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I close the book and toss it aside. “Yeah, well, I finished up all my errands and had some spare time.”
“It’s good for you,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm. “I know you must think I’m being cruel, but you love writing, Mari. I can’t let you waste that talent. It wouldn’t be fair to the rest of us.”
He places the pile of clothes on top of the dresser before passing me the tray. I dig into my meal, shoveling the food into my mouth as fast as I can. I glance at the bucket as the urge to use it hits me. Up until now, I’ve managed to avoid it, but I won’t be able to for much longer.
“When are you going to let me out of here?” I ask, wiping the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand.
He looks away, easing down onto the edge of the bed. “I don’t know. I’ll keep you posted.”
“You’re going to, though, right? You’re going to let me go?”
His face hardens as he snaps back to look at me. “Am I so hard to be around that you’re already counting down until you can leave me? Is that it, Mari? Haven’t I taken good care of you? Haven’t I made sure you have everything you need?”
“Of course,” I mutter. “You’ve been so kind to me, O—” I pause. “What should I call you?”
He doesn’t answer. “How do you feel reading your stories again?”
“I… It’s interesting. Hard. My stories are pieces of my life. My history. It’s hard to relive some of it.”
He nods. “Because of what happened to them?”
“Yes. And other things.” I point to my third novel. “My dad died while I was writing this one. And we lost our dog when I was on tour for this one.” I point to the fifth.
“I understand that. Your books are points in my life, too. I can tell you what was going on in my life when I read each one.” The skin around his eyes wrinkles with joy. “That’s why you’re special, Mari. Why your books mean so much to your readers. Tome. I had no one in my life. My parents never wanted anything to do with me. I had no friends. No girlfriends. It was only books. And movies. They helped me escape. Your books saved my life when I was at my lowest point. When I thought I couldn’t go on. I know you don’t agree with my methods, but that’s why I had to do this. I… I know how this sounds, but I believe,no, I know… Your books saved me, so I could save you.”
“I don’t need saving,” I say, shaking my head slowly. I study him, hoping with everything in me that I can make him understand. “Truly. I lost my family. I’m grieving. It’s normal. I’m allowed to be sad.”
“It’s been a year. It’s time to put yourself back together. Be sad, sure, but if you don’t start writing now, you never will.”
“Maybe that’s okay.”
“No.” He bellows the word as if transformed into a monster. My eyes are so wide it hurts to stare at him, my breath caught in my throat. He stands, his arm rearing back, and he slaps the tray of food across the room. The contents of the sandwich separate, and the tomatoes and cucumbers slam into the wall and bounce off, landing on the carpet. “No. That willneverbe okay. Do you hear me?Never.” He’s shaking, fuming. His face splotches with scarlet. “You have to keep going, Mari. If not for yourself, for us.”
“There are other authors—”
“Otherauthors?” He scoffs, chuckling under his breath dryly. “I can’t believe you just said that. It’s like I don’t know who you are anymore. Like you don’t know who you are.” He grabs the buttons of his shirt, working them angrily until it’s open.
He glances down and I stare in horror at what he’s trying to show me. My words have been inked into his skin, all across his chest, his stomach, his arms. There seems to be no rhyme or reason, no pattern, but I recognize my words. Lines I once spent countless hours perfecting.My words are tattooed into his skin.It takes several seconds for me to process the realization. I suddenly feel as if I might get sick. “There are no other authors who compare to you. None who make me feel as seen as you do. Don’t you get that?”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. I can’t bear to meet his eyes. This just keeps getting worse. Every time I think there’s nowhere more troubling to go, he manages to prove me wrong. “I didn’t understand, but I do now. I’m sorry.”
Clearly disgusted, he stalks out of the room and locks it behind him, leaving the food on the floor for me to finish.
Without shame, I slip off the bed and begin gathering tomatoes and cucumbers back onto the plate, then piece the sandwich together again. I don’t feel hungry now, but I have no doubts my appetite will return.
I don’t expect him to come back in, so when the door opens again, I scramble back to the bed in a hurry.
He sticks his head inside and looks at me. The darkness I saw in his eyes before is back, and it chills me to my core. He steps into the room and closes the door, slipping the key into the dead bolt to lock us in from the inside. I’ve never seen him take so many precautions.
When he turns around, he shoves his hand into his pocket and retrieves a knife.
“What are you doing?”
He reaches for my third novel, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and without saying a single word, he’s given me an answer.
Soon, both people in this room will have my words carved into their skin.
CHAPTERNINE
