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Haven’s heart raced with the click of the lock. She knew it then. She had made a grave mistake. She had never seen him look like this, his eyes darkening like a tornado in the distance, tumultuous and clouded. A spark of unpredictable evil lurked beneath. Staring at him, Haven finally saw a glimpse of Vincent DeMarco. The monster.
He took a step forward. Instinctively, Haven stepped back. She backed up against the wall as Dr. DeMarco stopped in front of the dresser and carefully picked up the discarded gun.
“Such beautiful things.” He reached into the dresser drawer and pulled out a gold bullet, holding it up. “It’s fascinating how much devastation something so small can cause. Do you know anything about guns?”
The detachment in his voice frightened Haven more, her body violently trembling. She tried to sound strong, but her voice shook as much as the rest of her. “No, sir.”
He returned the bullet and shut the drawer, staring at the weapon. “This is a Smith & Wesson 627 Revolver, .357 magnum, eight rounds, hollow-point bullets. I have plenty of guns, but this has always been my favorite. It has never let me down.” He paused. “Except once.”
He pointed the gun at Haven as he closed the distance between them, thrusting the muzzle against her throat. She gasped as the force cut off her airflow. “A flick of my finger on the trigger will blow a hole through your neck. You’d die without a doubt. If you’re lucky, it might even be quick, but there are no guarantees. Most likely, you’d be unable to speak or breathe but capable of feeling everything until you suffocate to death.”
He pulled back, letting her take a deep breath, before pressing the gun to her throat again. Her chest felt like it would burst when he spoke again. “Shall we see what happens when I pull the trigger? I think we will.”
She tried to cry out as she braced herself for the pain. It was the end. She was going to die. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the explosion, and jumped at the loud click. The pressure against her neck disappeared and she collapsed to the ground in sobs, unable to stand on her feet.
“Look at me,” he demanded, reaching down and roughly grasping her chin. “You’re lucky it wasn’t loaded or you’d be dead now. Understand?”
She nodded frantically, hyperventilating.
“Good. Now go to your room for your punishment. It’s time you learn what happens when people forget their place.”
Dr. DeMarco unlocked the door and stormed out with the gun. His words bounced around her frightened mind as images hit her, flashes of dead eyes gnawing at her aching chest. That’s what happens when people forget their place.
Death happened. Number 33 happened. Frankie had told her to remember, and she was sure she would never forget. How could she?
She pulled herself up on shaky legs and made her way to the third floor, fear overriding all logic. Bolting straight for Carmine’s room, Haven tore open the window and climbed through. Running along the balcony, she held her breath and forced herself not to look down as she scampered into the tree and shimmied down to the yard.
The moment her feet hit the ground, she ran. Trees and brush scratched her limbs as she navigated the dense forest, her heart thumping wildly. She moved as fast as her legs would carry her, having no sense of direction as she once again ran for her life.
Eventually, the forest thinned. Haven saw the clearing beyond the trees and turned in that direction, shoving branches out of her way as she broke through to the road. The squeal of tires made her stop in her tracks, and she gasped when she saw the familiar black car.
No, no, no . . . She backed away, shaking her head, but it was too late.
Dr. DeMarco grabbed her and dragged her toward the idling car. Haven begged him when she saw the open trunk, but he picked her up without much effort and threw her in with no regard. She stared at him, horrified, and his furious eyes bore into her before he slammed the trunk.
Haven flinched as she was encased in darkness.
He accelerated, the force flinging her around the trunk, her head slamming against the side of it. Sobbing, she frantically felt around for some way out. A small light came on whenever he hit the brakes, illuminating the space enough for her to see. She found a small lever and pulled it, stunned when the trunk popped open. She jolted again as Dr. DeMarco slammed the brakes, but she managed to climb out quickly. Her feet carried her a short way down the road before she was seized from behind, an arm circling her throat as a hand roughly pressed against her head. She flailed around, but his hold was too strong.
In a matter of seconds, her vision faded.
* * *
When Haven regained consciousness, she was on the floor in her bedroom, bound to the post of the bed. Dr. DeMarco stood a few feet away, watching, waiting. She let out a sob as reality slammed into her, but Dr. DeMarco raised his hand to silence her cries. “Did you really think you could get away? Didn’t you learn your lesson last time you tried to run? I’ve told you before—you can’t outsmart me.”
“I didn’t . . . I, uh . . .” Her cries muffled her words. “I don’t want to die.”
Dr. DeMarco grew rigid before snatching a roll of duct tape from the nightstand. She shook her head frantically as he tore off a piece, but it didn’t deter him from covering her mouth. “I want you to think about how good you have it here. Think about how lucky you are to still be alive.”
He walked out, leaving her alone.
* * *
Nine years.
Nearly a decade had passed since the fateful day that changed Carmine’s life—the day none of them talked about—and it still affected him like it was just yesterday. Nobody knew, though. Nobody knew he cried, or that he still couldn’t sleep at night, but for the first time in nine years, Carmine wished someone did.
The moment he walked in the door from school that afternoon, he knew something had happened. It was a feeling in the air, a stifling silence, a sense of danger that made his adrenaline pump overtime, charring his nerves as it ran through his veins.
