A white slipcovered chair waited in lamplight. Writing guides above. Blank journals below.
Recognition hit cold.
The same room Sara had described.
Cream walls. Skylights.
A beautiful prison.
Everything you need, she thought. Nothing you chose.
A glass-fronted fridge hummed in the corner, stocked with fruit, soup, water. Coffee pods gleamed beside a single-cup machine.
Feeding me. Managing every variable.
This isn’t ransom. It’s research.
Her bare feet found the rug—wool, expensive, pale. She stood, testing her balance. The room dipped once, then settled into place.
She crossed to the wall. No door, just unbroken molding. Then she noticed it: a narrow seam where the molding stopped. No handle. No visible hinges.
Pocket door. Opens from his side only.
She pressed her palm flat to the panel. Solid. No give.
Tessa let herself feel the urge to pound once—just once—then stepped back.
Force won’t work. He wants you loud.
Observation first.
She walked the perimeter. Vents high and small. No cameras obvious, but she’d bet her badge there were lenses behind the grates or in the clock face. The skylights sat twelve feet up, glass angled and frosted, snow blurring whatever lay beyond.
“Hello?” she called, voice even. “You’ve made your point. I’m awake.”
Only the clock answered.
She waited two beats more.
“Coward,” she added, mild. “Hiding in the walls doesn’t make you a god. It just means you’re scared to show your face.”
Static hissed from nowhere and everywhere at once—then a voice slid into the room.
“Agent Quinn.” Calm. Male. Amplified. And pleased with himself.
Her spine went cold.
“You made good time waking up,” he said. “Your deputy, Sara Parker, took longer.”
“Sara. What have you done with her?”
Tessa kept her eyes on the bookshelf. “Where is she?”
He ignored the question.
“Eat,” he said. “Rest. And write. The story is your freedom.”
Same script he’d given Sara. She’d seen that line in Sara’s journal.
