by Autumn Karr
“Should I go higher?” he asks in a deep, low voice. I squeeze my eyes shut but refrain from shaking my head. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me beg. The knife gains more pressure but then he suddenly lifts it off my skin, and then I feel it cutting through the plastic tie on my wrists. I open my eyes, following his every move.
“You try anything, and I’ll kill you.” He points the tip of the knife at me when he says it, looking me over from head to toe. Over the years he’s given me a few dirty looks, but he’s never looked at me like this.
With such loathing. Like I’m nothing.
“Or maybe I’ll let my men have you before I do,” he continues, although I hear the falter in his voice. I wish it gave me hope, but I don't feel it.
He squares his shoulders, then leans down and cuts the tie holding my ankles together. I stand up as soon as I can, just to feel my legs again. He pushes me back onto the bed, where I fall against the mattress.
“Did I say you can fucking move?” he asks, crossing his arms against his chest, the knife still in his right hand.
I whimper, shaking my head. He turns around to leave.
“Why did you bring me here?” I dare to ask.
His whole body stiffens, and when he turns back he gives me a slow evil grin. Shaking his head, he says, “You are not that naïve.”
DEVON
I descend the stairs from the top floor, jiggling the keys to the room I just locked Leighton in as I pass two of my uncle's men. They nod at me, but they don't say anything.
“Nobody goes up there,” I say, with as much calm as I can muster. It should be a given, but I want them to get the message loud and clear.
I may not be in charge around here, but my word still stands for something.
Inside, I'm anything but calm. The news must have spread by now that Leighton fucking Moore is locked up in a room on the top floor of a house full of people who want nothing but to harm her.
I don't live here, but it's a huge well-guarded estate, and nobody comes in or out if they're not allowed, so that should be enough to keep her inside. I hope she doesn’t try to escape, but that'd be really underestimating her. Sooner or later, she'll get an idea.
Reaching the guest room, I close the door and lock it behind me, taking off my heavy jacket and setting it on a chair in the corner. I exhale deeply, unbuttoning the top of my shirt and pulling out the envelope I stuffed in my pocket. It feels heavy and rough under my fingers. Exhausted, I slump onto the bed, stretching my neck left, then right, and running my hands through my hair. Looking for any kind of distraction, I glance around the room, at the sterile white walls and the black furniture, devoid of any personality, but it’s no good. I can't put it off anymore.
I open the envelope.
It’s different than I expected this moment to be.
There’s a deep hole somewhere inside my chest where a heart should be, because I feel nothing as I read that the skeletal remains of three bodies were found at the new high school construction site.
I feel nothing as I read that the bones belonged to a man, a woman, and a small child.
Without emotion, I go over the evidence and look at the photos of personal effects they found with the remains—a golden watch, a set of wedding rings with a date engraved on them, some disintegrated clothes. A red toy car that used to be mine.
This isn't news to me. I had eleven long years to come to terms with what I know is the truth.
My whole family is dead.
It doesn’t hurt anymore. Now, it’s a simple fact.
On a windy September night, the Moores took down my family. Rebecca, thirty-three years old, my mother. Joe, thirty-five years old, my father. And Joey. Just shy of five years old. My little brother.
For eleven years we’d had no word of them. They were just . . . gone.
There's no doubt in my mind I wasn't meant to be standing here right now. That there was supposed to be a fourth body in that unmarked, long forgotten grave. Why else would my uncle come and pick me up from boarding school the morning after they disappeared? Why else has he kept me guarded for the better chunk of my teenage years?
I’ve been waiting for solid proof for so fucking long. I figured they would try and hide the evidence, but that fucker George did his job, for once, saving the police report that was supposed to disappear.
The Moores and the Andres have been at it long before I was around. I knew that if anyone had reason to do this, it was them.
And now, we finally have proof.
I pull out the knife and the silky material from my pocket. I cut it in half, enjoying the way the sharp blade rips through the silk.
Now, I can finally get my revenge.
two
LEIGHTON
I wake up covered in sweat. When did I pass out? I lift my hand and touch my throbbing temple, wincing in pain and squeezing my eyes shut, praying that the pounding in my head goes away.
“Shit,” I curse when I replay in my mind what happened. George hit me, and Devon kidnapped me. Do they have a death wish? My dad would castrate both of them for touching me.
Any man in my family would.
I take in my surroundings. The room I’m in is decorated in black, white and red. The bed I’m lying on is plush, the smooth sheets underneath me satin. It’s not much smaller than my own room. I'd almost like it, if I wasn't here against my will.
My eyes scan the rest of it, looking for any means of escape. They clearly kidnapped the wrong girl if they think I’m going down without a fight. The sole window is barricaded by iron bars on the outside, and there are two doors on one side of the wall, one of which I assume is a closet, and one more on the opposite which I know is the way out.
I get up, and the dizziness rushes to my head, making me slump back onto the bed. I try again, this time slower, waiting for it to hit again, but it doesn't. I walk to the door silently, and slowly turn the doorknob. Locked. As I had suspected.
