Page 4

Chapter Four

Grey

S omething clicks in the distance, and bright light flashes through my eyelids. After a brief whirring sound, the room goes quiet again. Seconds later, the sounds repeat. I force my eyes open. I’m on a bed, and standing at the foot, with a Polaroid camera dangling around her neck and two newly minted pictures in her hands, stands the woman who drugged me.

“Gosh, you’re very photogenic,” she says as she studies the pictures. “Have you ever done any modeling? Your facial structure is really nice.”

I try to sit up, but something around my neck holds me to the bed. I reach toward my throat and realize I’m wearing a metal collar.

“Oh, goodness, let me lengthen that chain,” she says, as if that’s the most natural thing to say to someone you’ve taken hostage. She gets on her stomach and slithers under the bed. Metal clanks and clangs, and a few seconds later, she emerges once more. “There. You can move around now.” She smiles at me, looking very pleased with herself.

I move to sit up, and she’s right. I have more room now. Not enough to escape this bedroom, of course, but at least I’m not forced into a prone position.

After blinking to clear the medication’s haze, I look around. A single window lets some sunlight into the room. Judging by the fading light, I’ve been out for several hours. I lie on a white wrought-iron bed with a mattress that seems to sway with my movements, but at least it’s comfortable. A white dresser stands against one wall, and a large vanity dominates the wall in front of the bed.

“How long do you plan to keep me chained to your bed?” I ask. It’s a fair question.

She places the pictures on top of the dresser and raises the camera again. “I haven’t decided.” The bulb flashes, and the machine whirs as it spits out another picture. “Shit, I’m out of film.”

“How many pictures have you taken?”

Instead of answering my question, she places the photo with the others and leaves the room. She returns seconds later with something black in her hands. The camera still dangles from her neck.

“Do me a favor,” she says as she tosses the black object into my lap. “Put this on.”

Raising the clump of black fabric, I realize it’s my mask. She must have gone through my coat pockets. My eyes narrow on her, but I oblige and slide the mask over my face.

“Now smile,” she says.

So I do.

She shakes her head and groans. “No, no. Not like that. Wider. Happier.”

I do my best impression of a happier Grey, which isn’t easy, given my current circumstances.

“There it is,” she moans. “That smile. Fuck, it’s perfect.” She snaps another picture, then sits on the side of the bed.

“Can I stop smiling now?” I ask. “I’d really just like to know what’s happening here.” I finger the collar around my neck. “And maybe why you have some serious hostage devices.”

She starts to giggle, then covers her mouth. “Oh, I’m not in the business of kidnapping people. My ex had a captivity fetish, and when he broke my heart and left me for someone else, I didn’t have the heart to throw everything away. I just never thought it would come in handy like this.”

“Like what?”

She holds her hands toward me. “You, here, in my house. You’re my meal ticket, Grey.”

“How do you?—”

“Know your name?” She smirks. “You’re all over the news now. They know your name, what car you drive. What they haven’t said is why you killed that bank lady. That’s what I want to find out.”

“Before you turn me in.”

“If your reward amount rises, definitely. Right now, you’re small beans. Crime Stoppers has offered a whopping five grand for your head, but I have a feeling that will triple by tomorrow morning.”

I pull off my mask and sigh.

“Put these on,” she says as she drops some leg shackles onto the bed. “I want to show you something.”

What a strange woman I’ve forced my presence upon. She looks positively rabid. Attractive as fuck, but rabid.

“Come on,” she says, and something about the fire in her green eyes makes me extremely uncomfortable.

Raising the leg shackles, I study their design and look for any flaws. If I can find a way to escape this psychotic lady, I will. Then I’ll steal her car and never stop at a stranger’s house again. I’ve learned my lesson.

My wife was never into anything kinky, and neither was I, but I don’t think these leg shackles came from a sex shop. They’re heavy as fuck, and thick to boot. When I strap these around my ankles, I’m not getting out of them.

“Do you need some help?” she asks. “They aren’t that complicated, you know. They’re just handcuffs for your feet.”

With a sigh, I clamp the first cuff and close my eyes as the locking mechanism catches. I try to leave it a little loose, but she’s too smart for that. Once I’ve secured both ankles, she checks them and tightens them a few clicks.

“Nice try, Grey. Now lean back so I can unlock your collar.”

I do as I’m told, and she frees my neck. Cool air rushes to greet the sweaty ring around my throat, and my skin welcomes the sensation.

I follow her into the living room. My mouth drops open as I see her coffee table. It’s covered in...me. More printouts of me and screen grabs from the TV. And instant photos. So many instant photos.

She’s unhinged.

“Take a seat,” she says as she motions to the couch.

I sit on the faded blue couch that I glimpsed through the window a few feet away. That feels like it happened to someone else a lifetime ago. The woman sits beside me, and I realize I don’t know her name. I’m not sure why I even want to know her name, considering the predicament she’s placed me in, but I do. So I ask.

“Briar,” she says. “My mom had a fascination with Sleeping Beauty . How ironic that she would birth a child who can’t sleep for shit.” She chuckles to herself as she grabs the television remote and sits beside me as if we’re old friends. “What’s your origin story? Do you have a brother named Greige or a sister named Chartreuse?”

I shrug. “No idea. I was adopted. My name was the only thing my mother gave me, so my adoptive parents let me keep it.”

She shuffles to face me, the television forgotten. “Oh, did you have a horrible upbringing? Were your adoptive parents abusive? Is that why you were driven to kill?”

“What? No. You watch too much Lifetime.” I sigh and fold my hands in my lap. “My adoptive parents were wonderful. I had an excellent upbringing, and I felt very loved. Why I killed the lady isn’t important to anyone but me, and I don’t care what other people think of what I’ve done. My reasons were my reasons.”

The excitement evaporates from her face, and she curls her lip. “Maybe you’re only worth five grand after all.”

If she’s trying to bait me into explaining why I killed the bitch, she’ll be dangling that hook for a while. Nobody cared about my sob story when the bank came to take everything from us, so no one deserves to hear it now. It’s my private tale, a story etched into my fucking soul. It’s mine. No one else’s.

Briar settles back in her seat and raises the remote, but before she can turn on the television, someone knocks at the door. Our eyes widen, and we both look at each other.

“Are you expecting someone?” I whisper.

She shakes her head.

The knock comes again, followed by a booming voice. “New York State Police! Is anyone home?”