Page 71 of Fractured Hearts

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. Aren’t you happy to see me?” Patrick is smiling so wide I can see the gaps where he’s missing molars. I think he thinks he’s being comforting, but he just looks even more deranged than normal. The shirt he’s wearing of bloody cinema serial killer masks is not helping.

“No,” I say, and I’m proud when my voice sounds strong and not panicked. I pull at the handcuffs again. All that does is make a loud clanking noise. I’m sure the metal cuffs attached to a metal bedframe are on purpose. He knew the minute I woke up from all the noise it made.

Patrick laughs and shakes his head like I made a joke. “What would you like for breakfast? I have eggs or I can make some pancakes?”

“What the fuck episode of Twilight Zone is this? I don’t want breakfast! I want you to uncuff me and let me go!” I shake my arms to rattle the chains. I watch the flicker in Patrick’s eyes. It’s only there in a blink and you’ll miss it moment, but I saw it. The cold-blooded killer is in there, but for some reason he’s pushing it down.

“I’ll make some eggs for us. You rest up a little longer.” He turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him before I have a moment to protest. I pull on my restraints again and resist the urge to cry. I don’t remember how I got here, and I don’t know where Ezra or Jo are. I take a deep breath and try to focus. Jo is always telling me to breathe and count to fifty before I freak out. This seems like an appropriate scenario to skip that and just get right to the freak out, but I do what I know she would want me to anyway.

The only information I have is that Patrick has me and wants to feed me breakfast. I don’t know why or where he’s keeping me. Maybe if I play along, he’ll uncuff me long enough to run. Or maybe he’s poisoned the eggs. No. He likes to slit throats too much to poison me. I shiver at the thought. But he also didn’t need to bring me here, wherever here is, to kill me. He has to want something. So I’ll play along until I can get away.

Maybe Jo has a point about the breathing before freaking out thing. Now I just hope I can stay alive long enough to tell her.

The one major problem with my plan? I’m terrible at keeping my mouth shut. Patrick took the cuffs off the bedframe long enough to cuff them to a chain I didn’t even notice was around my waist. I thought my ankles were chained to the bed, but they’re actually just chained together. I had to shuffle to the bathroom and pee while Patrick watched. He didn’t say anything when he walked back into the room to take me to eat, and he isn’t saying anything now as he loads up a plate with eggs, toast, and bacon. My traitorous stomach growls when he places it in front of me.

“What the fuck is going on?” I blurt before I can tell myself to hold it in.

“Eat up,” he says, chuckling as he plates his own food, not acknowledging that I spoke. He sits across from me at the shiny dark wood table and smiles as I shovel food into my mouth. It’s partially from hunger and partially so I stick to my plan, but the urge to start freaking out again isn’t being suppressed by breathing exercises.

I don’t like the way he watches me as I finish off my toast and wash it down with the rest of the orange juice. I have to bite my tongue while I wait for him to say something. Or do something.

“What do you think of what I did with the place? It feels more homey now, don’t you think?” I frown at his question and look around. I didn’t pay much attention on the way to the kitchen, too focused on my feet so I didn’t trip. “I completely gutted and renovated everything, so it’s fair you don’t recognize it.”

“Where are we?” I ask. Nothing about this kitchen is familiar, and it would feel a lot more ‘homey’ without the serial killer sitting here with me.

“Home, doll. We’re home.” I don’t like the pet name or the smile on his face right now. I turn away from him, so I don’t have to see it, and my breath catches in my throat. I may not recognize this place after how much he’s changed the inside, but the outside is still the same. I spent years staring out this window at the wrought-iron gate, counting down the days until I could walk out of them and never return. And I haven’t. I walked out with Kai one day and never came back.

I’m home. Patrick has brought me back to my parent’s mansion.

seventy-two

EZRA

“Will you at least tell me your name?” I’ve given up on getting her to help me figure out a way out of here. She can’t tell me how long she’s been here, but it’s long enough to take any hope she ever kept of freedom.

I think I’ve been here for at least twenty-four hours. I’m not sure how long I was out before I woke up. So far, no food or water has been given. I made my way around the room six times before my roommate hissed at me to stop. There’s nothing in here. Just dirt and a bucket of shit. There’s no one to ask about Maverick and Jo.

“You already know it,” comes the eventual whisper. Maybe this is some sort of psychological torture. That would at least make sense. Stick me in a dark room with no food or water and add in a woman who answers questions with nonsense. It’s working because I’m close to my breaking point.

“Can you just answer the fucking question?” I snap at her. I immediately feel bad because she’s been down here a lot longer than I have, and I’m sure that does something to one’s psyche. “Sorry,” I sigh. “You know my name. It seems only fair.”

I’d love to know how she knows it. Maybe she overheard someone, or she recognized me because we know each other. I tried asking, but of course she didn’t answer. I thought I was good with silence until now. Turns out I’m only good with silence when there’s a light source. There hasn’t been a moment since I woke up that my heart hasn’t been hammering so hard against my chest I’m afraid I’m having a heart attack. I don’t have time to die. I need to get out of here and get to Jo and Maverick.

“How about I tell you how I ended up here and then you can decide if you want to speak to me?” Maybe she’s just scared. Knowing my name and knowing I won’t hurt her are two different things.

“Okay.” It’s a faint whisper. Unsure. I’ll take it.

I launch into the story I’ve had to tell too many times recently. The secret boyfriend with horrible parents, the ruined plans to come out, the barn in the woods. I tell this stranger everything right up to the fight that landed me here. It’s easier to tell your secrets to the dark, the faceless. She chokes up on the part about Gianna in the barn. I thought I had told this story enough times to be numb to it, but that isn’t the case. Tears fall down my cheeks as I fight the lump in my throat.

“So I’m a coward and probably deserve to be here, but Maverick and Jo don’t deserve any of it. I need to get out and make sure they’re safe,” I plead. I don’t think she has any information on how to escape, but I beg anyway. She’s still quietly crying, but I hear her shuffle closer to me before a freezing cold hand lands on my arm.

“Noelle,” she says. “My name is Noelle Price.”

seventy-three

MAVERICK

Patrick has been pulling me by the arm to show me all the rooms he renovated. He completely changed every single thing in each room I’ve seen so far. Every light fixture, wall color, doorknob. It even seems like he changed out the light switches. I don’t understand what the point of buying this place was if he changed everything. I’m scared to ask because I have no idea what’s going on. Mostly, I’m confused about why every room seems to have a different theme. Patrick keeps presenting them to me like I’m supposed to know what they are. I think they’re different countries . . . maybe? The kitchen reminded me of a villa I stayed at with my parents in Spain.