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7

B linding fluorescent lights stir me awake, as they always do. Today they mingle with the screams of a woman across the hallway.

“Don’t touch me!” the voice shrieks. “Don’t you fucking touch me!”

My heart stutters.

Remnants of a dream fall away as I jump to my feet and rush toward the oversized metal door, pressing my palms and forehead against it. Gray and cold. Sterile.

I curl my fingers, my nails grazing the surface.

“Please, please, let me go… stop ! God, stop it!”

“The fuck?” Nick’s voice cuts into the commotion, followed by a pounding fist. “Who is that?”

I swallow. “I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” I repeat louder. “Stay quiet.”

He does.

My eyelids squeeze shut as I press closer, wishing I could reach her. Nausea sweeps through me and settles in the pit of my stomach while I listen to her beg and plead for her life. I’m not sure who’s in there with her, as I’ve only witnessed a handful of people breeze in and out of this room.

The Timekeeper. Roger. Nurses. The red-haired guy—Nick said his name was Dolph.

There was a doctor once, who loomed over me as I lay sprawled out and drowsy-eyed on a frigid steel table, my feet in stirrups. Thin wisps of stark-white hair decorated the sides of his head in sparse patches, leaving him bald on top, and his ears jutted from his head like sails catching wind on a weathered ship. He was cold and rat-like, but in that moment, I felt like the rat. A science experiment. Nothing but a vulnerable creature at the mercy of his clinical gaze, stripped of dignity.

My ear remains glued to the door. The mysterious woman’s screams fade into heartbreaking whimpers as a deep, unfamiliar voice resonates through me. “She’s perfect.”

“Fantastic.” The Timekeeper. “I thought she would be, knowing your type.”

The other man lets out a gritty chuckle. “How soon can we do this?”

“I’ll have her ready in ten minutes. We’ll take care of the final payment first.”

Lightning strikes my heart as horror rains down.

Ten minutes.

Why do I get years, and this woman only gets ten minutes?

I’m wondering how long Nick has left when I’m ambushed by a cacophony of terror and noise.

The woman’s panicked screeching. Faraway pounding and anguished shouts, coming from other cells. My wild heartbeats suffocating me.

“Oh, God, please! No, please, no!”

Footsteps. Murmuring. Sick laughter.

“What the fuck! What the fu ?—”

Her voice clips off, followed by a loud thump .

I imagine her body hitting the ground.

Pulling away from the door, I drag both hands through my overgrown hair as my nails catch between the tangled strands. The pounding and racket taper off as an eerie silence replaces the horror-movie soundtrack.

Nick remains quiet, which surprises me.

I’m used to screaming, wall-mauling, and baseless threats—especially from the male captives. The men never last long. And the louder they are, the shorter their time is. Given Nick’s aloof disposition and penchant for ill-timed sarcasm, part of me wonders if he’s been through worse than this.

Impossible.

I step closer to the dividing wall between us, my nose an inch away. “You listened to me,” I say to him. “You were quiet.”

A long pause. “What the fuck is yelling going to do?”

“I don’t know. What did it do yesterday?”

He doesn’t respond, and I wonder if he’s smirking or scowling.

“Ever tried busting through this thing?” he finally asks.

“Of course. We all have.” I tap a fingernail against the white panel and rub my chapped lips together. “Don’t bother; you’ll only end up hurting yourself. It’s reinforced with something.”

“Figures.”

“How did you sleep?”

Nick’s chain rattles briefly, and I picture him sitting on his mattress, trying to get comfortable in the most comfortless place on earth.

“Like shit. You talk in your sleep.”

I blink at the wall, my brows gathering into a frown. “I do not.”

“Mm.”

“I don’t.” Traipsing over to my cot, I drop to my knees and inch forward. Then I clear my throat, adding, “What did I say?”

“Since it had nothing to do with how to break out of here, I didn’t care enough to take notes. Why don’t you have a chain?”

He’s as observant as he is unpleasant. “A perk of having been here for two years.”

“And you haven’t tried to escape? Why? You must have a semblance of a brain, since you’ve survived this long. Is the food here that good?”

Blowing sections of chaotic hair out of my face, I turn and press my back to the wall. “I haven’t had an opportunity.”

“Did they remove your legs?”

“I’m compliant. That’s why I’m still alive.”

“Inactivity has never won a war.”

