Page 63 of The Masked King

Whichever way I look at it the answer is always the same: a pretty fucking lot.

He made sure there was nothing left to see, so I don’t hang around. I peer through the spyhole to make sure there’s no one outside before I leave, when I spot a brown envelope behind the small wooden table in the hallway. It had obviously slipped off the back of the table and gone unnoticed.

It’s a utility bill… addressed to Kate Glasgow.

I fold it in half, slip it into my pocket, and let myself out.

16

DEMI

When I return to the bedroom, my body weak from retching, he is gone.

I climb into bed naked and shivering, pull the sheets over me, and close my eyes. But all I can see is the image on the phone screen of Michael Douglas carved up like an animal, his eyes dark and vacant. It isn’t even the face that haunts me, it’s the bloody body parts scattered around the floor, the thought of someone taking photographs of their work as if it was something to be proud of.

Nausea continues to wash through me in waves. I’ll never be able to erase that image from my psyche, so the best I can hope for is that it fuels me to keep taking down these ruthless bastards preying on decent people.

I must sleep; when I wake, I’m grateful to have no memory of my nightmares, because my first thought is of Michael Douglas.

Then I smell food.

Pushing back the sheets, I sit up to find a covered dish on the nightstand along with a fresh bottle of water. Underneath the metal cover is a cooked breakfast of sausages, bacon, hash browns, mushrooms, and eggs, two slices of toast on the side of the plate.

My stomach grumbles in response to the aroma, and I pick up a sausage with my fingers, too ravenous to worry about utensils.

“Oh, my God,” I mutter out loud, my voice still muffled by my bruised vocal cords.

I don’t know how long it has been since I last ate, but my body does what comes naturally, and I clear the plate, mopping up the eggs with the toast. When I’m done, I’m tempted to lick the plate clean, but my surroundings penetrate my food coma and my shoulders slump when I glance at the spotlights still glaring at me from around the bed.

Pulling the sheets up to my chin to cover my nakedness, I drink a quarter of the water slowly, unsure when it will be replaced, and sit back against the pillows. Now that I’m fed, I need to focus on getting the hell out of here.

“Hello, Brian.”

The voice drags me back to consciousness, and my eyelids flutter open. It’s dark, so dark, I’m momentarily disoriented. I try to sit up, but my body feels heavy, my limbs weighted down like I ran a marathon carrying a bucket of sand in each hand, my heartbeat thudding dully from the shock of being jolted awake.

Where am I?

The image of Michael Douglas pushes through the fog in my brain, and I remember the stark lights, my captor throttling me against the wall.

I raise my hand to touch my throat; it still hurts to swallow.

I reach for the bottle of water on the nightstand, feeling my way in the blackout with my fingertips, and realize that the covered dish is gone.

Someone was here. I heard them speak, but all I can remember is the name Brian.

“Hello?” I rasp, my head still on the pillow.

“Nyx?” It’s Brian. How did he get here? “Are you a recording?”

“No, I’m real, Brian.”

That’s me. My captors are trying to confuse me by replaying my first conversation with Brian in the dark.

“So, when does the show begin?”

Tears sting my eyes when I recall Brian asking the question. He seemed so vulnerable when I first met him, a regular guy from a regular background, and maybe that’s why we connected the way we did.

“Nu-huh, Brian. No touching.” I smile when I hear myself performing as Nyx.