I can react, the hood comes off and I spasm out in a coughing fit.

“Hello, Lindsay.” I can’t close my eyes fast enough. It’s Stellan.

I say nothing.

He nudges me with his toe. “You’re being rude. You won’t like what we do to rude little girls.”

My jaw tightens. I couldn’t talk if I wanted to. I imagine Drew pulling Stellan away from me and punching him. My neck releases slightly at the image.

Time.

Time is my friend. The longer I can buy time, the better the chance Drew can get me before they, well...

Before they kill me.

A hopeless black hole takes over at my core. It expands, like a pupil dilating, taking over my bones, my organs, my flesh, my everything.

I’m about to be hurt badly.

Tortured.

Violated.

And I can’t stop it. Being drugged would be preferable to this. Maybe later, I’ll beg for that.

I can try to lessen the severity. But Drew’s not coming anytime soon.

I freeze. My stomach feels heavy and painful, turning and twisting until I start to retch again.

“You puke on me and I crack open your eye socket,” Stellan says calmly, not making eye contact. “Again.”

Again.

All the surgeries four years ago pour through me like a montage. So many. I felt like Humpty Dumpty back then. A very, very drugged-up egg with a shell that needed to be repaired. If he’s suggesting -- implying – flat-out saying they’re going to treat me like that again, I might as well die now.

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