I tug the gown over my knees and drop my head against the wall. “I tried, in the beginning. But I’m five-foot-two and one-hundred-fifteen pounds. Probably less now. Fighting only got me chained and starved, so I’ve had no choice but to play the long game, using my mind as a tool instead of force. I don’t stand a chance against these men.”

I realize compliance will only take me so far, but it’s kept me breathing, and breathing is the only power I have left in this heartless hell. If I’m breathing, there’s a sliver of hope that I’ll see the other side of these walls one day.

If only Jasper was waiting for me.

God, I can’t think about that.

About him.

Early on, I demanded the truth from The Timekeeper. I clawed at him, hurled myself at the wall, screamed threats, spat curses, sobbed until my voice gave out. I was relentless in my pain. All it earned me was a chain around my ankle and no answers.

I couldn’t trust him anyway.

So, I clung to hope—hope that Jasper was still alive, still looking for me.

Then there was Mary: a pediatric nurse, huddled on the other side of our shared wall. By then, I’d been here a couple of months, begging and pleading for any scrap of news from the other victims. But they’d all shut down, men and women alike, retreating into their silence. I couldn’t blame them for not caring about a stranger’s disappearance when they were now trapped in the same nightmare. Some weren’t even from around here, snatched up from states away, oblivious to my case.

But Mary knew things.

And her words still haunt me, echoing like a grim dirge.

“Jasper Cross, right? He was your husband?” she asked, her voice low and careful, as though the truth might break me. “You’re that model who went missing?”

Was.

The word detonated in my chest. “Yes, yes… Is he okay? Was he on the news?” I flung myself at the barrier, fists pounding, tears blurring the edges of my vision. “Did he survive?”

Her silence stretched, suffocating, until it collapsed under the weight of my desperation. When she spoke again, her words carved my greatest fear into stone. “Well, he was on the news, but…he didn’t make it. He was found dead at the scene. I’m so sorry.”

The ground beneath me crumbled. My world didn’t just go up in flames—it disintegrated, leaving nothing but ashes of a life I could never reclaim.

That’s when I truly became compliant. Submissive, agreeable, and unassertive.

But time has breached the bubble of despair, and I know I still have plenty of things to hold on to—Allison, my mother, friends, loved ones, and an endless stretch of opportunities, waiting to be recovered and woven into a bright future.

“If I see a viable way out, I’ll take it,” I finally say, knocking my knees together. “I have one chance to make it count. It needs to be the right time.”

Nick grumbles. “The right time would be now, since yesterday is over. And the day before. And?—”

“Who’s Sara?”

Silence answers me. Nick enjoys asking questions as much as he enjoys dodging them. I wonder about his life outside of here. What was his job? Did he have close friends, family, dreams? Everybody has something to lose, things they’re leaving behind.

And that’s what makes this so tragic.

I’m debating my next words when the keypad on my door tings to life. My eyes widen, and I melt into the wall behind me, my lips grazing it as I twist my head to the side. “Keep quiet.” It’s a whisper, but harsh enough to travel over to him. “I’ll handle this.”

Roger trudges through the entryway with a plate of breakfast, wearing his usual attire: inky-dark compression shirt, slacks, belt, heavy boots. Eyes blacker than a moonless night.

I jump to my feet and twirl a lock of hair around my finger, rearranging my face until it reflects what I hope is spine-tingling joy upon seeing him. “Good morning, Roger.”

He grunts at me.

My greeting is cheerful as I straighten my spine, puff my chest, and clasp my hands in front of me. His gaze trails over my willowy curves in a slow pull, lingering on the dusky areolas evident through the thin material of my gown. The overhead lights reflect off his bald head, and he smells like he always does—tobacco and bleach.

“Sounds like it was an interesting morning,” I continue, harnessing an agreeable smile.

A grin flickers on his mouth, his gaze finally sliding up to my face. He hardly ever speaks, but I’m certain he has a soft spot for me. He brings me things: trinkets, treasures, treats. I plan to use that to my advantage one day.

But only when the time is right.

Roger closes the door behind him, and my shoulders slacken. I’m waiting for the day he leaves it open long enough for me to duck underneath his meaty arm and bolt.

Bending over, he deposits the meal near my mattress. It consists of a yellow lump of scrambled eggs and seasonal fruit. Neatly peeled apple slices and pineapple chunks.

It’s autumn.

Somewhere out there, leaves are turning red and golden, while I’m trapped inside this monochrome bubble.

