But I don’t remember a face.
Don’t even remember if it was a Russian or an Irish guard at my door.
I’m obviously more riled up than I realize because my mind draws a blank on the box itself too—was it the horrible dress Maxim encouraged me to wear for this rite or the one he wanted me to wear for the party we were attending together? An Irishman dropped off one and a Russian, the other. Ithink.
Cursing inwardly, not just at my loss of the memory, but also that I was so quick to turn on Maxim, I bite my tongue. That and curling my toes to the point of giving myself cramps are the only weapons in my arsenal of maintaining a grip on my sanity.
Once they know my calm façade is an act, they’ll scent blood and dig deeper. Then I am fucked.
I have no idea how long later, but Bordeau pops up next, Maxim’s switchblade in an evidence bag dangling from his grubby mitts.
There’s blood on the blade.
Wondering whose blood that is, I yawn. “Phone call.”
More hours pass.This time, I know it’s the early hours of the morning for sure.
They keep me in the interrogation room.
No food.
No water.
No toilet break.
But my discomfort doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference.
They hold me in here for so long that my throat’s dry and the urge to pee fades because I’m more thirsty than anything else.
They leave the lights on. Blaring and harsh. I turn my face into the table, trying not to think about the last time someone cleaned it, and I make an attempt at sleep.
Just when my shields lower, the door slams open.
Water’s brought in.
Knowing that they’ll use it and my urgency to pee against me, I want to avoid drinking any.
I croak, “Phone call.”
They take the water with them.
And I want to cry but I close my eyes, turn my face into my arm, and think about the ladybug pin in my hair, Maxim twirling me around the dance floor, and that third glass of Champagne I had—the last fluid I drank in who knows how many hours.
When the door slams open next, I see the corridor beyond. Just a snippet. The illumination beyond has changed.
It’s night—have I missed my marriage ceremony?
This has gone so far beyond shady that maybe a week is history by now and I zoned out through the passage of time.
Ironically, my bladder grounds my panic. The gnawing cramps have become a part of the myriad aches plaguing me, but it can’t have been a week since I last used the toilet.
I cling to that.
Desperate, hurting from the agonizing need to pee, I cry out, “If you don’t bring me a fucking bucket, I’ll piss at the table!”
I shudder at the notion and for the first time, their torture feels as if it’s working.
Like they’re breaking me.
