45: Larissa found herself staring across the room at the painter’s tarp in front of the freezer, at the bulk underneath it. He had said “the last one,” the instructor. Larissa knew he was talking about another girl. He had done this before. He was too prepared, too systematic about it all for this to be the first time.
She’d clutched the shard of glass in her palm a little too tightly and had already cut herself twice. Nothing serious, but enough to draw blood. She wiped her palm on her jeans and held her hand there until the pressure sealed the wound and the bleeding stopped. Then she gripped the shard again, willing herself not to squeeze. With each passing second, though, her grip tightened, her fingers tightened, they pressed against the razor edge of the glass until she again felt the warmth of blood. This time she didn’t attempt to stem the flow. Instead, she focused her mind on the pain. The pain awakened her senses, made her alert, helped her concentrate on her surroundings.
She checked every inch of the cage.
The metal frame was bolted into the concrete, and there wasn’t enough room at the top to climb over and slip past, no more than two inches. The padlocks on the door were both heavy-duty, with MASTER stamped across the front. They were round, designed to prevent the use of bolt cutters, not that she had any bolt cutters. If she had a pin or a paper clip, she could try to pick them, but she had neither of those.
Her cell phone was gone. No doubt he took the iPhone and smashed it. Even she knew the police could track her down from the signal.
A loud scream came from upstairs.
A man’s scream.
Larissa almost dropped the shard of glass, now slick in her hand.
The instructor sounded like he was in great pain.
The cries lasted for about a minute and died away, going from a shriek to muffled sobs, then nothing at all.
Was somebody here to rescue her?
Had somebody hurt him?
Larissa closed her eyes, tried to focus her mind on listening, to hear what was happening upstairs.
The house dropped into silence again, nothing but the ticking of the heater and the occasional pop of the structure settling.
“Help me! I’m down here!”
Her voice sounded small and weak against the newfound wall of silence.
She heard the handle of the door at the top of the stairs. First it rattled, then the door opened, squeaking as someone pulled it wide.
Light from above reached down the steps, bright fingers extending to the bottom of the stairs before the basement shadows pushed them back.
Larissa gripped the shard of glass, felt blood trickle down the side of her hand and drip to the ground at her feet.
Footsteps on the stairs.
She tensed.
When she saw the instructor, when he came around the corner and his gray eyes found her, she willed herself not to look away. She glared at him, her jaw tight. With her fingers, she drew the shard of glass farther up against her palm, concealing it. She pressed her hand against her jeans so he wouldn’t see the blood. She’d get him the moment he opened the door. She’d launch herself at him and dig the glass deep into his neck and twist it just to be sure.
He carried something in his hands. When he drew nearer, she realized he held a neatly folded pile of clothing. He set it on the ground near the door.
“I have a daughter your age. These are her clothes.”
Larissa looked down at the pile. Black leggings, socks, underwear, and a red sweater. The sweater looked old, worn, the color faded.
“Do you like them?”
She said nothing.
“You will put them on when we are done.”
“You have a daughter?”
The instructor’s face was blank. “I’ll tell her that you like them. She’ll be happy to hear that.”
“Where is she? Does she know I’m here?” Larissa took a step back. “Help! Your father’s fucking crazy! Help me!”
He lowered his gaze to where the glass of milk had been. “She doesn’t come down here. She doesn’t like the basement.”
From the corner of her eye, Larissa saw the painter’s tarp. She turned away. She couldn’t look. She needed to stay strong.
He stared at the place the milk had been, and then he spotted the puddle of milk toward the back of her cage, partially mopped up with the quilt. “About half the girls break the glass and try to hurt me. The other half do not. He told me you’d be a fighter. A fighter is good. That strength is good.”
The instructor touched the pile of clothes with his shoe. “You will put these on when we’re done. You’ll be pretty then. You’ll feel pretty. This is her favorite sweater. There’s a pony on the front, see?”
He unfolded the sweater, held it up.
“When we’re done with what?” The question came out before Larissa realized she’d spoken, and she wished she could take the words back. She didn’t want to know the answer.
The instructor continued to hold up the sweater, her words lost on him. He looked at the pony on the front, smiled, then carefully folded the garment and placed it atop the pile. “You need to remove your clothes.”
Larissa shook her head slowly, her grip tightening on the shard. She backed deeper into the cage. “No. No way.”
The man’s mouth was open just a little, as if he were breathing through it rather than his nose. His tongue slipped out, licked at his cracked lips, and disappeared back inside. He produced a stun gun from his back pocket, held the little black device up, then pressed the trigger. Lightning jumped between the two poles. “You will set down the piece of glass in your hand, you will put it on the concrete, then you will undress so we can get started. Then you will see. Once you see, everything will be okay.”
Larissa almost slipped on what was left of the milk. The cut in her palm deepened as she tightened her grip. Blood dripped to the floor.
The instructor’s eyes widened. “Do not hurt yourself! Drop the glass!” He pulled a set of keys from his pockets and fumbled with the locks.
Larissa held the shard of glass against her own neck, pressed into her flesh. “Stop, or I’ll cut myself. I’ll slice my own throat. So help me God, I’ll do it.” She tried to sound calm, collected, she tried to sound as if she were in charge, but instead the instructions came out at a high pitch, choked by waiting tears.
She backed deeper into the cage, slipped on the quilt, and fell against the back wall. Her free hand tried to steady her but instead landed on the remains of the glass, tiny shards cutting her palm in a dozen places.
The instructor had the first lock off and was working on the second one.
Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t get enough air. Her eyes locked on this man, this monster, as the second lock opened. He wiggled it from the door and tossed it aside, stepping into the cage, coming toward her. He stepped on her arm, the one with the shard of glass, pinning her to the concrete while simultaneously lunging with the stun gun.
Larissa’s fingers gripped a handful of the glass from the concrete with her other hand, little diamonds of glass, and without a second thought, she got them to her mouth, as many as she could, and she swallowed. Five, ten, twenty, she didn’t know how many. She thought they would hurt as they slipped down her throat, but they didn’t, like swallowing a pill or a piece of an ice cube.
The instructor wrestled the large shard of glass from her hand. He tossed the makeshift weapon out through the door of the cage, causing it to shatter into several smaller pieces when it hit the concrete. By the time he forced her other hand from her mouth, it was too late. She swallowed. He threw her back against the floor, tossing her like a discarded rag doll as a scream erupted from his own throat, a scream louder than any she could have managed. He screamed for nearly a full minute before finally backing out of the cage and securing the locks.
“What have you done?” he growled.
Larissa felt the tiniest of pains in her belly, nothing more than a pinprick.