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CHAPTER SIX

Evangeline

Hours pass in darkness, marked only by the steady drip of the bathroom faucet and my spiraling thoughts. My wrists are throbbing where the handcuffs bite into them, the metal digging deeper every time I shift against the radiator. I've lost all feeling in my fingers.

What happened to Knight?

He was messaging me just hours ago, teasing me about my Netflix choices, and sending those ridiculous cat memes. Something must have happened between his ‘See you soon’ and my arrival.

Who is the man with the gun? Why is he here?

The door opens without warning, flooding the space with harsh light. I squint against the assault to my eyes, my heart hammering as the man with the gun steps inside. He looks cold, threatening.

"Let's start over." He blocks the doorway, arms crossed. "Who are you working for?"

"I work in a library." My throat is dry, and it hurts to talk.

“A library.” It’s clear that he doesn’t believe me.

"Please, just tell me ... what have you done with Knight?"

"Why do you keep asking that?" He studies me like I'm something unpleasant he found on his shoe. "What do you think I’m doing? Holding this mythical person of yours somewhere?"

"The proof is in my laptop. Just let me show you the messages?—"

"Your laptop? The one with the shattered screen that won't even power on?" His voice is flat. "Try again."

"I'm telling the truth!" The metal bites deeper as I twist against it. "Knight's been helping me find my brother. He was looking into Michael's disappearance from Horizon Tech. He said he found something?—"

"And you just happened to get my security codes?"

"Knight sent them! What have you done with him?"

He stares at me for a long moment, then turns and walks out. This time the lights stay on. I’m not sure I prefer it. The harsh fluorescents burn into my skull. My shoulders are screaming from the awkward position. Every attempt to find a comfortable way to sit pulls the cuffs tighter, sending new sparks of pain down my arms.

Time becomes liquid, measured only in increasing discomfort. The numbness in my fingers spreads to my hands. My throat feels like sandpaper. The dripping faucet becomes torture.

Footsteps pass by the door occasionally. Once, I think I hear a shower running. The normal sounds of someone going about their day while I sit here, trapped, my whole body becoming one throbbing pulse of pain.

I wonder if the sun has risen yet. I haven't slept in ... how long? I was already awake for hours before Knight messaged me.

A television clicks on somewhere. The sound filters through the walls, indistinct but there. News, maybe? Or one of those morning shows that are always too cheerful.

New voices join the mix. A muffled conversation. Words I can't quite catch.

Should I call out? But what if they're working with him? What if ...

My thoughts scatter like startled birds. Focus keeps slipping away. Everything hurts. My shoulders. My wrists. My head. Even my teeth ache from clenching them.

The television drones on. More footsteps. Doors opening and closing. Life continues like normal while I'm trapped in this bright, sterile hell.

I drift. Maybe sleep for moments at a time, jerking awake when the cuffs bite deeper. The lights never change. Never dim. Never offer any relief from their constant glare.

I lose track of time …

Then the door opens.

My eyes snap open. A woman is standing in the doorway, staring at me with wide eyes. A man appears behind her, his presence filling the space.

"Knight?" His voice is calm, like finding a handcuffed woman in a bathroom is normal. "Why is there a woman chained to the radiator in your bathroom?"

My captor clears his throat, coming into view. "Funny story, really."

"You've kidnapped someone?" The woman whirls around. "What kind of man are you?"

The first man's hand wraps around her arm. "Settle down, Eden. Knight, explain."

"It's not really kidnapping when they break into your apartment." The bastard actually sounds defensive. "It's more ... well, it's more a case of delaying their escape, isn't it?"

Rage burns through the fog of exhaustion. "Fucking asshole."

"You're the intruder here, not me." The same argument he's been making for what feels like forever.

The other man sighs. "D'you know what? I don't want to know. Come on, Eden. We need to get back to the house."

"You're just going to leave her there?" Eden's voice rises with disbelief.

"It's none of our business."

"But—"

"Knight has it handled. If he needs help, he'll ask for it."

"I don't need help." The door closes, sealing me in again with the lights and the pain and the endless drip of the faucet.

The door opens again almost immediately. He stands there for a second, a glass of water in one hand and his gun in the other. My throat constricts at the sight of the water. I don’t care about the gun. Not anymore. I try to swallow but my mouth is too dry.

"Drink." He crouches beside me, bringing the glass to my lips. The gun never wavers from its aim at my chest. "Slowly."

I want to refuse. Want to maintain some shred of dignity. But thirst wins. The first sip is heaven and torture combined. I try to gulp more but he pulls the glass back.

“No.” I can’t stop my whimper.

"I said slowly . Unless you want to throw it back up. And you should be aware, if that happens, you’ll be cleaning it up, not me."

He controls each sip, measuring them out like I'm a child. Like I'm not even human enough to hold my own glass. Rage burns under my skin but I keep drinking. I need this. Even if it means accepting it from him.

"Bathroom," I croak when the glass is empty.

He studies me for a long moment. "Try anything stupid and you won't like what happens."

The key clicks in the first cuff. Blood rushes back into my fingers, bringing needles of pain. When both hands are free, I almost sob from the agony of bringing them forward. My shoulders scream in protest.

"Up."

I try. My legs are numb, useless. I slide back down the wall, pins and needles shooting through my feet.

He watches my pathetic attempts without offering help. "You have thirty seconds to stand or the cuffs go back on, and you can sit in your own piss."

Somehow I make it upright, hanging onto the radiator like a drunk. The few steps to the toilet might as well be miles. He keeps the gun trained on me as I stumble forward, legs threatening to give out with each step.

"I can't ..." The words catch in my raw throat. "Not with you watching."

"You can, and you will." His voice is flat. "Unless you'd prefer to sit in your own mess for the next twelve hours."

Humiliation burns through me as I fumble with my jeans. My fingers barely work. Everything hurts. But it's either this or ... I can't even think about the alternative.

He stands there, clinical and cold, like I'm an unwanted dog he’s taken out to be clean. I fix my eyes on the wall, trying to pretend I'm anywhere else as I relieve myself.

"Done?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"Back to the radiator."

“I need to wash my hands.”

“Ten seconds.”

My legs shake with each step to the sink, and then back to the radiator. The cuffs click back into place, somehow tighter than before. The brief freedom only makes the restraint more unbearable.

The door closes and then I'm alone again with the lights and the pain and the shame of being stripped of even basic human dignity.

What happened to Knight? Where is the man who understood about Michael, who made me laugh even when everything was falling apart? Is he dead?

I lean my head against the wall, too exhausted to even cry.

Something is very wrong here. And I'm trapped in the middle of it with no way out.