I try the window next, finding it sealed shut. I rattle it in its frame, but it won’t budge. And even if it would, it won’t serve any purpose. A glance through the window confirms my fears; there are no other houses or busy roads in sight. Even if I attempted to scream for help, none would come.
I walk to the two doors. One of them is a small closet, completely empty, and I give up straight away on searching it for anything that can help me escape.
The other door leads to a bathroom, and contains only one small octagon-shaped window with frosted glass. I stand up on the edge of the bathtub and try to open it, even though it’s most likely too small for me to fit through. The only thing I’m able to do is move it slightly to let fresh air in, but I’m greeted by another set of iron bars preventing anyone from getting out or in, even if I could squeeze myself through it.
Giving up on the window as a means of escape, I look around for anything I could use as a weapon. I like to think I can be pretty resourceful when I need to be. However, my search comes up empty. Unless I want to make a shank out of a toothbrush, the way my cousin Dom showed me how to do it.
The sudden emotion at the thought of him is overwhelming. Dom is the closest thing I have to a brother. After my godfather, his dad, went to prison, my dad took him in as his own son. Dom always took care of me, ever since we were children. If he were here, he’d know what to do.
I will myself not to cry, because he’s not here, so what’s the point? I could waste time feeling sorry for myself, wishing someone were here to help, but I was taught differently.
I have to fight.
I make use of the bathroom, and can’t help but pause when I pass the large mirror. My black hair is disheveled and knotty, falling down to my hips. My blue eyes are slightly red, and wide in my face. My whole right cheek is puffy and bruised, where that bastard George hit me.
He’s going to regret doing that.
I splash some water on my face, and decide to look around one more time. There has to be something I could use. Anything.
The mirror.
I look around for something to smash it with, but the only thing sturdy enough is a lamp with brass stand on the small bedside table. I guess it’s going to have to do. I use it to crack the mirror, and manage to pull out a piece of glass, cursing when I accidentally cut across my palm.
Exiting the bathroom, I look around the room to find something to wrap the piece of mirror in. My eyes land on the flimsy scarf he used to gag me. Fucking asshole. I wrap it around one end, making sure it’s as thick as I can get it so as not to cut myself again when I use it. After hiding it under my pillow, I sit back down on the bed to wait for whatever he has in store for me.
I play out various scenarios in my head, hoping to prepare myself for whatever is going to happen next. My fighting skills are limited to basic self-defense, a few classes here and there. I should have been better prepared for this moment, I realize. There’s only one thing I’m skilled in—shooting. My father insisted on it, and Dom taught me how to shoot. It doesn’t mean shit, since it’s doubtful I’ll be lucky enough to get my hands on a gun.
I don't know how much later, the door opens, and he walks inside. He’s shadowed, but I’d recognize his silhouette anywhere. He carries a plastic plate of food and a bottle of water, and places it on the floor.
On the floor. Like I’m a pet, or something.
My stomach growls loudly as the food smell hits my nose, reminding me I haven’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch.
“What do you want from me?” I ask him, trying to keep my voice strong and unwavering. I assume I’m here so he can collect a ransom from my dad, but I could be wrong. I know that he’d willingly pay whatever they want in order to get me back.
Devon stands there, watching me in silence. When he finally takes a step forward I stand up and walk straight up to him. The way he eyes me with disdain makes me bristle.
“You’re not going to get away with this,” I spit out at him, my hands trembling in fury.
“I'm pretty sure I already did.” He gives me a cocky grin that I'd really like to wipe off his face. “You're here, aren't you?” he asks, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. I move closer, invading his personal space, hoping to get any kind of reaction from him. He shakes his head, watching me in amusement. “Yeah, that's not going to work this time.”
I lift my hand to slap him but he catches it before I make contact with his face. I maneuver my leg to knee him in the balls but he blocks me just in time. I elbow him in the stomach, which is as hard as a rock, and I’m sure it hurts me more than it does him. Gripping my upper arms, he drags me through the room, pushing me face down onto the bed.
“You raise your hand to me again and you will regret it. Next time I'll send someone up here who isn’t as nice as me. Now get used to your surroundings, cause you’re going to be here for a while,” he says.
I inch my hand under the pillow searching for the piece of glass. As soon as he takes his weight off me, I turn and swing my arm, trying to cut him anywhere I can. It's a small victory when the shard makes contact with his arm, cutting his skin, but it’s nothing serious. He grabs me by the shoulder and pins me down again.
“Fuck,” he curses, taking in the weapon. I squeeze it in my hand and try to swing again, letting him know I won’t give it up. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” He pries the shard out of my clenching fingers, and then puts his hand around my neck, squeezing.
Warning.
“You move, and I’ll fucking kill you,” he growls, strengthening his grip. I let my body go limp.
He looks at his hand around my throat, and then his eyes find mine. I try to swallow, but he's practically suffocating me. He snatches his hand away and I gasp for air.
“I didn’t even think of the fucking mirror,” he mutters to himself, sounding shocked, and maybe even a little impressed. He pulls out some rope from his back pocket. His fucking pocket. The man is psychotic.
