Page 134 of Finding Noah

He nodded, seemingly satisfied. “I believe you,” he replied. “Use that fire to keep yourself alive.”

“What?” I gasped with exasperation.

Then he placed a palm on the crown of my head. “Find the safest places you can think of in here, Noah. Find yourself in those memories, survive, and let me worry about the rest. I'll work as quickly as I can.”

I looked up at the black sleeve of his suit, looking for a clue, anything that might identify this man to me.

“What does that mean?” I asked desperately.

But he didn't reply.

Instead, he tended to my broken, battered body, and this time, I let him.

Survive, I told myself. Hide in the safest places.

He meant during the beatings, the rape, I realized. He meant to hide and dissociate. I wondered, had he read my mind? Had he known I was scared I'd be unrecognizable to everyone … including myself? There was nothing I could do to save my body—I knew that—but I could preserve whatever was left of my spirit, my mind. Benjamin couldn't take that from me unless I allowed it. I had a little power left, and it filled me with a silly sense of shame to realize that was exactly what was happening.

I’d been allowing him to take it—all of my power, my spirit, and will to live—away.

Not anymore, I silently promised, believing the man in black.

What other choice do I have?

After cleaning me up and applying whatever antiseptic ointment he used for my wounds, he stood to retrieve a bag of water bottles and food he'd left beside the door. And like all the visits before, he presented the patience needed to feed and water me, giving me the gift of sustenance and life, but for the first time, I felt I understood why.

He wasn't keeping me alive to prolong Ben's fun.

He was buying me—and himself—time.

“Thank you,” I uttered, as I always did when the food was eaten and the bottles were empty.

He nodded, silent again, and as he always did, he produced the bottle of Oxy, tipping his head in question.

I accepted with a curt nod and gratefully swallowed the pill that would take the pain and awareness away, even if just for a little while.

The man in black stood to leave. I knew I'd see him again, a promise I now looked forward to with certainty. But before he reached the door, I stopped him.

“Wait. One more question.”

He turned, giving me his full attention as he replied, “This is the last time you will hear my voice. Please, make it a good one.”

“Who are you?”

He had the balls to laugh. “Of all the questions you could've asked, that's the one you chose to waste your breath on.”

I narrowed my eyes, my mind bright with renewed suspicion and awareness. “We've met, haven’t we? But where? What's your name?”

The man in black took a step toward the bed I was chained to, the leather of his mask aglow in the moon's silvery beams. “My name,” he muttered in that low, phony voice. “Some call me the devil. Some call me the angel of death, the villain. But right now, in your life, Detective, I am the only savior you have, so if you must call me anything, let it be God.”

I snorted at the theatrical way he spoke. “No offense, man, but there's nothing holy about you.”

He seemed to find that funny as well, and he emitted a low chuckle, heading toward the door with a steady stride, crossing the small room in one, two steps.

“Genesis 18:23.”

I furrowed my brow. “What the fuck? What does that mean—”

“Stay alive, Detective,” he ordered casually, opening the door and crossing the threshold to blend into the darkness outside.