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GENEVIEVE
I’m sitting at the top of the stairs, desperate to know who Archer is talking to. I can just make out a bit of his side of the conversation. I don’t hear a word the other person says, but who would he call directly after our talk? Who would he insult so confidently? Perhaps he’s contacting someone to help with clean-up after they kill me. That would make sense. After all, there’s no way they’ll let me go after this. I know everything. I know their faces, their names, and their stories. Who in their right mind would let me go after all that? I wouldn’t. Then again, I shouldn’t be in this situation to begin with.
I can understand the necessity of stealing. I had to spend the beginning of my life thieving just to eat, so I get it, but what are they getting out of holding me here? They are not hurting me. They are not demanding anything from me.
I wish the conversation could give me some leverage over them, but I know it won’t, not when I don’t know who Archer called. Whoever it was, it didn’t sound like Archer was pleased with the outcome. Maybe it’ll give me some more time before they finish the job and bury me out in the garden. Confusion and determination war within me.
When I hear someone stand and move around downstairs, I get up and quickly pick my way over the old floor. I figured out the pattern of steps to keep the wood from squeaking beneath my bare feet. As a kid, I’d been in foster homes where it was imperative to make as little noise as possible. Noise draws attention. Noise draws anger. I use those skills now, even though I hoped I would never have to again.
I open the door to the dirty room I’ve been sleeping in and slip inside, my chest heavy with all the new information. Despite everything, despite knowing they have to kill me, I don’t want to hurt them. Eric and Booker have been nothing but kind to me. Archer is an asshole, but he hasn’t hurt me. Gage, well, he’s just an asshole, but somehow, I don’t think he wants to cause me harm either.
Call me stupid, but they don’t deserve to die.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. From my memory, I believe it’s been over a week, but I don’t know if the days are running together in my mind or not. Next time the news comes on, I need to pay attention to the date. Either way, it’s been long enough, and Chaz should have been able to pay for my safe return. Surely his offer on the news should have been honoured, but the guys clearly haven’t been paid because I’m still here.
Chaz is certainly an asshole, but he’s not that much of an asshole.
Right?
Maybe I just need to call him. Maybe he won’t pay yet because he’s not certain I’m alive. I don’t blame him. Dealing with terrorists is never done without proof, right? That’s what I’ve seen in movies.
I need one of their cell phones. I’ll just call Chaz and prove I’m alive, and then everything will be okay. He’ll pay for my safe return, and then I’ll go back and break up with the asshole. If he thinks we’ll still get married after all this, he’ll be mistaken, but maybe if he grovels enough—
I know that’s a lie the moment the thought hits my brain. I can’t even see Chaz as desirable anymore. The four men downstairs, however…
Sighing, I settle onto the bed. I’ll have to lull them into a false sense of comfort. Once they think I won’t try to escape the first chance I get, they’ll let down their guard, and then I can grab a phone to call Chaz. It’ll all be better once he knows I’m alive for sure. I’ll be able to go home, and I won’t have to hurt Booker, Eric, Archer, or even Gage.
I try my best to ignore the notion that I might have Stockholm syndrome. Fucking stupid. I can like them even if they kidnapped me.
I just need to get the phone to call my fiancé and figure out what the fuck is taking him so long.
I don’t need a white knight, but I’ll be damned if my own fiancé isn’t at least my sword.
