by Ella Fields
After staring at me for a minute that seemed to eat at any reserves I had, he got up and undid my restraints.
Sitting up, I made to rub my wrist, where the scratchy material had irritated, but his hand latched over it. The touch, gentle but firm, made my legs quake more than the residue of whatever he’d drugged me with, but I was somehow still thankful I didn’t fall flat on my face as he steadied me.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a man appeared, his back to us as he set a tray down. My mouth opened to scream at him, but some part of me quickly realized he worked for Thomas, and it’d be a waste of much-needed energy.
My tongue grew heavy and my head swam when I saw the water and neatly sliced pieces of fruit. I’d need all the energy I could get.
The man left, and Thomas walked me to the small workbench. I tried to ignore the faded smears and dents that decorated its once white surface while I gulped down the water from a small plastic cup.
“Easy, or you might get sick.”
Surveying the room for windows, I found none and tried to wrench out of his hold.
Thomas tutted and tugged me toward a short hall that led to a tiny bathroom. There was an open shower, an old toilet, and the smallest sink I’d ever seen. No windows in there either, I noticed, as he released me and shut the door with a quiet snick.
I went for the cupboard beneath the sink. Locked, of course.
The urge to pee overrode desperation, and I used the toilet, thankful there was at least toilet paper. How humane of him.
After, I scrubbed my hands with soap, rinsing them as my eyes searched for anything that could help me up those stairs. There was nothing but a toilet brush, toilet paper, shower gel, soap, and a plug.
My eyes swung back to the toilet brush, and a knock sounded on the door.
“Feel better?” Thomas asked as he opened it half a minute later.
I didn’t wait. I leaped at him, knocking him off balance as he grabbed me and stumbled back to the floor.
Which was definitely concrete.
I winced, my elbow smacking into it as I held the plastic brush to his neck, trying to cut off his air supply.
He flipped me over in a heartbeat, the brush flying across the room with a clatter, and his eyes blazing as he laughed.
He fucking laughed.
Shocked by the rusty, musical sound, all I did was lay there, blinking up at him as my elbow panged. “Resourceful, Little Dove.” Then came the anger. “But unfortunately, it’ll cost you.”
Still too dazed, I didn’t even fight him, which made me simmer with self-loathing as he picked me up and laid me back on the chair.
His touch was gentle, but his skin vibrated with warning, a warning that said he wouldn’t tolerate another attempt at freedom as he redid my restraints.
“We’ll try again tomorrow.” The light blinked out as he ascended the stairs above me. “Until then, Little Dove.”
Alone in the dark, I was forced to get friendly with all the things I could ignore better during the light. So many things. So many obvious, taunting things.
It all circled back to Miles.
Milo.
What was his real last name?
A pinch of regret slid over my skin, seeping into weary bones when I remembered the last time I saw him and how horribly it had all played out. As it sunk in with dirt-crusted claws that it could have been the last time he ever saw me.
I hated him, but some part of me hadn’t stopped missing him, either. And it was in the confines of my captive’s dungeon, or wherever the hell I was, that I let that knowledge spill down my cheeks.
Milo was a good man with good intentions. But good men were clearly still capable of breaking hearts and ruining lives. Would I ever get the chance to see him again? To say I was sorry, and that maybe one day, I could forgive him?
The memory of his wife dampened such fanciful notions.
Maybe Hope was right to make fun of me, I thought as I struggled to keep my eyes open as sleep tempted to take me away. Growing into a teenager, she’d dance out of my room, a roll to her hips and eyes as she said, “Fairy tales are for suckers, Jem. Time to get real.”
“Get real,” I whispered, the hoarse, wet sound echoing in the dark. “Well, this is about as real as it gets.”
And so it wasn’t being captured by a monster that broke the final piece of me.
It wasn’t the fear, the worry, or the helplessness.
