Page 65

Dinah

Joe crosses his arms over his chest and walks in a small circle, his chin down, as if he is thinking, and when he faces me, there’s a slight smile on his face. “I think ...,” he says slowly, then pauses. “Do you know what I think, Dinah?”

He’s torturing me. That’s what this is. He knows that right now I’m hanging on every word, desperate for his forgiveness and approval. He’s not going to give it to me, even if he’s ready for it. He’s going to stretch this out for as long as he can. Not just hours. Days. Maybe weeks.

And I won’t be rescued. Tonight, he’ll create a plan, one that will require my cooperation, and of course I’ll give it.

I’ll give it because it will be a stipulation, a requirement that I’ll have to satisfy in order to get his warmth, his time, or any number of other things.

Water. Food. Air. I think of the box, and an involuntary shudder rips through me.

When he built the box, it was the first time I voiced any opposition.

I thought it was too cruel. Too intense.

He countered my concerns by saying it was the extremity of the treatment that would cause it to be so effective.

And he has been right so far. The patients will say whatever he wants after a few hours in there.

If they don’t, then they stay in longer.

Becca lasted two days. I don’t know how she did it, but she was the first one he released.

Probably because she was such a black mark in his files.

By the time he lets me out, I won’t have a job. I might not have a husband. Whatever the outcome, he’ll be unscathed. Joe always comes out on top. He has his whole life. Our entire marriage. His—

“Answer me.”

I can’t remember the question. Oh, if I know what he thinks. “No,” I say quietly. He’s already breaking me down. I’ve been so stupid in our marriage, thinking that we were equals. Thinking that I had a voice and an opinion and strength.

“I think ...” He pauses, looking toward the bathroom. His gaze sharpens, and whatever he was about to say is gone. “I think Jessica has been in the bathroom too long.”

I try to look over my shoulder, to follow his movement as he goes to the door, but I can’t.

I listen, hearing his dress shoes click down the hall and into the bathroom, then back out.

When he reappears, his face is tight with worry.

“She’s not there.” He yanks his hand into his pocket and pulls out his keys, flipping through them until he gets to the handcuff key.

“Just go,” I urge. “I can wait here.” I could escape here, left alone in this office. I could break this chair and get free. Find something to pick the handcuff lock.

He shakes his head. Of course my husband wouldn’t be that dumb. He frees one hand, then the other, before roughly grabbing my arms and pushing me through the door and to the closest room. Jessica’s.

“Joe,” I protest, struggling against him as he unlocks the door, “I can help you catch her. Let me help.”

“Get in. I’ll be back.” He shoves me into the room, the unlocked handcuffs still hanging from my wrists, and slams the door.

I make it back just in time to see the dead bolt cylinder lock into place.

I pound the metal with the side of my fist, and the cuffs clang loudly against it. “Joe!” I call out. “Let me help!”

I put my ear to the door but can’t hear anything through the thick metal.