Chapter 32

Clare is weak. She’s also freezing. Had it been a day? Days? Gagged and desperate, she is beginning to feel hopeless over a possible rescue. There are tens of thousands of basements in Detroit, and she can’t even say whether she’s still in the city.

Light penetrates the darkness as the door atop the stairs opens. Could this be the police? Have they found her? No. The figure is the same as before. Heavily clad in what looks like three layers of tracksuits. Nothing is said. The silence makes way for the footfalls as they navigate the squeaky staircase.

Clare struggles weakly against her restraints and grumbles to let her go. Tears wet the rag tied around her face, forcing her jaw open. She’s never been so uncomfortable, and she’s never been so terrified. Warm urine soaks her light pants. It stings. She’s so dehydrated. There’s not much pee, but she remembers hearing that a potential rapist would be put off if you wet yourself. If this should be her fate, she hopes the advice is accurate.

But this seems different than that. There has been no attempt to touch her, never mind sexually. Her captor seems content to feed her vinegar from a distance and simply keep her as a neglected pet.

The rag gagging her is removed, and a new rag damp with vinegar hovers in front of her face. She thirstily places her dry lips around it and pulls the liquid in. Her tongue retreats and lips sting to life, and she wants to spit but can’t summon the saliva.

“Water,” she begs in a gravelly voice. “Please,”

The figure pauses and then moves laboriously to a laundry tub and pours water onto the rag. Clare wonders whether they move slowly because of the layers of clothing or for effect. She wants to scream out, but her throat and mouth are so dry she doubts she could manage a squeak. The rag is presented to her, and she sucks at it. This time the water satisfies an inkling of her thirst. Her stomach grumbles angrily. She’s impossibly hungry, having no idea how long she’s been here.

“Thank you,” Clare says, her throat no longer feeling as if coated in sand. “Why -”

Clare’s question is cut off as her captor replaces the original rag in her mouth. Clare bounces in the chair, screeching in frustration, moving her head side to side to prevent the rag’s return. She is unsuccessful. She grunts her disapproval, but these fall on deaf ears. The figure sits in a chair opposite her and stares.

Does this person know me? Clare is running out of possibilities. To keep a person alive in a basement seems like a terrible fate where she will eventually starve to death. What in the hell is this person’s game? Is it a game? Can she win it?

Perhaps that this person hasn’t revealed their identity is a good thing. Maybe this is just a scare tactic. But to what end? There is nothing she can think of that could – wait, is this karma being visited upon her? She has no memory of past lives where she tormented another soul like this. Still, there seems to be no other reason she can think of; karma might be the only explanation that makes sense.

Clare thinks there is nothing I can do to stop whatever this person is planning if this is the case. I’m utterly helpless.