“Who runs the site?” I ask, and Bubba doesn’t even give me a second glance.
“Tom. He handles all that businessy-type shit. Used to be a lawyer or something fancy like that, but he had this wife”—he licks the crumbs off his round fingers—“he was cheating on her and she found out, took him to the cleaners then he got hooked on some bad shit and lost his job, and down the pisser went all his money.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Worked out good for us, I guess, cause now we all got good paying jobs.” He chuckles before pushing back from the table. “Me and Earl’s gonna go down to the pool hall with Judy, wanna come?”
“You know I don’t like people, Bub.”
“Yeah, well…” He totters out of the kitchen, belching.
Tom. Fucking Tom is the one behind most of this shit? I’ve only met him twice, but he never struck me as the type to be a ring leader. He’s a balding, middle-aged fuck. Missing half his teeth—due to meth—and he seems squirrely as shit. Can’t make eye contact for more than three seconds.
I have no idea where in the hell he lives or what his last name is, but this is better than having no idea who in the hell I need to be going after. All I have to do is buy my time, play my cards right, and eventually, I’m sure me and fucking Tom will come to an understanding. Smiling, I climb the stairs, digging the key out of my pocket before I stop in front of my room. The latch pops and the door swings open, and there she is, just where I left her, sitting in the chair in the corner of my room, awkwardly holding a book.
“Here’s some water,” I say as I set a bottle on the little table next to her chair.
She nods, her eyes trained on the page she’s eagerly reading over.
I shrug and flop back on the bed before grabbing the moleskin journal from the nightstand. Opening to the dog-eared page, I glance over at Ava.
She’s been here for twenty days. And every day is the same: I fight with myself because I have forgotten what I should be doing. At times, I believe I am dragging this out because I like her company, because by her being here I’m not alone.
She goes to turn the page and loses her place. Bound wrists don’t allow her much freedom, and I find it almost cute the way she struggles, flipping from the bottom and swearing when too many of the pages fly by. She tosses her head back, rolling her eyes as she drops the book to her lap. “Just fuck it,” she says with a groan.
I cock a brow. “Such a filthy mouth for such a pretty girl.” I smile and she glares at me like she wants to choke me. Standing, I laugh. “How about I just untie you then?”
Her gaze narrows accusingly on me.
“I mean it, I’ll trust you,butif you break my trust…” I shake my head as I reach for her hands. “It will not bode well for you, my dear.”
“I wouldn’t.” She sounds desperate, her voice on the verge of a sob. “I promise. I just want to be able to turn the pages.”
“All right then.” I untie the knotted cord and step away, turning my back on her—waiting to see how she will react. I settle back on the bed, lean against the headboard, and pick my notebook back up.
“Thank you,” she says as she grabs her book from the floor and opens it.
“Welcome.”
And here we sit, reading—her in the chair, me on the bed, like she has chosen to be here. And in a way, by her not attempting to run—she has. I skim over the entry in the notebook dated July 2016, subject 130:
Day 8 in captivity: A week of isolation and minimal food. I had my first encounter with her today. This one’s peculiar. Jumps anytime I come within three feet of her. Cries if I narrow my gaze on her. She never responds to anything I ask her. Earl said he thinks she may be mute because she’s not uttered a word.
Day 10: I didn’t visit her yesterday. Today when I went in, she didn’t move. For a moment, I feared she may be dead because she lay so still, then I heard her sniff. She was crying. I told her how sorry I was for her to be here. Nothing. I told her I wouldn’t hurt her. Nothing. I brought a basin of water in with a washcloth and soap and told her to bathe herself off. She didn’t budge. I left.
Day 11: I sat with her for two hours and never said a word. I studied her, watched her watching me. It’s obvious she’s been abused. There are scars all over her arms and legs, her face. Right before I left I told her she was beautiful and she wept. Sometimes I think this entire ordeal may be a blessing to these women because the one thing I’ve found is that most of them are in dire need of love, no matter the form, because they’ve never had the slightest glimpse of it.
“What are you reading?” Ava’s soft voice draws my attention away from the words on that page.
“Studies.” That is what it is, I’m not lying. I’ve kept notes on each girl I’ve trained. As morbid and sick as it sounds, I can’t help but find it fascinating.
Her brow wrinkles in confusion. “As in school?”
“Something like that. I enjoy learning.” I slowly close the notebook and set it on the nightstand.
“You’re in school—” I can see the confusing mounting on her face.
“I got a degree in psychology,” I say, smiling.
“Huh…”
“Did you think I was just some uneducated criminal?”
