Page 53 of Stockholm (Angel of Mercy #1)

Day by day, I replay each fond moment cast under a different light. One where Noah had coaxed me into falling for him with his intoxicating words and experienced hands. The cruelty of it leaves a bitter taste as humiliation takes hold.

It must have been his plan all along. To make a fool of me, to show how easily I could be turned out, put to use by him and his cousin for their own gratification.

The way I’d let him use me. The way I had begged him to use me.

It was all a sick game and I’ve played right into it, like the most naive idiot to ever live.

I can’t stop staring at the papers, a horrific pain in my chest. I had trusted him, I’d believed with my whole heart that he felt the same way about me.

How stupid.

Had anything been real? The stories about Jesse and his sister? Now looking at the folder, I can’t help but think the other file he’d shown me had been a ruse. The file on Eric, the vasectomy, all the supposed evidence of him doing horrible things.

It’s laughable how easy I made it. To lie and manipulate me until I hated Eric as thoroughly as they did. If this folder shows me anything, it’s that Noah is morally bankrupt. Of course, making up evidence about Eric wouldn’t faze him.

My husband, who had never treated me badly a day in my life, only revered me. Who’d bought me the house of my dreams. And I’d returned the favor by immediately believing that our life had been a ruse, a smokescreen. That he’d been a puppeteer, pulling my strings while pretending to be the good guy.

I’d cheated. I’d done worse than that, I’d fallen for a man who used and degraded me over and over and over.

I shudder, thinking of all the ways I’ve failed Eric.

How I’d enjoyed it. How I was weak enough to let my loneliness attach me so quickly to the man who had kidnapped me at gunpoint and brought me here, throwing me in this prison cell until he offered me just a little bit of attention.

Of course. It’s clear as day now. I sniffle, shutting the folder. It feels like the world has crashed to pieces, and I’m either about to shatter or fall into a void of nothingness.

Stockholm Syndrome.

I’d let it happen so easily. Attached myself to my captor without question, looking to him for every good feeling I’ve had since I arrived. Done what he wanted, given him everything .

And it was for nothing. My care, touch and words were nothing. Just something he had to suffer through to get the footage to really drive Eric crazy.

Well, Eric and Bundy. My mom and dad.

I want to crawl into a hole and die.

How do I come back from this? How can I ever look at any of them again? Eric having to watch me as I’m sleeping with someone else, as I let more than one man pleasure me. I run to the bathroom just in time to throw up into the toilet, then sink to the cold floor.

I stare at the wall for a long time, long enough to let the numbness spread to every part of my body. For my heart to fully break. I get comfortable with this new pain, comfortable enough to set it aside and escape into a broken sleep.

Some time later I come to, my face stuck to the bathroom floor. I sit up, head pounding and feeling like it’s stuffed with cotton.

The morning slams back into me like a freight train. A low moan sounds from deep inside me, and I cover my mouth with my hand like it will trap the pain inside. The alternative might be to start screaming into the tile floor and the sharp pain in my head won’t allow that .

Legs shaking, I stand and peek back inside my room. Seeing it’s empty, I tiptoe to the door and try to open it again. Locked. There’s no food tray or water in here, but my stomach growls like enough time has passed that there should have been one.

Is the new plan just to leave me in here until I die?

Use me to humiliate Eric, and then once that’s done just kill me?

I’ve outlived my usefulness at this point.

A crazy sounding giggle precedes me scanning the room.

I trusted him so completely that just yesterday I’d been planning what we would do to celebrate Christmas.

I’d worried about what would happen if the police found us. How I could protect Noah.

He’s gotten me good, I can admit that much.

“Bo!” I scream out, knowing he won’t hear me if he’s out there. “Bo, do not trust him! They lied about everything ,” I say, tears starting to fall again. My hands tangle into my hair, and I whisper into the empty room. “We need to get out of here.”

After searching the room and bathroom, it’s obviously devoid of any kind of real weaponry. But I need something to protect myself.

I wonder if they’ll send someone in to kill me. Would Noah do it himself? Would he feel anything as he looks into my eyes and takes my life?

What a performance from him. A dry sob fills the bathroom as I crouch over, trying to hold close the giant hole in my chest from his betrayal. Once I feel like I’ve got a hang on my breakdown, I manage to get back to my feet and check the shower.

Bingo. I grab my shaving razor from the shelf and put it on the floor, then use the heavy porcelain hand soap container and smash it to pieces.

Gently picking through the damage, I pull free three tiny razors.

They’re extremely small, and I know it will be hard to accurately use them without slipping and slicing my hand, but it’s the only plan I can come up with.

Anyone who tries to grab me is going to get cut.

The thought is equally terrifying and exhilarating. I’ve never been able to stomach blood in real life, but the pain of this rejection has catapulted me all the way past helplessness. I can’t stand another moment of feeling vulnerable. It’s how I’ve felt my entire life and I’m sick to death of it.

Silly Emma, just strung along again. Too nervous, too anxious, too shy. But not right now. I need to be strong enough to take the lead for the first time.

Slipping the razor inside the watch band on my wrist, all I can do is wait.

Hopefully someone will show up to bring me food or to do something with me.

If I can just manage to get out the door, escape is a possibility.

I know how to get out, I know which way the road is.

If I can drop the first person who comes in this room, I can try to reach Bo’s room and get us out of here.

I can try. And that’s enough to shore me up. I can do it.

I sob on the words on repeat until it plays in my head unending.

I can do it.

The mantra is a bandaid on my heartbreak as I brace myself for what’s to come.