“Now, you’re going to stay here like a good girl until I clean up your mess,” he says condescendingly, binding my hands together, raising them above my head, and then tying them to the iron headboard. “Try and move, and you'll regret it.”
I can still feel his fingers wrapped around my throat. I fucking despise him.
He strides out of the room, coming back with a bag, dustpan and broom, and various tools. I ignore him as he cleans up, and when I hear the drill I know he’s taking down the rest of the mirror. I squirm, trying to remove the binds, but he’s tied them too tight. Bastard must have been a boy scout or something. Just my luck.
“Anything else up your sleeve?” he asks, chuckling as he walks past the bed and outside the door, the broken mirror in his arms.
I bang my head on the headboard. Seven fucking years of bad luck, all for nothing.
This time he comes back empty handed. He leans over me, untying me, and frowns when he sees the blood dripping down my palm. I rub my wrists as he leaves once more. Each time he locks the door behind him, obviously not taking any chances. He returns what must be half an hour later, carrying a huge bag.
“Clothes, toiletries and shit,” he says, dumping the bag on the floor. Then he surprises me by throwing me a package of Band-Aids.
I look at him curiously, my eyes dancing between the Band-Aids and him.
“Don't want any more blood on my sheets.”
I narrow my eyes. Fucking asshole. I grab for the package, taking out one Band-Aid. His gaze burns through me, but I ignore him. I apply it to the cut across my palm, and then I touch the side of my face, trying not to wince in pain. “I could use some painkillers, too,” I tell him.
“Yeah. Tough luck,” he says, shrugging.
“Why the hell are you being so mean?” I never thought he would be like this. The Devon in my head is someone else completely.
“I'm just being me.” His words are cold, emotionless. Realization hits me—this really is him, no matter what I made him out to be in my head.
“Look . . . ” I say, but his back is already turned to me. Without sparing me another glance, he leaves.
The sound of the lock is final, and echoes throughout the room.
I want to call out, I want to beg for some answers, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
How is this going to play out?
I try to make up some plan in my head. I might not be able to fight him, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up. Obviously I can't escape, not without some heavy strategizing.
My stomach rumbles. I can still smell the food he brought in. I'm so hungry, but I’m not stupid enough to eat it. Who knows what he did to it?
I sit on the bed, wrapping my arms around my legs. I put my head down on my knees, and allow myself a moment's weakness.
How the hell am I going to get out of here?
* * * *
Devon walks in a couple of hours later and studies me where I sit, huddled on the bed.
“Nice to see you’ve calmed down,” he says dryly. I don’t respond, my eyes darting to the door behind him.
“Don’t even bother. I really don’t have it in me for another round with you,” he says, taking a seat on the chair across from the bed, rubbing his hand over his face. I notice he has his arm patched up, and it gives me a secret thrill.
“You said you’ll kill me,” I tell him, shrugging. What did he expect, that I’d just sit here and wait for whatever he has in store for me? He should have known I’d keep fighting.
“Look.” He raises his head, pinning me with his emerald stare. “This situation is what it is. You're only here because of your own stupidity. You knew better than to follow people like us to dark places and expect to walk away. But you got caught, and the reality is that you’re here and need to be dealt with. I’m the only person standing between you and instant death right now. Everyone else in this place wants you gone.”
“And what do you want?” I ask, pulling the sheets closer to my body.
He opens his mou
th as if to say something, then shuts it and runs his hand through his hair. He gets up from the chair and eyes the untouched food on the floor, frowning. “Don't worry about that,” he finally says, bending down to pick it up. His shirt rides up, revealing his tanned back for just a second, and I think there’s something wrong with my brain for ogling him after everything that happened since last night. “For the time being, you need to stay here, and I’m warning you right now not to cause any trouble.”
My eyes snap to his, narrowing. He wants me to be his good little prisoner. Yeah, that'll happen.
“And if I do?” I ask.
He heaves a frustrated sigh, looking up at the ceiling.
“Then you die, Leighton,” he states. The way he says it, his tone perfectly even, as if he doesn’t care either way, has me panicking.
Although Devon and I haven’t spoken before, we have seen each other plenty of times over the years. A party here, a night out there—it was impossible to ignore him. People in these circles tend to flock together. If I said we grew up together it would technically be true, although we never socialized—at least not in the usual way.
It just feels wrong that he would want to intentionally hurt me. The way he's looking at me tells me he's serious, though. Apparently, I will get no compassion from Devon Andre.
“What are my chances of getting out of here alive?” I ask, deciding I have nothing to lose at this point.
Devon looks down at the floor for a few moments. And then he leaves without a word.
three
DEVON
I shouldn't have brought her here. The thought echoes in my mind as I sit in my uncle's office discussing this new turn of events regarding my parents. Everyone's putting their two cents in about what should come next, the excitement palpable in the room. But I'm not listening to any of it; instead, I'm wondering how I got myself into this mess.
Over the years, I’ve had many theories as to who it was that killed my family. Apart from us Andres, there are three other big families in Boston—two more Italian, and an Irish one.