“Thank you. That looks delicious.” I send him another smile, one that borders on flirtatiousness. Two weeks ago, he snuck a chocolate bar into my room. It wasn’t freedom, but it sure tasted like it. “Will Nick be eating, as well?”

He doesn’t respond, but I didn’t expect him to.

His beady eyes glimmer with equal parts pity and lust as he stares at me. Reaching into the front pocket of his pants, he pulls out a little friendship bracelet braided with turquoise and lavender yarn. Three beads roll between his thick fingers and thumb, and I glance at the letters, assuming they’re someone’s initials.

My stomach sinks, but I refuse to show it.

I have a trove of souvenirs stashed away in the corner of my room. Multicolored jewelry, barrettes, and even a sparkly blue guitar pick. They come from the victims.

Sick, morbid gifts.

With a final lecherous leer at my breasts, Roger tosses me the bracelet and turns around, lumbering toward the door and swiping a keycard through the reader.

Beep.

A plastic card is used for leaving, while a four-digit PIN allows entry.

Four numbers. I’ve tried to memorize them.

3, 2, 4…8.

The last number still eludes me. It hasn’t done me any good yet on this side of the door—but that doesn’t mean it never will. All I have is time to observe and take notes.

The moment the door seals me inside, I rush over to the wall separating me from Nick. My palms plant against it, fingers splaying, while I press a curious ear to the surface.

I wait, my pulse galloping as I drink in shallow breaths.

Then I hear it.

Nick’s door opens.

Breakfast.

My eyes flare with a shot of elation, knowing that Nick will be kept around for a little while. It shouldn’t matter to me, considering he’s been rude, callous, and cruel…but he’s someone. A human being, just like me, and I wouldn’t wish his future fate on my worst enemy.

The sound of a plastic plate clinking against tile is music to my ears. No words pass between the two men, just a shuffle of feet and rustling noises.

And the moment the door closes, I hear the plate clang against the wall. Of course, they wouldn’t have given him something breakable that could be used as a weapon.

I wince. “You should eat.”

“Oddly, not hungry.”

“It’s a good sign. It means they’re keeping you around.”

“Yay.”

Sighing, I drop my forehead to the wall. “Some of the others aren’t fed, which means their time is limited to hours. Days, if they’re lucky.”

“Lucky,” he parrots, the word sluiced in kerosine. “Is that what you think I am?”

“You’re luckier than that woman across the hall this morning.”

“Did you know her? Who was she?”

“I don’t know anyone in here. Just you, and the others who were in that room before you.”

Nick’s chain drags across the floor like a rusty anchor, each link heavy with the weight of a daunting, unknown future. I imagine him picking remnants of soggy eggs off the white tiles.

“Does that guy touch you?”

I shake my head, even though he can’t see it. “No.”

“He hasn’t raped you?”

“Never.”

“Why not?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” I plop down on my cot and reach for the plate, sucking a pineapple chunk into my mouth. “Are you a lawyer?”

He scoffs. “No, I have a soul.”

“Good. I was questioning that.”

“You wouldn’t be the first one.”

I can’t help a tiny smirk from unfolding. Genuine and voluntary; such a rare, rare thing. Chewing the fruit, I lean back against the wall and cross my legs at the ankles. “I’ve never been assaulted sexually,” I say. “Like I said, I’m a product. My purpose goes beyond that. If I got pregnant, I’d become useless to their buyer, and then these vultures wouldn’t get paid. It’s a business.”

He makes a humming sound, like he’s processing my answer. “You were flirting with the ogre.”

“He’s a potential way out of here. The Timekeeper has no conscience, no heartstrings to tug on. Roger has shown weakness, so I use that to my advantage whenever I can. He likes me.”

“The Timekeeper.” Nick tests the name on his tongue, releasing a single syllable of derisive laughter. “Sounds like the name of a self-important super villain from an omniverse far, far away. Please tell me he doesn’t call himself that.”

“No. I don’t know his real name. When I first got here, he told me he was my keeper, so that’s how I came up with it. He’s in charge of our fate; how much time we have left in this world.” The pineapple turns sour on my tongue, tasting like gasoline as it slogs down my throat. “He has these…hourglasses.”

“What, that toy on his belt?”

“He has more than one. He’ll place an hourglass in the room when his victims’ time is almost up, like a countdown to their death. It’s sick.”

Hot pressure burns behind my eyes.

