Page 99 of Captive Ruin

My life, torn to pieces in one night, and the reality of it all slams into me with a crippling blow. I can’t breathe, my shoulders hunch, my chest tight and hollow, and to my shame, I can’t stop the tears coming.

Not here. Not now.

“Oh, dear.” She lays a hand on my arm. “Why don’t we find you a bite to eat in the kitchen, and then a comfortable bed?”

“I’m sorry.” I blink them back as best I can. “It’s just… it’s been…”

“Some food will help,” she says, then fixes Van Wyk with a stare. “Lukas? If you don’t mind?”

“Yes, of course.” He removes my cuffs, slipping them back into his pocket.

Great. He won’t do it for me, but he’ll do it for his housekeeper.

“Keep still,” he says. A snick announces his knife out again, and he cuts the gag from around my neck.

And I hardly react, save for a cautious glance at him until the blade is back in his pocket.

Somehow, I’ve gotten used to his karambit. It’s stained with the blood of the men he killed in my apartment, but I believe him when he tells me he won’t ever harm me.

Am I feeling safe with my monster?

That’s dangerous, Amelia.

I wipe my eyes on my sleeve as Linda leads me into the house, leaving Van Wyk to close the door behind us. I follow her into the kitchen, past very large rooms that I snatch glimpses of. One of them is a library with a grand piano; I didn’t know he played.

But then I hardly know anything about him at all, and that thought brings more tears. What the hell am I doing here?

The kitchen is as big as my apartment, white cupboards around every wall, a multi-oven range in burgundy beneath a hood. There’s a back door, enough light spilling out to hint at the gardens. Beyond them, the silhouettes of trees against the indigo sky. Are there fences that way too?

Linda sets me down at a central island on a breakfast stool. “A cup of tea? Glass of wine?”

“A water, please,” I say, feeling almost like I used to when I’d go home to see my parents. Linda reminds me of my mother: no fuss, just getting on with it.

God, how I miss her. My father’s safe arms, too. If they were still alive, I could’ve gone to them. They would’ve kept me safe, told me the gallery could be rebuilt, that it didn’t matter so long as I was safe.

I’m crying silent tears while Linda fetches my drink. What must she think of me? I wipe them away with the heel of my hand.

“You’ll feel better soon, dear,” she says, handing me a tall glass of water with ice and lemon. “I know it’s been a trying night, but it’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“Thank you,” I say shakily, taking a sip. She’s already turned away to open an enormous fridge, pulling out Saran-wrapped plates of food. “Did you know I was coming then?”

“Not when, exactly,” she replies, giving me a small smile, “only that you would, in time.”

I have a million questions, but I’m too tired to ask them now. Linda places a plate before me, sliced avocado, mozzarella and tomatoes. I eat slowly while she wipes down already spotless counters.

“That was lovely, thank you,” I say, when I’m done. “Where am I sleeping?”

“Let me show you, dear.”

I follow her back to the staircase in the entry hall, then up to the second floor.

“This place is quite large…”

She gives me a smile. “You’ll have plenty of time to explore.”

Translation: you can check out any time you want, but you can never leave. The line from that song is fitting for all the wrong reasons.

“Here we are,” she says, pausing outside a large room with open double doors. Van Wyk is standing by the windows, his back to me, wearing a black dressing gown that looks heavy, like velvet. He turns when he hears us. Linda leaves, passing me into his care.