“You’re gonna need to try harder, you stupid bitch,” he says, voice calm and bored. “I already know exactly what happened.”
Sophie’s nostrils flare.
Seth leans a little closer. “I’m going to make sure you and Elliot feel every single thing you put her through, and more. You wanted a show at that manor. You’re getting one now.”
Sophie stares at him with pure hatred. Her lips curl back over her teeth.
She spits toward him, aiming for his face. The spit lands near his boot instead, flecking the floor at his feet.
“That is why your fucking bastard baby didn’t survive.”
Hatred rolls through me in one clean, vicious thought, and every part of me agrees she deserves to die screaming in that cage. Every instinct in my body tells me to draw my gun and put a bullet through her skull, to erase her voiceand everything she has ever done. I keep my hand away from the weapon and force myself to calm down, because killing her now will waste what I want from her and what we still plan to do to Elliot.
I step forward before I really think about it. Metal scrapes across the tile as I grab the side of the crate and drag it toward the tub. The weight strains my arms, and the sound scrapes through the bathroom.
“Lift it,” I say to Seth.
He stubs the cigarette out on the cracked sink edge, sets the butt aside, and steps in beside me. He hooks his hands under the bottom of the crate and lifts it easily. Sophie yelps as the crate jolts up.
He sets the crate down inside the tub. The metal leaves marks on the porcelain.
Sophie’s breathing picks up.
“What are you doing?” she demands. Her voice has lost a small layer of control. “Brooke, I’m sorry.”
I reach for the faucet and turn the handle.
The pipes rattle before water rushes from the spout, clear at first, then slightly discolored from the old system. It splashes against the tub floor and around the bottom of the crate.
Sophie jerks away from it as far as the cramped space allows.
“Brooke,” she snaps. “I’m sorry, okay. Please, I only did those things because they wanted me to.”
I watch the water level climb slowly around the base of the crate.
“There’s nobody else at this motel,” I say. “You can scream as much as you want. Nobody will hear you. Nobody will come for you.”
She presses her back against the rear bars, trying to lift her knees.
Seth leans against the wall near the door, arms folded again, eyes steady on her.
“Hope you can hold your breath,” he chuckles quietly.
Her eyes fly to him again. “If you leave me here, Elliot will find me.”
“Elliot will have his hands full later,” Seth says. “He’ll have enough to worry about when we arrive.”
The water reaches her calves.
Sophie shifts again, trying to keep her feet under her. The crate doesn't give her much room. Her shoulder knocks against the bars, and the metal rattles.
“You can’t do this,” she says, voice climbing. “You’re reckless if you think you can walk into that party and walk out again. Grant will be there. Security will be everywhere. You’ll get killed before you reach the door.”
“That sounds like planning advice,” Seth nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The water reaches her knees.
She tries to lift them higher and presses against the top of the crate, but there is too little space. Her movements grow smaller as she realizes each shift makes less difference.
