That’s when I see the gun.
It sits snug in a holster at his side, casual and very real, like an exclamation point at the end of the sentence I’ve been desperately trying not to read.
Every hair on the back of my neck stands up.
Okay. New assessment. Alone suddenly soundsgreat.
My brain briefly supplies the idea of rushing him, grabbing the black handgun, and making a run for it. Then it follows that up with a quick highlight reel of all the ways that would end with me bleeding on the floor like an idiot.
Even at full strength with no drugs still coursing through my system, I wouldn’t win that fight.
Right now? I’d lose it artistically.
But he’s here. He’s waiting and looking at me. If I don’t ask something now, I might not get another chance.
Out of all the questions that I could possibly want answers for, my brain decides that one is the most important.
“Am I going to die here?”
I’m surprised that’s the most steady my voice has been since waking up in this place. He looks surprised too, but I don’t think it’s because of the same thing. He studies me for a long moment, as though he wasn’t prepared for the question. Almost like it’s inconvenient.
Of course, he doesn’t give me an answer.
“Get some more rest. I’ll bring you something to eat a little later.” As he takes a step out the door, he adds, “Don’t forget there’s a fucking bed.”
With that, he exits the room and seals the door shut behind him. I don’t chase him or yell or beg. I just sit here, the bottle of water still held loosely in my hands.
If I squint hard enough, I can almost convince myself this isn’t the worst hostage situation. I’m not tied up. I’m not bleeding. My kidnapper brings water and apparently food. He cares deeply about my sleeping arrangements.
The bar is in hell, but still.
Exhaustion crashes over me again before I can spiral too far. I set the water aside and crawl to the bed on my hands and knees, dignity officially dead, and haul myself up onto the thinmattress. I immediately feel myself being pulled under again.
Next time I wake up, I really hope I’m better at asking questions.
The first question thatpeople in Cason’s situation ask usually tells me something about them.
Who are you?
What do you want?
Why am I here?
Cason’s question caught me off guard.
I’ve heard “Are you going to kill me?” plenty of times—to which the answer varies—but I’ve never been asked that the way Cason did.
Am I going to die here?
Like he didn’t care if it was going to bemewho kills him. Like he’s spent so much of his life believing the best in people that he can’t break the habit even for the man who’s abducted him. He doesn’t want to believe anyone is capable of the kind of fate he’s scared awaits him.
I’m usually pretty good at reading people. I have to be.
This time, I’m actually a little stumped.
I shake it off easily as I head away from the locked door toward my desk I have set up in the corner of the basement.
It’s just a metal desk bolted to the concrete floor, a rolling chair that squeaks if I lean too far back, and a bank of monitors mounted on the wall above it. Functional and disposable, just like everything else down here.