My mind swims with haunting memories. Screams and throat-scraping pleas. A woman named Kara took it the hardest and tried to strangle herself with her ankle chain before the grains of sand filled the bottom of the glass. She must have been caught on camera, because only moments passed before the door barreled open and she was taken, fighting and shrieking until my own lungs nearly shriveled under the weight of her fear.

A shiver rolls through me, and I push the plate of food aside, my appetite gone.

Nick’s tone softens, marginally. “What do you have over there, Beverly? My room is pretty empty.”

I ignore the deliberate name mix-up and reach for the bracelet discarded on my mattress, skimming the pad of my thumb over carefully knitted sections of yarn.

Someone took the time to make this. It was precious to them.

Now it will be precious to me.

“A mattress, pillow, blanket,” I say, my voice a low murmur, hardly loud enough to pass through the wall. “A toilet. Sink. There’s a cupboard stocked with a few gowns and pantry staples. Two towels. I have books, too. Those bodice-ripper historical novels from the eighties and nineties.”

“Riveting.”

“I love reading. I love stories, in general. It passes the time.” My focus pans over to the corner of the room, where a stack of worn novels sit in a lopsided stack. “Do you read?”

“Yeah. People.”

Again, I wonder what his line of work is.

Psychologist?

No, he has no bedside manner. “What do you do for a living?”

“Whatever gets me by.”

“That’s broad. And kind of shady.” I purse my lips together. “Are we talking…criminal stuff?”

“No, and I’m offended.”

He’s not.

“Actually,” Nick continues, drawing out the word. “I’m a superhero, here to fight the nefarious Timekeeper and save the day.”

A sigh leaves me, and I can’t decide if I’m more annoyed or amused. “Sounds like you like stories, too.”

“Nah. You can be the storyteller; I’ll be the trapped audience.”

I glare at the wall in front of me.

“ Rapt audience,” he corrects. “That’s what I meant. Please, continue.”

“Okay. Fine.” Leaning back, I tip my chin and stare up at the ceiling until my eyes draw shut. I take his request at face value, still dusting my thumb over the friendship bracelet. “I have a bracelet in my hand. Purple and teal. Three letter beads are woven into the center: D, M, A.”

Nick doesn’t say anything, and I assume he’s confused. Processing my random details, wondering why I’d be holding on to a bracelet.

I keep going, voicing the stories that have always been confined inside my head. Giving them life, making them real. These people were real once. They deserve a second chance, even if it’s through a make-believe fairy tale. “Desiree Marie Anderson. That’s what the initials stand for. Her little sister made it for her. Jessie. They were best friends, and I know that someday Jessie will get this bracelet back, knowing her sister still wore it. Even in her final moments.” I clutch the bracelet in a clammy palm, piecing a narrative together. “Desiree was a veterinarian. She loved animals. Her heart was strong and empathetic, and the old dogs always made her cry.”

“What the hell are you rambling about?”

“Roger brought this to me this morning. He brings me things.”

“What does he bring you?”

“Lots of stuff. I have a pile of personal belongings in the corner of my room.” I glance at the miscellaneous items, an assortment of gems and bright colors. “He takes them from the victims and gives them to me…after.”

A chain jangles behind me. “After they’re dead, you mean.”

“Yeah,” I admit softly. “It seems that way.” The silence sinks in a moment before it becomes too heavy. Stories are the best way to keep my mind busy, so I continue where I left off. “I’m thinking the bracelet came from Desiree earlier. The girl who was screaming. She was beautiful. Long, dark hair and big cartoon-princess eyes. She looked like Jasmine from Aladdin .”

“So, what you’re telling me is, you’ve gone insane.”

I huff out a breathy laugh. “You would think I’d have lost my mind by now, right? Sadly, it’s still fully intact. Sometimes I wish it wasn’t.”

“What else do you have?”

“Hair ties. Barrettes. Makeup. Rings and necklaces. There’s a little polaroid of a beagle sitting in front of an apple tree. It looks like an old picture.” My gaze settles on another item, different from the rest. “That’s not my favorite thing, though.”

“You have a favorite dead-person keepsake?”

I smile softly, already writing a new story. “Yes.”

“What is it?” His tone is cautious.

Music shimmers to life inside my haunted mind. Chords, notes, half-forgotten melodies. I miss so many things in life, but music is at the top of that list. It’s weird to think that every day music is being created, even though I’m not there to hear it.

Sometimes I wonder who I’d be right now if I had new songs to carry with me.

I stare at the sparkling memento, a vibrant cerulean blue.

Shaped like a teardrop.

“A guitar pick.”