Page 16 of Cruel Beginnings

“Why did she do that?” I demand.

“You’d have to ask her.” Oh, that’s hilarious. I can’t ask her.Because she can’t speak. The cruel amusement glinting in his eyes makes me want to murder him. I can’t believe he let me have a steak knife.

No that’s not true, I can believe it quite easily. It’s part of his taunting game.

“Are you going to let me go some day?”

“Never.”

I utter a strangled cry before I can stop myself. His perfect lips have just shaped my death sentence.

Even if he doesn’t kill me, I’ve been sentenced to life imprisonment, which is the same as death. Every dream I’ve ever had has been snuffed out by that one word.

I knew this from the moment I woke up, knew I was never walking out of here, wherever “here” is, but having it thrown in my face hurts so much I think my heart will tear in two.

Tears run down my face and splash on the table. My shoulders shake, and sorrow washes over me. He’s telling me my life as I knew it is over.

“School starts in two weeks.” My voice is husky with misery. “I’ve been working toward this for years. This is my whole life. I have a scholarship.”

He looks at me calmly. “I don’t care.”

I hate him so much.

I suck in a breath and try to stop crying. What he just said was so painful that I push it aside. I can’t think about it or acknowledge it, or I might die of sorrow.

“Are you going to rape me?” I’ve always been terrified of rape. The thought of having someone enter my body like that, the ultimate violation… My stomach curdles in fear, waiting for his answer.

A smile curls his mouth, and I can’t stop staring at him, wondering how I never noticed how strange his smile is, the way it doesn’t affect the rest of his face at all.

“I won’t have to.”

I rear back in my chair and stare at him in confusion. He locks his gaze with mine, and I desperately wish I could slap the smug look off his beautiful face. Does he think I’ll come crawling to him and beg for it, because he’s so pretty? Is he really that irrational?

Probably. He’s a serial killer who gets off on killing men and kidnapping women. God knows what goes on in that head of his. I won’t give him the satisfaction of asking what the hell he meant, though.

“If you’re not going to rape me, then what are you going to do with me?”

“I said five questions.”

“Wait, no, that can’t be right!” I protest.

“Believe me, Tamara, I can count to five.” He pushes his plate away and stands up.

It didn’t feel like five.

Frantically, I recount in my head. I recite my questions back. “Four!” I protest pleadingly. I have millions of questions crowding in my head, screaming for answers. And even more important than the right to ask one more question, I need to believe he’ll keep his word to me. He’s setting the rules; I have to know that he’ll follow them. It’s a kind of safety, a tiny bit of control in my new, dread-filled, out-of-control world.

He shakes his head. “You asked me what happened to Elizabeth’s tongue. Five.”

“No!” I cry, clenching my fists so hard my knuckles turn white. “I didn’t ask. You volunteered that information.”

He assesses me with a long, cool look. I wonder if my defiance is going to cost me, and in what manner he’ll exact his retribution.

Finally, he nods, with a glint of what I think is reluctant admiration in his eyes. “Very good, Tamara. You may have one more question. You want to know what I’m going to do with you?”

I think quickly. That question is pointless. He’s already claimed he won’t rape me or kill me. He loves to play games, and if I ask him what he’s going to do with me, he’ll give me some bullshit answer like “Whatever I feel like,” and I will have wasted a question.

So I come up with a new question. “Do you only kill bad people?”

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