Inside my heart, among the bruised and battered tissue, there was a piece that still flickered bright with belief. That flicker then snuffed itself out, curled into the dark broken mess, and finally admitted defeat.
Fairy tales, those perfect happy endings, were indeed for suckers.
Suckers who could very well wind up dead.
The light clicked on. “Good morning, Dove.”
I’d slept for what felt like days but had probably just been hours.
Movement upstairs had woken me a while ago. The floor creaking kept my eyes open even as I longed to return to my escape. A soft material slithered over me as I’d moved, checking to see if I was still restrained. A blanket. A knitted blanket had been draped over me at some point while I’d slept.
I wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or perturbed by the fact someone had been here while I was asleep.
Then again, I was restrained in someone’s basement or torture chamber. Having someone watch me sleep should’ve been the least of my worries.
Thomas, in one of his signature suits, his back facing me, tinkered with things that made a clanging sound over at one of his workbenches. “Sleep well?”
“Like a baby,” I said, then tensed at my own audacity to spew such a bold lie.
Thomas didn’t say anything.
My legs felt stiff, my mouth tasted foul, and my head was pounding. “Can … can I have a drink?”
Thomas turned, leaning back into the bench and crossing one foot over the other.
Slippers. He was wearing slippers.
“Are you ready to try our game again?”
“If it will grant me another trip to the bathroom, food, and water, then yes.”
He grabbed his clipboard but opted to stay standing this time. For which I was grateful. I didn’t want him that close again. “Whenever you’re ready, Little Dove.”
I’d had what felt like hours to mull over everything, so I was more than ready. In fact, I think I’d want to ask them even if he wouldn’t give me what I wanted in return.
I started with, “Is it true what they call you?”
“And what would that be?”
“The Sculptor.”
I was unable to make out his full expression when the light only shined on my little corner of the room, but nevertheless, I knew by his silence he was contemplating the question.
“Yes,” he finally said.
Holy shit. “W-why?”
“Whys aren’t on the list,” he clipped.
“Bullshit,” I blurted without thinking.
Thomas tutted. “Unnecessary. Next.”
Thrown, I tried to pull my next question to the surface, then changed my mind and went for a different one. “Did you know they were investigating you?”
The pencil skittered over the paper on his clipboard. “I eventually figured it out.”
He said it so casually as though he didn’t even care. “That doesn’t worry you?”
His eyes lifted, meeting mine. “Dove, it’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. Next.”
“Do you always kill your victims? How many have you killed?”
Another tutting sound. “That’s two, but I’ll let you bend the rules.” He hummed. “I don’t keep count. I used to. But after a while, it simply becomes boorish and tacky. And no, I don’t always kill them. Murry, my assistant, is testament to that.”
“The guy who brought me food?”
“Yes.”
“You”—I cleared my throat—“what, hurt him?”
Thomas bobbed his head a l
ittle. “Quite a bit, yes. You’ll see a glimpse for yourself soon enough.”
Rage mingled with fear, burning hot through my veins. “You’re a monster.”
Thomas, writing something, paused, his shoulders lowering a fraction. “That’s not a question. Next.”
I didn’t want to play anymore, but … my sweet girl with her golden curls and dimpled smile. “Lou Lou.”
Thomas looked at me again, waiting.
“She’s not yours?”
“That lousy fed of yours really did try to protect you, didn’t he?” He scoffed, tossed his clipboard to the bench where it thwacked the wooden surface, then he grabbed his stool.
Taking a seat, he rubbed his hands together. “She’s mine in every way that counts.”
His words had tears pricking my eyes. Where were her parents? Wouldn’t they miss her?
“Did you take her?”
“I did.” The sound of his palms gliding against one another somehow soothed my increasing heart rate. “Lou was the daughter of a drug addict. This woman, Lou Lou’s mother, was an important client’s mistress for a time, but a decade ago, he fired her.”
“Your client fired her?”
