I swallow back what’s rising in my throat because crying will only slow me down. I need to think clearly.
It takes me a moment to ease out from between the sheets. My limbs move at their own lazy pace, separate from my brain. I should be sore from running for my life last night, but I never even had the chance. I glance at the door. Fear of what’s behind it sends me in the opposite direction to a large bay window. I climb onto the cushion, and my body thrills when the window gives way to my push. I peer over the sill into what appears to be the backyard. It’s a sharp drop without even so much as a ledge to balance on. I assess that I’m on maybe the third or fourth floor. Below, stone paths carve a maze between manicured green grass and trim rosebushes that bloom deep red. The lawn is expansive, like my room, and ends at a wall of large trees that continue until the horizon.
I take a lungful of fresh air and decide that the window is a last resort.
On the bare balls of my feet, I cross the room. My eyes furtively scan as I tiptoe. There’s a small sitting area between the window and a fireplace, one closed door, a set of French double doors, also closed, a desk, and nightstands that flank the bed. Because of its size, it takes me longer than it should to cross any room.
Everything in my chest evaporates when I touch the door handle, my throat painfully dry as I swallow. My blood churns through me as I apply pressure to the knob. It turns, and keeps turning. It doesn’t stop. I can hardly believe when I pull and the door slivers open.
It hits me then that I’m wearing an expensive negligee and sleeping in a heavenly bed in what appears to be a very large home. Could I possibly have jumped to conclusions? I’m still frozen with my fist curled around the knob when a man speaks.
“Are you decent?”
My mouth opens. Sense flees me. I scream.
An elderly man bustles into the room and closes the door behind him. “Dear, please, don’t scream. You’ll alarm the staff.” The man wrings his hands, his face reddening as he waits. “I’m sorry to startle you. Please, do not be afraid.”
I stop abruptly, my chest heaving. The man is hunched forward slightly, his eyes wide with concern. His thinning white hair is parted and combed to the side. He’s dressed in a suit and waistcoat that perfectly fit his small frame. I decide that I can take him.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Archibald N. Hughes the Third. But you may call me Norman—that’s what the ‘N’ stands for.” He bows with a smile. “I’m the mansion’s butler.”
“Butler?” I repeat. “Where am I?”
“The mansion.” He waves as if I should know by my surroundings, but my eyes are trained on him. My hands attempt modesty, one splayed across the thin layer of silk covering my chest and the other tugging on the hem.
“No, where the hell am I? What city am I in? How did I get here?”
He purses his lips at me. “There’s no need to get hostile. I’m not here to hurt you.”
“You kidnapped me,” I shriek.
“I cannot comment on that,” he says resolutely, clasping his hands in front him. “What I can do is help situate you. This is your bedroom.”
My heart drops into my stomach. My bedroom? Mine? “You didn’t tell me where I am.”
He hesitates before indicating the door furthest from us. “You have your own private bathroom,” he says and then glides his hand to the next set of doors, “and a closet full of the finest clothing available. As I said, you can call me Norman. I am at your beck and call.”
Spots cloud my vision. I walk backward, feeling behind me until I touch mattress. I lean against the bed’s edge. “I don’t understand,” I say. “I grew up in Fenndale. I live in New Rhone. My name is—” My eyes cut sharply to his. “I want to go home.”
His already mild expression softens. “Oh, dear. Don’t worry. As I said, I’m here to help, not hurt. You have a maid as well. She’s called Rosa. We’ll see to it that you’re comfortable during your stay.”
My cheeks flare with heat. “What stay? Why am I here? Did you bring me here?”
He straightens up as much as his aged back allows. “Now, do I look capable of such a thing? You’re here at the request of the Master of the House.”
“Who?”
“The Master of—”
“And that would be?”
“Sadly, I’m not at liberty to disclose that information. And neither is Rosa, though she doesn’t speak English well anyway.”
My eyes search the room helplessly.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “You slept quite long.”
“I want to leave.”
“You cannot,” he returns gravely.
