It doesn’t look good for me.
I lie there while they search the apartment. I’m halfway out of the hallway with my head sticking in the living room. The man’s knee in my torso is agony on my ribs, which are aching like they’ve never ached before. It’s white-hot starfire burning under my skin. I’d take the original knife wound again over this, because at least that was over fast. This feels like it might last forever.
I twist my neck, anything to relieve the pain. The man kneeling on my bellows to stay still, but truth be told, I barely hear him.
Because something has caught my eye.
Under the settee, where I flung it a week ago, where it has been living quietly in the shadows ever since…
… is Cass’s wedding ring.
A week ago, I promised her she’d never have to wear it again.
We were so fucking close.
And then the black canvas hood goes down over my head, and everything else is lost to me.
40
CASS
The first thing I’m aware of is my mouth.
More specifically, the fact that it feels like it’s never even heard of the term “moisture.” My tongue is a strip of jerky stuck to the roof of a desert. My lips are cemented shut. “Thirst” has a new name, and that name is Cassandra Snyder.
The second thing I’m aware of is the light.
Even with my eyes closed, it’s aggressive. As it pulses through my eyelids in pink and orange waves, I think to myself,I should probably open my eyes,but then I think,No, absolutely not, that sounds like the worst idea of all time.
The third and fourth things I’m aware of are, in quick progression, a man’s odor and a man’s voice. He’s saying my name.
“Mrs. Snyder.”
I groan.
He taps my shoulder. “Mrs. Snyder. Mrs. Snyder, I need you to wake up for me.”
Snyder. Why does that sound wrong? Something about it is jarring, improper, but I can’t figure out why.
Oh, that’s right. I was supposed to leave it behind, wasn’t I? I was supposed to wake up without that ball-and-chain around my ankle. I did everything I was told to do. The pill, the guest room, tucking Raymond into bed… and then… and then…
Matvei.
I sit up so fast the room rolls sideways, and I have to brace myself with both hands flat on the table in front of me to keep from going off the edge of my chair.
I rip my eyes open. There’s a table in front of me. It’s steely, cold, and bolted very firmly to the floor. My hands feel strange. It takes me a moment to realize that there are two reasons for that.
One is that they’re cuffed to hooks embedded in the table top. That’s problematic. We’ll circle back.
The other, weirder reason my hands look unusual is that they’re dirty in a way that they weren’t when I went to sleep. There’s a faint, dark residue caked under the nails of my right hand. Based off the copious amounts of true crime I’ve consumed over the years, I’d say it’s gunpowder residue and the forensics powder they use to test for it.
My thoughts are slowly starting to take shape as the sleeping pill’s effects wear off. I’m pretty sure I’ve been here for a while. My ass is numb and sore, like I’ve been stuck in this chair for hours. My clothes are different, too. My pajamas have beenreplaced with a gray sweatshirt and gray sweatpants, both baggy and too long.
Oh,I think, with a kind of slow, dreamy detachment.Oh, no.
Things have gone terribly wrong.
“Nice of you to join us, Mrs. Snyder,” the voice drawls when he sees that I’m awake.
