Page 138 of House of Cards

“He’s a sadist, Zoey,” Troy says, his voice oddly gentle now. “He gets off on causing pain. Especially to someone who has no choice but to let him.”

“Stop.” I can’t hear more. My whole body is shaking. “I get it.”

Troy’s eyes narrow as he shoves me into the elevator. He studies me as the doors close. “Do you?”

“Please, Troy.” I look up at him, not bothering to hide my desperation. “If I don’t get out of here…”

Do I risk it? Troy seems to give even less of a shit about me than Smith does. Would it even make a difference if I told him about Elonzo and the diner, those awful sounds Ricky made over the phone?

“Something bad is going to happen to someone I love.”

There’s a shift in Troy’s expression. For a moment, I think I see a flash of understanding, maybe even sympathy.

He reaches down to my waist, tearing free the bag of chips. The lanyard with Kate’s keycard is next. “That what you need this for?” he asks, squishing the bag in his hand until the chips grate against each other.

“No,” I lie automatically.

Troy’s eyes harden again. “Try again.”

I throw my hands in the air. “Fine, okay! Yes. I need those. That’s why I’m here.” I pause, chasing air into my lungs with a hard inhale. “I just need?—”

“Save it.” He pockets the chips, face hardening again. “I’ve heard every sob story under the sun.”

The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding. Troy grabs my arm again, forcing me to keep pace as he heads for Smith’s room.

My heart pounds so hard I can barely hear anything else.

“…The fuck?” Troy mutters when we get close enough for him to see Smith’s room door ajar. He pushes me inside, glaring down at Kate’s motionless body, then up at me.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I whisper, then bite down hard on my lip when his eyes narrow even more.

He drops to his knees, pressing his fingers to the woman’s neck. There was no time to dress her, but I put a blanket over her half-naked body.

“Poor girl,” he murmurs. He’s not talking to me, but God, how I wish he was. It’s been a while since someone’s shown me even a shred of sympathy. “Should have gone home when I told to you too.”

He scoops her up in his arms, cradling her to his barrel of a chest. “She was already having such a shitty day.”

“She didn’t almost get raped!”

Troy’s eyebrow cocks up. “She did, actually. By that same cunt.” He glances at the food cart, then dismisses it without a word. “Small world, isn’t it?”

He shuts the door, leaving me alone in Smith’s room. I stand there for a few seconds until a violent shudder tears through me.

Must get out of these wet clothes.

Must prepare myself for Smith’s return.

Must figure out how the hell I’m going to deal with the guilt of failing Ricky. Therapy’s on the list, obviously. But not before I pick up an eating disorder. Maybe I’ll try prostitution to support my inevitable drug habit. I’ve got experience now.

I walk on wooden legs to the bathroom, trying—and failing—not to look at my reflection.

The woman staring back at me looks absolutely mental. Rain plastering her hair to her scalp. Clothes soaked and filthy. A bruise forming on her jaw.

And she’s still trapped.

I stagger out of the bathroom, ripping open Smith’s closets like they’ll somehow have different contents than when I was in here such a short while ago. I stare at his neatly arranged suspenders, shivering when I remember how they stung my skin the night he interrogated me in that small room.

A rough, manic laugh slips out of me.