Page 24 of His Toy

I raised an eyebrow. “How did you know?”

“Part of my company is private investigation.” His expression softened, a moment of warmth crossing his face. Even if I was in the Inspect position and he had weapons within his grasp, we were Zaid and Heather right then, nothing more. “But it doesn’t take much to find out what a person’s interests are in the age of social media. You should be more careful.”

I cringed. Had he cyber-stalked me?

Why did I like that he cared enough to do that?

It was probably to use it against me. I knew better than to believe his knowledge had more than manipulation behind it.

But I swear, there was a look in his eye, the way his voice lowered, how he listened to me, and used my name. It might not have been a traditional interest, but there was something there. Something different. Something that drew him to me, like I was drawn to him.

“And like I said, you spend a greater part of your time here staring out that window.”

He gestured for me to rest, a flat hand swiveling towards the ground. I never felt more awkward than after high protocol, when I had to find a ‘normal’ position.

“I have something to show you,” he said.

I followed him to a room. After he scanned a card on the digital pad, it unlocked, and he opened the door to an office. It was minimalist: one desk, one chair, one computer, one painting on the wall, one window.

This tiny office had a window, but not my room? Talk about the real tortures here.

“Use your first name and date of birth to log in,” he said. “The camera icon has real-time footage of your sister’s room at the clinic.”

I blinked my eyes. Was he offering me a chance to see my sister?

“Go on,” he said.

I sat at the desk, the computer screen waking up with a startle. After I logged in—did we need to have a conversation about how he knew my birthdate, or was it assumed that I should’ve known that he’d know? because of course he’d know; his company also did private investigation—I clicked on the camera.

The top of her head, the dark roots contrasting with her platinum hair. A tray with an applesauce cup, a half-eaten piece of toast, and slices of turkey, resting on a chair. She crushed a plastic bottle in her palm and stared at the door in front of her, the small window crossed with lines.

“She’s alive,” I said.

“I keep my promises. I will not harm you or your sister,” Zaid said. “This door shall remain unlocked. Use the computer at any time.”

After a few moments, she ate a piece of turkey, then spit it out, and stared at the window. She glanced in the direction of the camera, and the rage in her eyes comforted me.

That was Hazel. My sister.

She was alive, not stuck in a pitch-black cage or with some strange drug lord with an awful reputation. She was in a clinic. Alone. Angry. But she was taken care of. She was safe.

But when I turned to thank Zaid, he was gone.