by Helen Bell
Blood for Breakfast
Sydney Newbern, Book 1
Helen Bell
Copyright © 2020 Helen Bell
All rights reserved.
Email: [email protected]
Reproduction of this book and/or any portion thereof, in any media, whether written, electronic, oral, visual or tangible for without written permission of the publisher or author is strictly prohibited. No derivative works may be created without the author's explicit written consent.
This book is a work of fiction. No factual claims and/or statements are made. All character names are fictional, and any similarity to actual events is coincidental.
ISBN: 978-965-599-119-2
To my sister.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 1
The first time I heard the wail from the other side of the wall, shock spiraled through me. Not because it sounded strange, unearthly, but because it meant I wasn’t alone. The sobbing had occurred every single night at five past two a.m. on the dot.
Tonight was no different. As the wail erupted from the cell next to mine, I pulled the rough blanket over my head to drown out the din. Closing my eyes, I tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t. The noise was not the problem; my thoughts were. They bounced like Ping-Pong balls being tossed around in a box. When they finally settled, they decided to replay that day, that awful day my nightmare had begun, three weeks ago …
Laurel, my college roommate, had invited me and some of our friends to her hometown. Her parents were going to be out of town for the weekend.
“Perfect timing to throw a party,” she’d said with excitement. To me, she’d also suggested going hiking the day before the party, as both of us loved outdoor activities.
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it,” I’d told her, getting ready for bed.
“Okay, but let me know by tomorrow night,” she’d said.
The next day, my alarm hadn’t gone off. It was nine a.m. Late for class, I jumped out of bed. Laurel was still asleep, snoring loudly, as I brushed my teeth and got dressed. After I was all set, I shouldered my backpack and dashed out of my dorm, skipping breakfast. Dark gray clouds hovered overhead. I zipped up my coat. It was about to rain, and I wished it were sunny. I needed a break from the constant rain.
“Hey, Syd, wait up.” I heard June’s voice behind me as I hurried to the philosophy building. I’d met June at freshman orientation, and we’d become close friends.
I turned, walking backward. “Sorry, June, I’m seriously late for class. Talk to you later.”
She stopped moving toward me and waved a hand in the air. “Yeah, no prob. I’ll see you.”
A few minutes later, I reached the lecture hall. So did Professor Reed. I rushed to my seat and sat down.
“Morning, sunshine. Glad you made it. Hot date last night?” Ethan whispered from the seat next to me as Professor Reed started his lecture.
My eyes moved to Ethan. He looked at me through his mess of brown hair. His hazel eyes projected a bit of sadness.
“I wish, but no. Just overslept. Even Laurel’s snoring didn’t wake me up, and my stupid alarm decided not to work this morning. Where were you yesterday? Laurel waited for you.” Laurel and Ethan had dated last year for a short period before they realized they liked each other more as friends.
“Yeah, sorry. ’Bout that. Kimberly called …” He didn’t need to say more. The last two words explained everything. His ex-girlfriend had broken his heart when she’d transferred to another college, somewhere in Michigan. Preferring not to do a long-distance relationship, she’d ended their relationship, and now every time he heard her voice, he was a mess.
“Talking to exes you still have feelings for is a big no-no. You gotta meet someone new. Heal your heart. Oh, by the way, Josie—you know, my neighbor across the hall—has a major crush on you. She thinks you’re cute. You should totally ask her out.” I meant to cheer him up, but instead, he looked offended.
“Cute? What am I, a puppy? Thanks, but it’s gonna be a hard pass for me. Besides, I’m kinda dating Cheryl now.”
My lips parted with surprise. “Cheryl? Really?” I thought she wasn’t his type. Guess I was wrong.
A guy in the row ahead of us turned. At his be-quiet stare, I pulled out my notebook, opened it, and wrote down: Are you coming to Laurel’s this weekend? If you are, bring Cheryl with you.
“I haven’t decided yet,” he whispered, and the guy who had silenced me shot him a glare. We kept quiet, and our focus went to Professor Reed’s lecture.
When it was over, Ethan walked me to the entrance of the philosophy building. It was pouring rain outside. As we waited it out inside the building, Ethan spoke with Cheryl on the phone, and I texted Zoey. I told her about my possible hiking plans with Laurel and asked her whether she’d want me to stop by her college on my way to Laurel’s.
My sister texted right back: You betcha. You still owe me a drink, and don’t think I’ve forgotten about it.
I chuckled softly and typed: See you Friday.
After I sent the message and put my phone back in my jeans pocket, I decided I’d say yes to Laurel. And why not, actually? I loved hiking. I’d spent a great deal of time in the outdoors with my father when Zoey and I were little. It’d always been fun. Also, saying yes meant I’d get to see Zoey and catch up with her.
When Friday came, I got to Laurel’s home, after I’d visited my sister. It was late, and we went right to bed. I slept in one of the many rooms at her parents’ house. In the morning, the alarm woke me up. I was bone-tired but forced myself out of bed. I got dressed in a sports bra, pants, a long-sleeved shirt, a jacket, and hiking shoes, then went downstairs to the rustic living room to wait for Laurel to get ready.