“So I’m-I’m what? A prisoner?”
He blinks slowly at me. “You cannot leave this house.”
I inhale up at the ceiling. “Why won’t you answer my questions?” I ask. My legs quiver, and Norman edges closer to me. I slap his forearm when he reaches out, and he withdraws.
“Perhaps you should lie down again. It would be my pleasure to bring you your breakfast in bed.”
He leaves, and somehow I get on the comforter, crossing my legs underneath me. I will myself to think. Norman said I was confined to the house but not the room. I look to the closed door. Last night someone was in this room, standing near the bed, watching. Waiting. It wasn’t Norman. It was a phantom, a shadow. It was a beast.
Norman returns to the room, fumbling with the knob and pushing the door open with his back. He spins around to reveal a tray weighed down by food. “Let’s try this again, Cataline,” he says.
“How do you know my name?”
“I wasn’t sure of your preference this morning, so I had Chef Michael make a variety of things. I also don’t know when you’ve last eaten.” He raises an amused eyebrow at me as he nears the bed. “Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, pancakes, and a bowl of Shredded Mini-Wheats. The cereal I prepared myself,” he adds with a chuckle. He shows me the tray again and nods. “Well, go on. Sit back.”
I maneuver so my back is against the headboard, but I don’t let him out of my sight.
“Is this like fattening up a pig before you eat it? What is all this?”
“Not at all. Just trying to make you comfortable.”
“Is it drugged?”
“It might be,” he says, “and this might be a gas chamber disguised as a luxurious bedroom. What choice do you have? If we wanted to hurt you, we would.”
My stomach rumbles loudly, and he stifles a smile while placing the offering across my lap.
I sniff the orange juice, swirling it in its glass. I look at him over the rim and set it back down. My eyes shift to the door and quickly back to him. On the tray is a vase with a single rosebud. “Is that from the garden?” I ask.
“Try to enjoy your breakfast.”
I shovel a spoonful of cereal in my mouth and chew, glad he at least picked my favorite kind.
“There you are,” Norman says. “I’ll let you eat.”
“No,” I cry. Milk dribbles from the corners of my mouth, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. “Stay. Answer my questions.”
“I’m afraid I’ve told you everything. There isn’t much more information I can provide, aside from a tour of the house. Eat your breakfast, and I’ll be back to check on you soon.”
“Did you take off my clothes?”
His face mars with a grimace, but he schools it. “Heavens, no. Rosa dressed you in that. The sleeping gown was chosen by the Master of the House.”
“Why does he care what I wear to bed?”
“I can assure you that I would never violate you in such a manner,” Norman says as though he didn’t hear me. He looks about to speak when a telephone’s earsplitting ring sounds from the hallway. He straightens up and darts away, taking only enough time to lock the door behind him. I stare after him until salty tears streak my cheeks, pooling at the corners of my lips.
When I escape, there’s no knowing how long I’ll be without food, so I eat ever
ything. I survey the empty tray, my eyes resting on the silverware. I pick up the butter knife and run it along the fattest part of my palm. It leaves a wrinkle. I toss it in favor of the fork.
I leave the rest on the bed and slowly, carefully, walk to the door. Hoping the click of the lock was my imagination, I grip the knob. It’s a cold, brass mass in my fist, like the hardened knot of a heart. I wrench it forcefully, trying to push through the resistance. I twist it until my hand stings from the metal’s burn.
With a sigh, I turn back for the bed but find myself heading to the fireplace instead. I lean in and inspect wood that’s clearly never been used. There’s a knock at the door, and without thinking, I stick the fork in my mouth and use both hands to pull a log free. Somebody raps twice more, the handle jiggles, and I panic. I balance the fork between to fingers and rush toward the door as it opens.
“Cataline?”
I raise the log when Norman enters, but in the doorway behind him looms a brute—as big a man as I’ve ever seen. He glances over my head and rolls his eyes.
