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N ick.

I had a boyfriend named Nick once. Sophomore year of high school. It was before my braces came off and I discovered the magic of leave-in conditioner, but Nick saw past my awkward phase and embraced the willowy insect guru with wild hair, spurring a year-long romance that included ice cream dates, study sessions, and a Homecoming dance.

He loved iguanas and rap music.

He also loved Maggie Klausner’s vagina.

I hate the name Nick.

I wait for him to reply to my name, but all I hear is deafening silence. I’m used to the silence, so, for a moment I forget that I’m not alone.

Staring at the ceiling, I zone out on the wispy sheets of cobwebs in the upper left corner of the room, dangling and still. A few months ago, a spider somehow got in and took up residence there, becoming my roommate until it was evident that its food supply was nonexistent.

It died within weeks.

Yet I’m still here.

I make a humming noise, then turn my cheek to the wall to hear whatever might seep through it. “Nick?”

He makes an unidentifiable sound, and the masculine timbre rumbles through as I sit in the corner with my knees drawn to my chest.

Part of me doesn’t want to say anything else; I don’t want to get to know a dead man.

But the bigger part of me can’t ignore the nagging tug of loneliness. As prickly as this guy seems, I prefer talking to him over this godforsaken barricade between us. At least he talks back.

Sort of.

So far, it’s been mostly rage-infused grunts, a slew of curse words, and growling.

“My name is Everly,” I repeat, uncertain if he heard me. “Are you?—”

“The people who have come through here… How long do they last?”

I blink, frazzled by the interrogation. No one has ever inquired about the other prisoners before. Normally, the onslaught of initial questions goes something like this:

“Where am I? What the fuck? Where the hell am I? What the fuck ?”

And then there’s a lot of pounding, chain-rattling, wall-punching, and shouting for help.

“Are you awake?” Nick taps the wall beside my head. “I need names.”

I chew on the skin around my nail to distract my mouth from the one thing it really wants to do.

Talk. Purge.

Beg for him to get us out of here.

But there’s no point. If I talk to him, I’ll get to know him.

And if I get to know him, he’s only going to become one more thing for me to miss.

I don’t say that, though, because it’s depressing, and I don’t want to be responsible for adding to this guy’s ever-growing list of sad things.

I tug at the hem of my white cotton-and-lace nightdress, one of the few items of clothing I have in this quaint room. Roger seems to like it when I wear this, and I’ve deduced that it’s because he can see my nipples through the thin fabric. “Does it matter?” I finally respond, my voice shaky.

He’s still tapping the wall. There are a few seconds in between thumps, and I wonder if he’s using his head.

“I wouldn’t have asked if it didn’t matter.” The words strain through clenched teeth.

“The details of my imprisonment won’t change your fate.”

“What is my fate, exactly?”

“I think you already know that answer.”

Nick scoffs, the sound edged with bitterness. “I’m not dying in this shithole.”

My eyes water, even though I was certain I had no tears left. “They always say that.”

“Who?”

“Every prisoner that’s come before you.”

Another long silence fills the space between us. Twenty-seven seconds to be exact.

“How many have there been?” He repeats the question I evaded the first time. “Could any of them be alive? Like you?”

“I don’t know.” I bite my lip. “And…I’ve lost count of how many.”

That’s a lie.

And, apparently, he knows that.

“You’re lying.”

My chest squeezes. Exactly forty-three people have come before him, and all forty-three have choked on their noble promises and gallant words.

We’re all doomed.

“The last person in that room was a woman named Joy,” I tell him.

What an awful irony. I bet her mother named her Joy to guarantee her happiness, but even the Joys of the world are susceptible to unspeakable evil.

“Joy,” he echoes, the syllable laced with ridicule.

“Yes.”

“That’s almost as bad as Everly without the B.”

My tears dry up faster than dew under the morning sun, and my eyes slant with disdain. “She was kind. She had a good heart.”

“And now she’s dead.”

Heat burns my cheeks as my breath catches.

Wow.

This guy is the opposite of joy in every way.

I cross my arms, as if the defensive move can shove him out of my atmosphere.