He nodded. “I cannot tell you specifics like names, so don’t ask. But this woman, she did okay for a while and enjoyed her freedom with the money he gave her when they parted ways. But attracted to those with corruption in their veins, she soon met another man. A bottom of the barrel drug runner, apparently, who used her and her money, knocked her up, then got himself shot near the border a year after Lou was born.”
My heart sank. “So she went back to your client?”
Thomas nodded again. “When Lou was two years old, she attempted to. She wouldn’t stop, even as he turned her away time after time. She was older and wasn’t as nice to look at anymore. Not after the drugs and harsher lifestyle had left their mark. And my client’s new wife had zero tolerance for mistresses.” He shrugged. “So he phoned me, and I took care of the problem.”
Shivers bit into my skin. “Here?” When he said nothing, I tried again. “At her house?”
“Yes.” Silence dropped like a heavy curtain, his expression giving nothing away. Then he continued, “I used to do many jobs like that, but since Lou arrived, I try to keep them to a minimum. It’s a risk, being out in the open too often. I’m not behind bars for a few reasons, but it’s mainly because I’m careful, and I do some of my work here.” His eyes fell on me.
He did his work here, in the very chair I was stuck to.
“But how have the cops not found this place?”
“I’m a dentist by trade.” When my brows rose, he smirked. “On paper, anyway. So, even if they got a warrant, they’d have a hard time finding concrete proof.”
Bile coasted up my throat, and I dragged in a long breath through my nose, then exhaled slowly. “Lou Lou … keep going.”
Knowing I probably needed the distraction, he did, “He was one of my first clients, and I tend to do favors for those who are loyal if the price is right. Even if the mark doesn’t always deserve it. Lou’s real name is Katie.” A hint of a smile softened his words. “She waltzed out, more like waddled really, of the disgusting bedroom in the trailer where they lived, thumb in her mouth, huge innocent eyes, and just stared at me.”
Tears pressed, and I tried to furiously blink them back.
Thomas seemed stolen by the memory, his voice soaked in nostalgia and obvious affection. “There I was, covered in her mother’s blood, her mother outside in a body bag waiting to be taken away under the cover of darkness, and she said, “Want some milk?” She was two, almost three, and didn’t give one single shit about who I was or what I’d done.” He shook his head. “She was offering me something after I’d just taken her entire world away.”
Hearing Thomas curse felt like a nail was softly running over my skin. Soothing, daring, and tantalizing.
“Then you took her?”
He sounded pained as he said, “No, I left her. For three whole days. Until the urge to go back and see if she’d been taken by authorities got the better of me. She was curled up asleep by the door, her curls tangled, and surrounded by food packaging.” A husky tone carried his next words. “Then I took her home, told Murry I needed to see if she had any living relatives, and waited.”
“No one,” I guessed instantly. “She had no one else.”
Thomas stood, heading for the water pitcher and cup. “I could’ve let her go into the system, but I was selfish. I knew I could give her a better, if somewhat unconventional, life.”
He set the cup down on the bench closest to my head, then started undoing the cuffs around my wrists. I watched his eyes and the rigidness to his jaw as he swam adrift in a current of feelings I knew he wasn’t well acquainted with before Lou Lou.
At that moment, I was too shocked, too thirsty, and too invested in Lou Lou’s story to even think about fleeing.
Thomas helped me up, the chair moving with me, which was actually great, seeing as I had no energy to hold myself in a sitting position. Then he passed me the cup.
“Does she know?” I asked, taking small sips and letting the cool liquid pool on my tongue.
“She knows her mother is dead but not by my hands. And clearly, she doesn’t remember her father.”
After he undid my ankle restraints, I handed back the cup, flexing my fingers and my toes. “Does she think you’re her real dad?”
“Yes. It’s safer that way. She can attend school and live a normal life without questions arising. She won’t ever need to lie about too much.”
I wanted to ask what she did need to lie about, but my stomach growled, and Thomas pressed something high on the stairs behind me. A button, I noticed as I looked up.
