Page 12 of Captive

I smile softly. “It’s so strange, especially after seeing you and Royal dismember someone, but I believe you.”

“What were you doing there? If you weren’t someone Brock hurt, what’s with the bag you brought?”

“How do you know it was my bag and not Brock’s?”

Ezra gives me a knowing look. “Brock was a certain type of guy. The things he liked to do weren’t legal, but they also didn’t involve a kill kit like that. Trust me, I know a kill kit when I see one, and that bag didn’t belong to Brock. It was yours.”

No point in denying it now, but still it feels bizarre to me to admit it to this guy.

He presses me, much like I was pressing Royal earlier, “Were you there to kill him? If he didn’t hurt you, then… did he hurt someone you know? Were you there for revenge?”

Look at him, trying to put the pieces together. He’s close, but being he’s a stranger, I don’t feel like spilling my guts to him, much like they don’t want to spill all their secrets to me. It’s been hours. Maybe the truth will come with time, or maybe it won’t. I honestly can’t see what the future holds anymore.

When I don’t say anything, he goes on, “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me if you’re not comfortable. I get it. I get it more than most people, I think, but for the record: anyone in this house would get it. I think the four of us have more in common than you think.”

Hmm. He might be right there, but until we’re all comfortable sitting in a sharing circle, the jury’s out.

“Hawthorne will want to know, though, so don’t be surprised when he comes to you with a thousand questions. He doesn’t like the unknown.”

Then I guess I better have a thousand answers that aren’t strictly truthful, huh?

Ezra must sense that I don’t want to keep talking about this, so he pulls out his phone and says, “Why don’t we work on that list, hmm? I can text it to Royal once we’re done with it.”

I guess it’s as good of a thing to do as any. Besides, I will need some things if I’m going to live here for the foreseeable future. Call me crazy, but I don’t feel like wearing these black clothes forever. Same bra and panties for eternity? Uh, no thanks.

We go down the list, starting with bathroom essentials. I get very specific when it comes to my body wash, shampoo, and facial soap. There are a few particular scents I’ve been sticking to since my teenage years, plus with my hair, the type of shampoo you use really does matter. Certain shampoos just strip out the color and leave you with an ugly mess.

Since Royal will be going out, I also specify other things I’ll need to keep my hair in tip-top shape. Making hair masks myself saves some time when it comes to going to a salon. Somehow I don’t think these guys will let me out to get my hair done, so it’s all on me to keep it looking fresh.

Hair dye, plain hair masks, some powdered bleach and a bottle of developer. Stuff you have to go to an actual hair store to get. I’m sure Royal will love going there, but it’s a necessary part of my upkeep, assuming they want me to stay as I am and not revert back to my more natural state.

You know, the natural color of my hair, something I haven’t seen in years. I’d like to avoid that, if possible.

We go through everything, including food I like. You know, the little snacks that keep you sane throughout the day. Being stuck here in this house, I imagine I’m going to be snacking an awful lot.

The last thing we do is clothes, and that’s where things get a little awkward. For some reason, it didn’t dawn on me until that exact moment that a man—a stranger, pretty much—will be out in the stores picking my clothes.

My clothes. All of them. Shirts, pants, pajamas, and everything underneath.

“What, um, what size are you? When it comes to, uh, you know…” Ezra actually blushes when he asks, and then he points to his own chest.

I’m not the kind of person who gets all modest about things, but maybe it’s the way he blushes and refuses to actually say the words out loud. Maybe it’s contagious blushing. Either way, I totally blame him.

“I’m a thirty-six C,” I say as I look away, fighting the blush and totally failing. Maybe I wouldn’t be blushing if Ezra wasn’t so attractive. Heck, maybe seeing him and Royal kill Brock primed me to feel certain things I shouldn’t.

Realistically, they’re killers. But so am I. Things aren’t as cut and dry as they would be if we were all normal people with normal, non-murderous hobbies.

“Okay,” Ezra says as he types the details into the message. “And is there, uh, any particular style you want? Or color? Or…” With the way he’s stumbling over his words, you’d think he’s a boy in middle school or something, not a near-thirty-year-old serial killer. It is strangely adorable, even if it is making me flustered, too.

“Surprise me,” I end up saying, and the moment I do, I realize I might end up eating those words. How well can a serial killer pick out bras? Guess I’m going to find out.

All he does is nod and finish typing out the message. I’d hate to be on the receiving end of that message; it’s a long-ass list. Whenever Royal goes out, he’s going to be out and about all day, assuming he actually gets me everything on said list.

Right then, my stomach rumbles. It rumbles loud enough that both Ezra and I hear it, and I give him a sheepish look and say, “Guess I’m hungry. You guys have cereal or something?”

“We have some, although I can honestly say we are fresh out of Lucky Charms,” Ezra references my favorite cereal from the list. “We also have eggs. I can whip up something warm, if you want. I’m not a fantastic cook, but scrambled eggs I can definitely do.”

It isn’t every day you get offered a meal from a serial killer. What else can I say besides “Eggs it is”? Nothing, because I’m totally curious how well this man can cook eggs.