The lines in Norman’s forehead deepen as he sighs. “Cataline, listen to me. There is no escaping this situation. Best that you don’t resist, or you’ll make things harder on everyone. The Master of the House—”
“Is that him?” I whisper, staring at the tattoos peeking from his shirt’s collar. His neck is red in a way that I think it might be all the time.
“No. That’s head of security, Carter. The Master is kind but impatient. Order and control are important to him. Anything outside that displeases him.”
My arms quake from the weight of the log. I’m unusually weak with fatiguing muscles and wobbly legs. My breakfast rises up the back of my throat. I lower the log in front of me.
“You can go, Carter,” Norman says. “I trust Cataline.”
Carter shrugs, staring back at me. “Can’t. I’m supposed to make sure this one doesn’t pull anything.”
Norman turns his head over his shoulder. “I said you’re dismissed.”
“No can do. Boss’s orders.”
Norman huffs and returns his attention to me. “I assure you, none of us intend on harming you; we want only to make you comfortable. But as you will see on the tour, there is no escape. The exits are sealed and security is top of the line. The house is under lockdown. My advice to you is if you’re told to do something, do it.”
His words anger me, tiny, hot needles piercing at the hope in my heart.
Norman looks back at Carter. “I suppose you’ll be joining—”
The log hits him squarely in the chest when I heave it, thudding on the floor. He stumbles back as I blow past him into Carter’s grasp. I stab the fork into his shoulder, and he releases me instantly with a guttural noise.
His angry curses echo until I’m halfway down the hall, heading for a staircase. I take the stairs two at a time, almost face planting before I reach the ground level. I race across the foyer to the front door, but it’s locked. My entire body fights with the handle until I hear hurried footsteps on the stairs.
I sprint for the nearest door in the hallway. It won’t budge either, but it’s less solid. I pull on the handle like I hate it, like it’s my worst enemy, and throw my shoulder into the door over and over until it finally pops open. In the room I spot a phone on a desk and a window. I close the door behind me. The lock is busted, so I wedge a chair under the handle like I’ve seen in movies.
The window is either locked or stuck beyond my strength. I pick up the phone and dial 911 while dragging another chair with me to the window. I yank the receiver from my ear and glance at it because there’s no sound on the line, not even a dial tone. I throw it at the desk, and the whole phone flies off the edge, scattering papers everywhere.
A folder hits my feet, and I crouch down. “Riviera Cartel” is scrawled across it. I pick up the newspaper article next to it. Black marker circles Carlos Riviera’s name and down the page, more names and details.
My heart stops. My fingers crunch the newspaper in a fist. Why hadn’t I thought of it already? The Cartel was recently accused of kidnapping young girls. Belated nausea washes over me. I swallow down the urge to vomit and pick up the chair. My hands shake violently, but I slam it into the window. It thuds dully. I do it again and again until a wooden leg breaks off.
I turn in time to see the chair under the door handle skid across the floor when Carter bursts in. I dive under the desk, huddling there and grabbing the leg as he snatches my ankles. He pulls. My grip tightens. The desk is so sturdy, it doesn’t move even an inch. I only let go when I’m sure my shoulder joints are about to pop out of their sockets.
———
I wake up squeezing my eyes shut. My knees, shoulders, and elbows pulse like they have been for hours. My right ankle is heavy and cold. It’s a moment before I remember where I am, squinting into a room streaked sepia by the setting sun. I’ve slept through the first day of sunshine in over a week, and I decide if I’m still here tomorrow, I’ll make use of my windowsill.
After my attempted escape, Carter carried me up the stairs by my waist. There’s a sharp throb in my heel when I remember kicking his shin repeatedly. He locked a cuff around my ankle while Norman held my wrists, assuring me it was temporary. A chain attached to the metal cuff was secured to the other end of the bed. They forced half a sleeping pill down my throat. All I could wonder was why they had such things readily available.
The chain was cumbersome, but it was also long. I paced, relentlessly searching the room and my memory for clues. I passed my hands across every surface, even snaking them behind the headboard and pushing furniture aside. I don’t know what I hoped to find. A crack. A hole. A mistake. There was only smooth disappointment beneath my fingertips.