The door opened a second later, and footsteps descended. That guy, Murry, placed another tray down, his voice deep and jovial as he said, “I’ll be back with some cookies in a few.”
Cookies? My confusion grew infinitely. But the smell of chicken and bread lured and almost had me launching off the chair. I knew I’d likely face plant, so I looked at Thomas.
Murry was gone before Thomas could walk over to collect the sandwich.
I chewed in silence, struggling with Thomas’s warning about taking it slow as my taste buds came alive, and my hunger tried to snatch the food from my mouth and force it to my stomach.
“Does she know I’m here?” I asked, brushing my hands over the plate. Crumbs landed and scattered over the cream porcelain.
“Lou?” At my nod, he said, “Yes, she does. She thinks you’re sleeping off a cold, that you have no insurance or help available from your family and need our help. She’s excited to see you.”
A hollow laugh left me after I’d swallowed the last bite of buttery chicken and bread.
Thomas reached over to the cup of water he’d refilled, and with strength I didn’t know I had, I slammed the plate down on top of his head, then leaped from the chair.
Hearing him curse and groan behind me, I stumbled but quickly righted myself, latching onto the wooden railing and not looking back as I hauled myself up the stairs and into blinding light.
A kitchen greeted me.
A large kitchen with old oak cupboards, an island, and filled with the aroma of freshly baked cookies.
I paused long enough for my sight to adjust, and then raced across the white and black checkered floor to the screen door on the other side.
“Miss Clayton?”
Fuck.
I stopped, the door within reach and my heart slamming into my ribcage with the abrupt movement. Ignoring my shaky breath, the trembling of my limbs as adrenaline demanded I move, I mustered a smile. “Hey, Lou Lou.”
Lou Lou shifted on her bare little feet and tugged at her white dress with red roses. “Where are you going? Are you feeling better?”
The sound of feet coming up the stairs had me backing up to the door.
But Lou Lou … her eyes, her dad, this place. Could I really just leav
e her there?
The door opened behind me, and a scream lodged in my throat as a man entered wearing a suit and an apron with printed words that read, world’s dodgiest chef, stared down at me.
He had what looked to be a permanent smile etched into his face. Twin scars met and ran from beneath his lips, curving around his mouth and cutting through his cheeks before stopping at the corners of each eye. My own eyes watched as his hand, which was missing an index finger, moved behind him.
Holy mother of hell.
My heart, which had been dancing like a trapped bird, stopped moving as the lock clicked on the door, and the panel beside it beeped. All traces of adrenaline fled with the sounds, and I tore my eyes away from the disfigured face. “I-I …” I had no idea what to say.
“Murry,” Lou Lou chirped. “This is my teacher.”
Murry, with a hand at my back, gently directed me back through the kitchen toward the door I’d just burst through. I looked up at him, ignoring the scars, and pleaded with my eyes and a whisper, “No, please.”
“Wanna come color with me, Miss Clayton?” Lou Lou asked. When all I did was blink at her, she looked at the open door. “Oh, is Daddy working?”
“He is,” Murry said, stopping, then gave me a look that said, “What did you do?”
Thomas appeared in the dark at the top of the stairs, a finger pressed to his lips as he met Murry’s and my gazes.
“Hey, Lou. Would you mind getting me the old cookbook with the French flag on the cover from the library?”
Lou Lou groaned. “But I’m hungry, and it’s too far away.”
Murry raised a brow. “You’ll get your cookies after, I promise.”
With that, she bounded out of the room, and Thomas moved out of the shadows, a look of pure annoyance on his face as he stared at me with a hand pressed to his bleeding head.
“What did you do?” Murry voiced, his tone curt.
My mouth hung open.
“She hit me over the head with a plate,” Thomas answered for me. “And why didn’t you close the door?”
“I was coming back with cookies.” Murry groaned, his dark eyes filled with dismay. “From the cream set?”
