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But nothing happens. Not even a crack.
Maybe I just need something harder. Screaming, I race over to the cabinet next to the elevator bank and grab the lamp.
“Ow!”
My wrist bone contorts in a way it shouldn’t. The lamp is stuck. I grab the base and pull, but to no avail. It’s glued down. My hands fly to the vase next to it, but it’s just as stubborn.
Stumbling back in shock, I hit the elevator doors with my back and slide down the length of them until I’m nothing more than a numb puddle on the marble floor.
What the fuck?
Something moves in my peripheral vision, and I jerk my head upward to meet it.
It’s a camera. My eyes trail away from it to the next one just a few feet along. They are in every goddamn corner, in every room, their red lights winking down at me, like the Devil’s third eye.
Is this what he meant when he said he was going to break me? He meant mentally? Psychological warfare, instead of…
Blood rushes to my cheeks when I think about what I thought he meant.
What the sick, twisted part of me hoped he meant.
Sucking in a lungful of air, I scramble to my feet and look up at the camera closest to me. Forcing a wide grin to stretch across my face, I flip it off with my middle finger. “Fuck you,” I mouth.
I don’t care how deranged I must look, in crumpled clothes, with a bruised head, giving an inanimate object the bird. Donnacha Quinn has got me confused. Locking me in an apartment with nothing but my thoughts to play with won’t mess me up.
In fact, the lack of distraction gives me room to think.
The idea pops into my head almost immediately.
Giving the camera a lingering smug smirk, I saunter back down the hall and into one of the two rooms that aren’t off-limits to me—the bathroom. It takes almost ten minutes to check for cameras. I scan the grouting of every mosaic tile, run my hands over every marble surface, even the bathroom taps. But it seems like this is the only place in the apartment free from scrutiny. I could be wrong, but I’ll take the risk.
I turn my attention to the cabinet mirror, avoiding looking at my fucked-up reflection. Instead, I slide my fingers over each side, stopping at all four corners and pushing lightly. Corners are always the weakest part of a mirror.
When I find the corner with the most give, I rip off my hoodie and wrap it around my fist. Then I push it against the corner, slowly leaning my weight into it because I want it to break, not shatter. Eventually, I hear a triumphant crack.
This time, my laugh is more composed now that I have a bit of grip on the situation. Gently, I claw the small shard out of the mirror and hold it up. It glints, sharp and promising, under the bathroom’s recessed spotlights.
But if the Devil wants to play games, I can play them too. I slip the shard back into place, leaving nothing but a small hairline fracture in the glass, one that even the most meticulous cleaner would miss.
Riding on the high of my defiance, I stroll out of the bathroom and back into the living area. Passing the tide of locked doors, I absorb and accept that I might not escape today, but with the help of my makeshift weapon, I will escape.
Now, all that’s left to do is play the waiting game until the Devil or one of his minions decides to grace me with his appearance. I stick my head under the kitchen tap and gulp greedily—lack of glasses won’t stop me from hydrating—and then flop down on the sofa facing the television. I don’t know where the controls are, but I’m sure there’s a way to turn it on from the unit itself—
As I stand, something else catches my eye, suddenly sticking out like a sore thumb. The spiral staircase. It sits in the middle of the entire main space, snaking up to God knows where. It’s where I first saw Donnacha yesterday, coming down those steps with his cell to his ear. I can’t believe I didn’t check up there. I know it’s more than likely that I’ll be met by another locked door, but something about it calls to me.
I take the stairs two at a time, leaving a sweaty palm print trailing up the handrail. At the top is a door that doesn’t fit in with the aesthetic of the rest of the apartment. Instead of white and sleek, it’s imposing, crafted from mahogany wood, and punctuated with a gold door handle, carved into the shape of a serpent.
I swallow the sudden knot in my throat, the particles of my recent high settling around me like dust. Curling my hand around the body of the snake, I push. And somehow, I just know it’s going to be open.
I’m right.
It’s the smell I notice first. A cocktail of leather and expensive aftershave. The scent of the Devil. Of power. It creeps around the cracks of the door and up my nostrils, luring me into the darkness of the room. In here, there’s no floor-to-ceiling window to flood the space with light. I run my hand over quilted wallpaper until I find a switch, filling the room with low amber lighting.
I blink. It’s an office. A desk made from the same oak as the door takes center stage, a chocolate brown leather armchair behind it. On one wall, a window is covered with a thick velvet drape, and on the other, there’s a wet bar, complete with a towering liquor cabinet.
The hairs on the back of my neck tell me I shouldn’t be in here. Instinct claws at my throat, that small voice of reason in the back of my head waking up, quietly begging me to run.
I suck in a lungful of the thick air and force my feet to step inside. I trail a finger across the silk-like surface of the desk and sink into the well-worn grooves of the armchair.
