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I’m alive, she thought. Damn it, I’m alive.
For five more days, anyway.
Chapter 3
There was no way to tell time in the sterile little room Bryn was trapped inside. She wasn’t restrained, at least; that was something. There was a small, bland little toilet area off the main room, and she visited it regularly. Being almost alive came with toilet duties, apparently. She kept wondering whether they’d lied to her, if maybe there was nothing at all wrong with her; she didn’t feel different. She felt fine.
She was alive; screw what McCallister had said. This was all bullshit, and they were just trying to scare her. She’d blacked out when Freddy had been suffocating her with the bag; that was all—someone had gotten it off of her in time, and she’d been unconscious for a while, but she was okay now. Nothing weird about any of it.
In fact, she was no longer sure she’d even seen what she thought she had. Mrs. Jones had probably just been a junkie, sick with need. And the body in the bag … No, that had just been a decomposing murder victim, nothing special about it. It hadn’t moved. It hadn‘t.
It couldn‘t.
Bryn flexed her hand, staring down at it. Same smooth skin. Same fingernails, topped with the same chipped pearl-pink polish. Same flexors and extensors and muscles and bones. Same scar, there on the wrist, where she’d caught a piece of flying shrapnel from an IED. The only scar she’d brought back from the war.
Not dead.
There was a camera in the corner of the room, and Bryn stood and faced it, head raised. She felt cold, but defiant. “McCallister,” she said. “I’m not dead. I’m not. So you can stop all this crap; I’m not buying it, all right? Just let me go. I’ll sign whatever forms you want. Nondisclosure. Whatever. ”
No answer. And the camera never blinked.
She found plain but serviceable clothing in the cabinet, neatly folded—they’d included a shirt, pants, socks, even underwear in her sizes. Bryn took everything into the bathroom to change, and as soon as the stiff, new fabrics slid over her skin, she felt better. More in control, even though she knew that was an illusion.
The room was small, and it got smaller the more she paced, arms folded, stopping to glare at the camera. She didn’t speak again. There didn’t seem to be any point.
Twenty-four hours, he’d said. It was all nonsense, but still, she couldn’t help but wonder how much time had passed. Hours. Was he going to just keep her here the whole time, with not even the courtesy of a meal? Was this psychological warfare?
Well, she wasn’t worried. She could outlast some soft corporate drone, and if they wanted to do any serious psychological damage they should have left her naked, not given her perfectly fine new clothes and shoes. (The shoes were, she had to admit, actually nicer than what she’d been wearing with her suit. Although she missed the pink blouse. )
They’d taken her watch and, of course, her cell phone. Nothing to read, watch, fiddle with, or do. She methodically explored the cabinets and drawers, finding nothing that could help, and set the water dripping in a rhythm as close as she could get to one second per drop. She set the plastic cup under the tap and occupied herself marking off minutes, then five minutes, then ten, thirty, an hour.
Voilà. Instant water clock.
She was two hours into the exercise when she heard a harsh buzzing sound from the other room, and left the clock to see the door swinging inward. Rush him, some instinct said, so Bryn moved toward the exit, fast.
She skidded to a stop when Joe Fideli pointed a gun at her. He shrugged apologetically, but there was nothing but business in his blue eyes. “Sorry, Miss Davis,” he said.
“We’re back to Miss Davis, Joe?”
“Bryn. Sit down on the bed, please. No crazy stuff. ”
She backed up and sat, well aware of the disadvantage at which he’d placed her. The hospital bed was high, and her feet dangled off the ground. No leverage for any sudden moves.
Bryn folded her hands and tried to seem as inoffensive as possible. He’d already mentioned how young she looked; that was an asset in a situation like this. One she hated to use, but still, she wasn’t exactly awash in options here.
Joe settled comfortably against the wall, still holding the gun steady on her. “Pat,” he said, “we’re good here. ”
It bothered her how careful they were, because even then, Patrick McCallister surveyed the whole room before entering. Like Fideli, she was sure he’d had some kind of military-style training. Mercenary, if not traditional. He was way too good at checking corners.
He also secured the door, closing off her line of escape, before dragging over a chair and sitting down across
from her. He did not, Bryn noted, block Fideli’s line of fire.
Close up, without the adrenaline and fear to blur her focus, she was able to spot some interesting things about Mr. McCallister. First, the suit he was wearing wasn’t just any off-the-rack thing; it was tailored, and silk, and every bit as nice as what the late Mr. Lincoln Fairview had worn to work. McCallister looked tired, as if he’d missed a night’s sleep, but he was handsomer than she remembered. She’d missed how warm his dark eyes seemed, for one thing.
“Miss Davis,” he said. “How do you feel?”
“Not like I’m dead. ”