I opened the doors to a large, walk-in closet to find bars filled with hangers of clothing. I fingered dozens of different fabrics, checking the sizes of garment after garment. Everything was my size. Every piece was beautiful, things I’d choose if ever given the chance to buy designer clothing. Overwhelmed, I stepped out and closed the doors after me.
My thoughts became foggy. Maybe my call had gone through, and the police had heard the whole struggle. I kept thinking I heard sirens. Eventually I closed my puffy eyes and gave in to the drug.
In bed, I turn onto my side, wincing from where Carter threw me on the ground earlier. This is one of those news stories that start with an ending. Because who would take another person with the intention of ever letting them go? But if it’s money they want—revenge, or to send a message—then there must be some mistake. I live my life quietly. I’m not worth anything to anyone.
The question overwhelms my mind—why?
It’s only in the tranquility of the late afternoon and the wearing off of the sleeping pill that my sense recalibrates.
I can still feel the smudged clues on my fingertips from that newspaper. Frida’s voice is close enough to the surface that I can recall her exact tone when she said the words Riviera Cartel.
“At lunch I thought the tattoo on his forearm looked familiar—a small rose.”
Tall. Broad. Threatening. Our taco lunch. I was justified in the uneasiness he inspired. He knew I walked through downtown to get home.
“Hey, guess what? You were right about Guy Fowler.”
Our eyes met in the restaurant, and I blushed under his flattery. I practically threw myself at him despite the warning in my gut. I thought he was interested. I thought he liked me. He stared at me like he wanted me. And now he has me.
When there’s a knock at the door, I sit up. It takes ages to cross the room for all my hesitating. The chain scrapes the wood floor behind me. My bottom lip is almost bloody. I brace myself when I ask, “Who is it?”
“It’s Norman, dear.”
I exhale to ease my racing heart, but my relief is tinged with frustration. Norman won’t give me the answers I want. Or, worse, he can’t.
“Have you had enough time alone?” he asks when I crack open the door
.
I blink at the sinister-sounding question.
“Come downstairs for dinner.” He looks at my feet. “Or I can bring it up here. Your choice.”
I follow his gaze. If I told him I knew the truth about the Cartel, would it help or hurt? In my situation, knowledge is power. I decide to keep it to myself. “I don’t want to stay in here anymore,” I say.
“Very good. Then I’ll take that off.” He rubs his chest. “Please don’t try anything. Carter is eager to keep you locked up, and I fear the Master of the House won’t hear my argument against it.”
“You don’t want me locked up?”
“I don’t think it’s necessary. I believe your reaction was out of character. Wasn’t it?”
I glance down.
“Why don’t you change into something more appropriate, and we’ll get you fed.”
The way he says appropriate turns the silkiness of my gown grimy. “Change into what?” I ask.
“You have a closet full of clothing. Surely you can find something in there?”
I look over my shoulder at the closed doors and then back at him. “That’s for me?”
“Of course it’s for you, Cataline. I already told you so.”
“Why?” I ask through a painfully dry throat. “Why me?”
His expression is sympathetic. “I’ll send Carter up with the key to the shackle. When you’re ready, I’ll be at the base of the staircase. Take your time.”
I close the door, set my forehead against it, and inhale. I take time to look through the closet’s contents. There’s something for every occasion, from soft t-shirts and jeans to cocktail dresses and ball gowns. There are shoes, handbags, even fine jewelry. I pull open the top drawer of the built-in dresser. Delicate, lacy underwear is carefully sorted and separated into neat piles. Each piece, no matter the coverage, is sexy and sheer. The following drawer holds matching bras, stockings, and knee-high socks. Tears surface when I reach the bottom compartment. Intricate, stiff lingerie feels sturdy and structured in my hands. Black, red, and white variants of lace, satin, and gauze. All of it would fit me; even the bras are the correct cup size. I can’t fathom, won’t fathom . . . I squeeze the garment in my fists until the corset stays bite into my palms.
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