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The next day when I wake, everything from dinner is gone from where I left it on the floor. The idea that he’s been in my room while I sleep is somehow more terrifying than anything else he’s done so far.
I sit up, wiping drool from my chin, and look around. It’s the first good night of sleep I’ve had in a while, and at first I thought it was because I’d gone to sleep with my stomach so full, but now I wonder if he slipped something into my food.
When my eyes land on the nightstand, I spot a fresh bottle of water, a new glass of wine, a rose, a toothbrush, and a tube of toothpaste.
My throat goes dry.
Like I suspected, he’s not finished with what he started last night.
That’s further confirmed when I spot my fourth novel lying on the nightstand beside the lamp. I’d missed it at first.
Chills line my skin as I realize what it means. My fourth novel is about a serial rapist. A man who takes victims into a hidden room in his house, who drugs and assaults and tortures them until he’s done with them.
I can’t breathe.
Think.
Think.
Think.
I’d tried to be smart last night, tried to connect with him, and this is where it got me. We’ve probably always been on this path, but now my foolishness has sped up the course.
I glance down at my leg. The bandage is now coated in dried blood. It’s been a while since he changed it, but I don’t dare wish for him to return. Maybe I’ll get blood poisoning and die before he makes it back.
Is that what I want?
I’ve never been one to actually contemplate suicide, even on my darkest days. But now? This is a fate worse than death. Whatever I’ve been through is nothing compared to what he obviously has planned for me.
But there’s nothing in this room I could use to hurt myself. Nothing sharp. Nothing dangerous.
The tube of toothpaste sits—bright red and distracting—on the nightstand. I pick it up and read the back. Toothpaste is poisonous if you eat enough of it, right?
I remember being so cautious with it when Liam was a young boy. Fluoride. That’s the poison. I read the warning label, which says you should contact Poison Control if you ingest more than the amount necessary to brush your teeth.
Would it be enough to kill me?
It’s possible. Of course, it’s also possible it will just give me a raging case of the shits or cause me to bleed internally. To prove to him I tried to escape again. To make sure I suffer more. Is it worth the risk?
I wish I could say I’m not serious, but I am. I spend the next several hours contemplating it. Earnestly. Weighing the risks and rewards.
Decision made, I slide to the end of the bed and open the tube.
I drop a pea-sized amount onto the bristles of the toothbrush and brush my teeth carefully, spitting into the bucket Chris must’ve emptied during his late-night visit.
I’m not going to let him win.
I unequivocally refuse.
I’m not going down without a fight.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
With my teeth brushed, I feel like a new woman. Like my old self. Granted, my hair is so oily it sticks to my scalp, and I smell worse than I ever have before, but at least it’s some piece of normalcy.
I use some of the water he gave me, a pair of fuzzy socks, and the bottom corner of my blanket to try and wash some of the smells off, but I’m not sure it’s working. I’m convinced that if the silence doesn’t drive me crazy, being filthy will.
What I wouldn’t give for a hot bath right now.