Joy became my friend, as did all the others who came before her. While I never got to see her face, she told me she had violet eyes—a rarity caused by albinism.

She remained my friend for two months before The Timekeeper decided that her time was up and stole her away from me.

He takes things.

And then he takes everything.

Silence spans for another few beats. “Tell me why you’re in here.” He mutters it miserably, as if conversation is an archaic practice, light years outside his wheelhouse. “Why has he kept you so long?”

I consider the question, my eyes narrowing. “I never told you how long I’ve been in here.”

“Longer than Joy.”

Swallowing, I dip my chin and stare at my extended fingernails, brittle and chipped at the ends, my cuticles bitten raw. “I’m a product. We’re all products.” Something tells me I’m the favorite.

“Tell me what he takes.”

“I don’t really know,” I reply. “Different things. Unique to each prisoner.”

“What does he take from you, Beverly?”

I frown, glancing back up. “It’s just Everly.”

“You’re missing a B.”

Right.

His chain rattles. The tone of his voice is rich and deep, reminding me of Jasper. While my memories have grown hazier, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the unique baritone of my husband’s voice.

I used to compare it to a chocolate truffle. I loved chocolate. Mostly because it reminded me of Jasper’s cocoa-butter eyes and velvety words. Sweet and smooth.

A delicacy I miss.

Hesitating, I finally respond. “I think he takes my eggs.”

His chain goes silent. “Egg harvesting?”

“I think so. He doesn’t tell me anything. I’ve just pieced details together.”

“Well, last I checked, I don’t have any fucking eggs.” His laugh has a jagged edge.

“Then it’s something else. I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”

Picking at the frayed fringes of my gown, I wait for him to say more. It takes forty-seven seconds. I clock the lapse of silence in my head, as I often do. Time is one of the few things in this world that can be both an ally and an enemy, so I try to use its power for good.

I survived forty-seven more seconds.

“Who else?” he demands. Then I hear his hands plant against the wall near my head, causing me to jump. “Who else has been in here?”

“A lot of people.”

“I need their names.”

“I don’t?—”

“Sara?” Emotion bleeds with fury, his voice sounding closer than ever. “Was there someone named Sara?”

I straighten against the wall, twisting toward the sterile sheet of white. My mind reels back in time. I think of the voices, the stories, the names, the cries and pleas.

Sara.

There was a Sara. A long time ago, maybe a few months after I’d been captured. She only lasted a couple of weeks.

God, he knew one of us? Is that why he’s here?

It could have been a different Sara. Part of me wonders if I should say no…

Would that make this more bearable for him? Or less? Does it even matter?

“Speak, dammit.” The command is a physical jab. “Sara Carlisle. Was she here?”

I rub my temples with my index fingers, breathing out a quivery breath. “There might have been a Sara. I’ve been here a long time. Two years.”

“What happened to her?” His voice drops to a desperate growl. Something thumps against the wall. His forehead, I’m guessing. “Where is she now?”

“People come and go. There’s not much I can tell you.”

“Dammit. You’ve got to know something.” A slap jars the surface between us. “I’ll take anything. Just tell me?—”

“I don’t know. I never leave this room. I’m sorry.”

He throws another curse into the void, and the fury is still there, but it’s laced with a hopeless cadence that stirs my guilt.

“There are lots of women named Sara. It might not be?—”

“Fuck.”

“Nick—”

“ Goddammit .” He slams a fist against the wall. “I told them. I fucking told them.”

I jolt again, scooting forward. Wheeling around on my butt, I face the barrier between us, imagining him on the other side of it. High school Nick had a baby face and golden-blond curls; I picture this man looking different. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark soul. He certainly doesn’t act like the others.

But his pain is the same.

Heartbreak, anger, confusion.

And so, my heart cracks a little, another painful divot cleaving through the organ, destined to leave a permanent scar. A tear tracks down my cheek as Nick unleashes a slew of smacks and punches, growling through his agony, his chain clanking against the tile floor.

I suppose he’s not so different, after all.

He breaks.

Just like they all do.