Page 7 of Captive

“No,” he admits, “but there’s no way in hell Hawthorne will let her walk out of this house.”

I wonder where Hawthorne is, why he wasn’t here to watch us bring her in. His office door was closed when we passed it, so maybe he’s on the phone with the Benefactor, discussing options when it comes to this girl.

It was just supposed to be another kill. Another notch on the belt, so to speak. Nothing crazy, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing as unusual as a witness who may or may not have been there to kill the same target.

“We can’t keep her like a cat,” I say.

“A cat’s better than the alternative. Besides, it might be nice to have a girl around. No offense, but this house is a fucking sausage fest.” When I shoot Royal a glare, all he does is shrug and say, “What? It’s the truth.”

Honestly, he’s not wrong, but keeping her here would be basically like kidnapping her. Keeping her captive… we’re not that kind of people. We don’t do that shit. And yet, really, I don’t know what else we can do here. This is a situation none of us are prepared for.

It’s a few minutes before Hawthorne joins us in the room, and he wears an expression of concern and confusion, and after he moves closer to the bed and spots her, he turns even more rigid. “She looks peaceful,” he remarks dryly, fixing the glasses on his nose.

“Most unconscious people do,” Royal says.

“Well?” I ask him. “What’s the word? What are we going to do with her? We can’t kill her. It goes against everything we stand for.” Then again, so does keeping her here as our captive. We’re kind of up shit creek without a paddle with the way there aren’t any great options.

“No, no we most certainly cannot kill her,” Hawthorne says. “The consensus is we have to keep her with us, for the time being. She can’t be free to go. She’s a part of this now, whether she wants to be or not. What was she doing at Brock Hard’s place?”

Royal looks at me, and I take that to mean I’m the one who has to tell him about the kill kit we found. I say, “She was hiding in the closet. We found a bag stuffed under the bed. We think she was there to kill him, a possible vigilante situation.”

“Vigilante? Hmm. If that’s what she is, then maybe we can integrate her here or something, other than keeping her as a captive.” Hawthorne rubs his jaw, then the back of his neck, and as he does so, I can see the wheels turning in his head. He’s not someone who ever stops thinking. He’s always planning the next move, and this is no different. “I admit, I don’t relish the fact that we’re going to keep her here against her will. It doesn’t feel right, but unfortunately, there’s nothing else we can do.”

“Bringing her in seems risky,” Royal remarks.

“Obviously, it wouldn’t happen right away. We’d have to get her to admit what her true motives were tonight, and then there’s trust, which can only be built over time. Regardless, we’re going to have a lot of time with her, one way or another.”

My eyes flick over to the girl on the bed. “And what if she doesn’t want any part of this? Are we supposed to keep her here forever?” The thought of her being here, forever, against her will, is not one that fills me with joy. In fact, it makes me feel like a very shitty person.

I mean, I know we’re killers here, but come on. We don’t do this stuff.

Hawthorne speaks, “We have to take this one day at a time. I’m going to order a few things. I want one of you with her at all times.”

“What about her car and her belongings? She might’ve been parked near the house—might look fishy,” I say.

“You’re right. Once she wakes, we’ll get some answers out of her.” He heaves a sigh. “I’ll be in my office. Let me know when she wakes and the four of us will have a little chat.” He doesn’t say a word more as he turns to leave his room—although now, I suppose, the room will be hers. There’s not that much decoration in it; Hawthorne doesn’t get into paintings or anything like that.

Royal waits a few seconds before he says, “I’m going to hop in the shower.” And then he leaves, too.

And that means I’m on guard duty for now. Yippee.

Chapter Three – Abby

My heart pounds in my chest. I stand in front of a closed door, feeling out of sorts, and yet a wickedly weird sense that I’ve been here before crawls all over me like maggots on dead flesh in the heat of summer. I need to go in, but at the same time, a part of me already knows what I’ll find, so I remain rooted in place.

But there’s nowhere else for me to go. I’m stuck. Everything around me is hazy, but the door in front of me is crystal clear, every detail burned in my mind.

I let out a loud breath, and then it’s all I can hear: my own breathing. Over and over until it grows too loud, as if my breathing is wired into speakers blasting on full volume.

I don’t want to go in there. I don’t want to see.

Something pulls at me, some invisible string that’s tied to my limbs, because after an eternity of listening to my own breathing, I lift my hand toward the door knob, shaking only a little bit. My hand is inches away from the knob, and then…

Then everything is pulled away from me as I wake up with a jerk.

Okay, maybe not so much a jerk. More like a groan and a pounding headache. I roll over and lift a hand to my head, slow in sitting up as I open my eyes. Everything is fuzzy, just like the dream, but unlike the dream, the fuzziness disappears fast as my gaze focuses on where I am.

A bedroom, looks like. I’m on top of a bed, and I am curiously free, no part of me chained or tied up.