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“But—” His voice is too loud, so he stops, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. He starts again, “You can’t leave yet. Look at all the effort I went through to make sure you’re comfortable. All of your favorites.” He gestures around the room, pointing to the stack of old horror DVDs and a bowl of peaches. “I have a bottle of chardonnay upstairs chilling, too.”
“Oh. Wow.” I assume I’m failing to hide my shock. I have no idea how he knows my favorite things. Though I’m sure I’ve mentioned my love of grape-flavored candies and white wine in interviews, as well as mentioned several old horror movies in my books, this feels…stalkerish. “That’s so nice.”
“Oh, I didn’t even show you the best part.” His eyes light up as he pulls open the drawer to the nightstand, and every muscle in my body tenses. “Fuzzy socks.” He pulls out a handful of them. “You said once in an interview you can’t write without fuzzy socks. I made sure to get several, so you’d feel more comfortable.”
I force a smile. “You really know your stuff.”
“I know everything about you,” he says, his voice somehow both whimsical and stern.
“You didn’t need to go through all this trouble. It’s very kind. Really, though, I should be going.” I head for the door, but he grabs me, his grip too tight.
“Owen, please…” I whimper.This is happening. This is really, really happening.
“I told you, you can’t go just yet.” He pushes me back onto the bed and points toward the corner. “I have a camera there, so I’ll be able to see and hear if you need anything.”
“A camera?” I study the small, round ball in the far corner, mesmerized by its blinking red light. “If I need anything? What are you talking about?”
“It’s how I knew you were awake.” He seems almost proud of himself. As if he’s done me a favor.
“You’ve been…watching me?” The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
“Just to make sure you were okay. I want to keep you safe.” He smiles, touching my arm as if it’s meant to be reassuring.
“I appreciate that, but I should really get going and try to see a doctor to make sure everything’s okay. Passing out isn’t normal for me.”At least not when I’m sober.“If you want to make sure I’m okay, you should let me go now so I can get checked out by a professional.” I fight for my voice to sound more powerful than I feel.
“I’m sorry, Mari. Truly.” His face tilts toward the floor, then back up at me. “But I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
I blink. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“You’re going to stay with me for a while. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to get to know you better.” His grin goes wide. “I want to make sure you’re okay because I don’t think you are.”
Chills line my skin and I suddenly feel dizzy, as if this is all just a fever dream. I can only hope it is. “But why? Why would you do this? This is kidnapping. You can’t just hold me here against my will.” I hate how badly my voice is shaking. I hate myself for not being strong and assertive, as I know I should be.
“Of course I can. More than that,I have to.It’s my duty. My obligation. Mari,” he says, eyes sparkling, chest puffing, “I’m your number-one fan.”
CHAPTERFIVE
When the door opens again, it’s been several hours since he left. Maybe a day. In here, I have no way of keeping track of time.
The room is in disarray—the DVDs he left me are scattered on the floor, drawers flung out from the nightstand. The lamp is lying on the floor, shade askew, but otherwise still lit. All of this damage is a product of my reaction moments after he left and locked the door, shoving me to the ground so hard I cracked my elbow on the concrete floor. The impact left a nasty bruise.
In some ways, it still doesn’t feel real. In some ways, I still want to please him. To be on my best behavior.
In others, I want to slit his throat.
Conveniently, he’s left nothing that would make an effective weapon. The drawers are thin, pressed wood that might cause a headache, but little else. The lamp is a cheap plastic meant to look like silver metal. I know this can’t be an accident; he’s thought everything through. Perhaps I’m not the first person he’s locked down here.
He surveys the room with what I suspect is pride in his eyes before laying a change of clothes on the bed. Sweatpants and a T-shirt that must belong to him. The look in his eyes tells me I’ve done exactly what he hoped I would. Without a single word, he begins cleaning the room. He picks up the drawers and slides both back into the nightstand. He carefully places each pair of fuzzy socks into the top one. When he’s done, he sets the bucket from the corner—which I’m assuming will be my makeshift toilet while I’m here—back into place.
The DVDs are next, and he takes the time to place them back in a neat stack, bookending it with both hands to make sure it’s straight. He sets the lamp where it belongs and then, with meticulous effort, picks up each individually wrapped candy and places them back in the yellow, plastic bowl before putting it on the nightstand too. Last is the peaches, some of which are no longer any good. He drops the bruised ones into the bucket and dusts off the few that can be saved before putting them in their bowl and back on the dresser, where the stack of DVDs rests. Until now, I haven’t thought to ask how I’m supposed to watch any of these DVDs with no television in the room.
Once he’s satisfied with his work, he sits on the edge of the bed, running a hand over the comforter to smooth out the space in front of him. I pull my knees into my chest, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Now then, are you calmed down?”
As if I’m a fucking toddler.
“I understand this is all somewhat upsetting, but I assure you I have no plans to harm you. I love you. Don’t you see that?”