I yawned as I looked through the window, which made up the entire wall. I took in the astonishing views of high mountains and green trees everywhere. The sun just peeked over the horizon, casting beautiful colors of red and purple throughout the sky.
“Top of the mornin’ to you,” Laurel called in a cheerful voice.
Her red hair was tied up in a high ponytail and, like me, she wore hiking clothes.
“Come on, let’s fix some breakfast, then move our asses outta here. I wanna be there before the parking lot gets full,” she said, and we moved to the kitchen. After we finished eating, I hoisted my bag over my shoulder, and we left the house.
Forty minutes later, Laurel parked at the empty trailhead of Bemis Ledge. I climbed out of the car and rubbed my hands together against the morning cold. The sky was bright and cloudless.
“Great day for hiking,” I said.
“I know, right?” she responded as we headed to the wooden sign that marked the beginning of the trail. We climbed over loose stones until we reached an undulating trail that ascended through tall trees. I stopped to take out a bottle of water from my bag. Standing in front of me, Laurel followed suit. We drank and caught our breath for a
bit. The chirping of the birds was all that punctuated the silence—until Laurel’s scream pierced the air. Her bottle fell from her hand and hit the ground. She stared at something over my shoulder, horror painting her features. I whirled around to see what—or who—terrified her. A man, donning a coat, jeans, and a wool hat, was pointing a gun at us.
“P-please, we have no money.” Laurel’s voice shook.
“But take whatever you want.” With a wobbly hand, I handed him my hiking bag, my heart thundering in my chest.
An annoyed expression on his face, he threw it to the ground and lunged at me, striking the back of my head with the gun handle. I slumped to the ground, and everything went black. When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a cold floor, alone, in a room big enough for a cot, a sink, and not much else. I slowly rose and touched the spot where the man had hit me, hissing with pain.
Where was I? I studied my surroundings. The windowless room was lit with a weak bulb overhead and had a heavy metal door at one end. The walls, ceiling, and floor were gray concrete. In a corner to my left sat a metal toilet/sink combination and a tiny shower with no doors. To my right, a narrow, wooden pallet covered with a nylon pad served as a bed.
I only just recognized that I wore different clothes: loose blue pants, a black T-shirt, and white socks, no shoes.
Cold fear slithered through me. How long had I been out? I looked down at my watch. Jesus, it was six fifteen p.m. I’d been unconscious for eleven hours. Feeling a mild burning sensation in my hand, I turned my palm up. What the hell? There was a tattoo of a number on it. 777. The skin around the black ink was red and puffy. Panic settled into my system.
I stepped to the metal door and pounded on it with the side of my fist. “Hello? Is there anybody out there?” I received no answer. I kept banging, but no one responded, and eventually I gave up.
After a few hours, during which I’d been racking my brain for ways to escape, the man who had threatened Laurel and me with the gun entered the room, clad in the same clothes as before but sans the wool hat and coat. His short, dark hair was ruffled. He was tall and around forty-five. His brown eyes were fixed on me, his expression grave. He held a glass of water.
I backed away from him. “Why’d you ink me? What do you want with me? Listen, you really don’t want to keep me here. My father is a detective with the New York City Police Department. If anything happens to me, you’ll be sorry.”
“Shut up, Sydney.” His voice was sharp with anger.
I frowned. “H-how do you know my name?” Had he forced Laurel to tell him? Oh my God, Laurel! “Where’s my friend? What did you do to her?”
He moved toward me. I stepped backward until my back hit the wall. He closed the distance between us and extended his hand to show me a small red pill.
“Swallow it.”
I inspected the capsule. What the hell was it? Poison? Drugs? Taking it was out of the question. I craned my neck to the side and saw an opportunity to escape; the metal door behind him was ajar. I ran toward it, but the door shut by itself. I scrunched my face with confusion. Did he control it electronically? I turned to face him, frustrated.
Lips pursed with anger, he came to stand in front of me, the pill in one hand, the glass of water in the other. “Take it.”
Petrified, I smacked the capsule out of his hand. “No. I’m not swallowing anything! Let me go!”
He gritted his teeth in rage and whacked me across the face with the back of his hand. The force of the blow knocked me to the floor, and I hit my head. Dizziness assailed me, and I sank into blackness.
When I regained consciousness, I found myself on my back, restrained to the bed with a strap around each ankle and wrist, and another one around my waist. I couldn’t move.
“Don’t you think it’s a tad too much?” I said, and hissed as pain exploded across my face when he hit me.
He stood by the bed, looking down at me. “I imagine you don’t want to end up dead with a bullet in your head, like your friend. So I suggest you take the pill.”
Dead? Laurel was dead? Oh God, no, no, no, no. This was not happening. He moved the capsule, which was between his fingers, closer to my mouth. I stared at it.
Angry, sad, and scared at the same time, I blurted out, “Go to hell!” The side of my face hurt as I moved my jaw, but I continued talking. “It’s not going inside my mouth. You want to kill me? Do it now. Go ahead! Just do it already!”
He sighed. “Perhaps you don’t value your life, but what about Zoey’s? What about your parents’? Do you care about their lives?”
How did he know my sister’s name? “You’re crazy. The police—”
“The police—or your cop father—can’t help you.” He bent down, put the pill and the glass of water on the floor, and then walked out of the room.
Shortly afterward, he came back, holding a tablet. He approached the bed.
“Your whole house is wired with tiny cameras. Your parents and sister are being watched by my men twenty-four seven, inside and outside your house. Here’s a live video feed from your living room, in case you don’t believe me.” He flipped the tablet around to show me its screen, which displayed my mother sitting on the couch while reading a book, unaware that she was being watched.
Shocked, I shook my head. “Jesus, you’re sick. You need help, you son of a bitch.”
He seemed to be impervious to my insult. His cold gaze was on me. “One word from me, and my men will kill them. It’s up to you if they live or die. Do as you’re told and nothing bad will happen to them.”
Despair fell over me. “Why are you doing this? Why? Why me?” Overwhelming helplessness engulfed me.
He ignored my questions and repeated, “Do as you’re told, every day, and nothing bad will happen to them.”
“Every day? No, you—you can’t keep me here forever. No, you can’t. Please let me go. I won’t say anything. I won’t call the police. I swear, just let me go, please.”
He barked a cruel laugh and then sat on the bed. I wrenched my stare away from him in disgust, and he grabbed my hair, pulling it back, forcing me to look at his face.
“How stupid do you think I am, huh?” he said. “You’re not going anywhere, so you better get used to the fact that this room is your new home.”
“I won’t stay here for long. I’ll find a way to escape,” I told him, sneering, and then immediately regretted my outburst. Provoking him was a bad idea; he had people—killers—watching my family. One word from him …
He tightened his grip on my hair until I squealed in pain. “Listen to me, you little bitch. Escaping this room is impossible.” A few seconds of silence passed before he let go of my hair and stood up. “But,” he went on, “let’s entertain the idea that somehow, by some miracle, you manage the impossible and break out. What do you think will happen? Huh?”
“You’ll murder my family,” I said, feeling defeated.
“No. Your punishment for escaping will be worse.”
Was there a worse punishment than killing my family? Apparently, to him, there was.
“If you succeed in getting out of here alive,” he said, “you’ll find yourself all alone out there, without friends, without family. You know why? Because I will not allow you to return to your home, to talk to your family, to talk to your friends. I know who they are. You can’t go to the police either. Remember, I’m watching your family’s every move. One word to the cops and I’ll order my men to off your sister and parents. The same goes if you go back home.
“So you’d be free, yet it’d be torture. Your family would be alive, but you could never be with them.” A cold smile spread across his face, sending a shiver of fear down my spine. “But enough about that.” He picked up the capsule from the floor. “Are you going to keep your family safe? Are you going to behave and do as I say?”
I bit back a nasty reply and answered, “Yes.”
“Good. I’ll unstrap you, but if you try to run toward the door or fight me, you go back to being restr
ained. Understood?”
“Yes.”
He untied me and said, “You’ll be taking a pill like the one in my hand every day in the morning instead of breakfast.” He pointed at a security camera in a ceiling corner. “Then you’ll look up at that, open your mouth, and lift your tongue.”
My eyes went up to the small dome in the corner and then to the toilet and shower. So much for privacy.
“Pervert,” I murmured as he handed me the pill. I downed it with a glass of water, and I’d been doing it every morning for the past three weeks.
The red capsule hadn’t affected my body in any way, at least as far as I could tell, and I wondered what exactly it contained. Why did he want me to take it? What was he planning to do with me?
Since that day, I hadn’t seen him, or anyone else, again, and I had a routine. Three times a day, the slot in the metal door opened—my only contact with the outside—and a food tray and other stuff slid in. Everything passed through the aperture: the pills, lunch, dinner, dirty and clean clothes, which were always blue pants, black T-shirts, white socks, bras, and underwear. Also, dishes and things I requested, like tampons. The soft light in the room was always on. Having no choice, I learned to sleep with it. Time dragged by as I languished in the dank room, cut off from human contact. When I wasn’t contemplating methods of escape, I thought about my family, especially after I’d woken up from the loud cries.
Tonight, though, my brain decided to relive that day I’d been kidnapped, and it made me restless; I couldn’t go back to sleep. When the sobbing stopped, I pulled the blanket from my face and looked at the tattoo on my hand. The black ink showed the digits 756.
When I’d first noticed the ink had changed, I freaked out, then pulled some all-nighters to watch it. I’d learned that the number was decreasing by one every twenty-four hours. I’d come up with two possible logical explanations for the phenomenon: either I was going insane, or I was swallowing a pill that caused the ink to alter. Yeah, the second option sounded crazy. Which had led me to conclude that maybe the first explanation was the only explanation. As if to confirm it, a male voice called my name inside my head.