If I’m going to die, that’s how I plan to go. Thinking about Troy and the family we’ll never have together, sitting in front of the roaring fire. It doesn’t matter if Troy and I aren’t together for real. In my mind, we will be.
Tap-tap. Tap-taaap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-taaap.
The door’s deadbolt rattles as someone slides it to the side.
The door flings open and hits the wall behind it with a bang.
The first several times the door did that, I startled. Now, I can’t find it in me to flinch.
Lincoln and Not-Lincoln enter the concrete room. I waste a tiny amount of energy hating them for how they’re dry and warmly dressed. The hatred is enough to provide a flicker of heat inside me, but the heat dies away as swiftly as it came.
Not-Lincoln is carrying an old wooden chair. Fear slams into my body once more. I hate that chair almost as much as I hate the two men.
He sets it down next to me and yanks me to my feet. I sway unsteadily.
He tightens his grip on my arm. I doubt there’s much skin left on me he hasn’t already bruised. This abuse won’t leave so much as a mark.
Not-Lincoln roughly shoves me into the chair. I’m barely able to sit upright.Tap-tap. Tap-taaap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-taaap.The denim of my jeans is rough against my fingertip.
I don’t dare look at the tattoo on my arm. I don’t want to give away how much it means to me. Though I’m sure if my body is ever found—and if my flesh is intact—there won’t be a tattoo left with which to identify my remains.
I would shudder, but I don’t seem to have it in me anymore to do that.
Lincoln leans in too close, his sour breath hot on my face. “Okay, Savannah. Enough of the games. Where’s the information you took from my brother?”
“I-I di-didn’t take any in-infor-mation,” I reply through chattering teeth.Fuckers.I’m so tired of the same question again and again and again. It’s his one-hit wonder he can’t seem to break beyond.
I’ve long since given up explaining that if I’d had the information, I would have used it against my husband way before he was murdered.
Lincoln hadn’t liked that answer.
Each time I told him that, it resulted in more torture. Torture that wasn’t necessarily fueled by my answer, but I suspect by his need for revenge for his brother’s murder. Murder that Lincoln believes I’m guilty of. Nothing that either the courts or I could say will convince him otherwise.
I don’t bother to brace for what’s coming next. I know from experience it won’t make a difference.
He hits me across my swollen face, creating new splits in the weakened skin. My head lolls to the side, and I can make out at least five of him. My ears ring, the sound seemingly never ending.
I turn to Not-Lincoln. “Th-that day you asked me i-if I had se-seen your d-daugh-ter. On M-Main Street.” The stuttered words come out on a murmured slur. I’m not sure if the men can even hear them. “Was that wo-woman and child re-really your wife and d-daugh-ter?”
“No. They were strangers I saw go into the store.” The rough Aussie accent loops around his words, faded with time but stronger than when he spoke to me on Main Street.
A sense ofdéjà vuwashes over me. It’s like watching a TV show rerun I saw many years ago but can’t remember how the episode went. And it’s blurry, like it’s behind a veil, with only parts of the picture wavering into clarity. It’s not enough for me to understand what’s going on.
I’ve heard that voice before. Not recently. Maybe it was while I was married. I heard it on a TV show or in a movie. It’s not like he’s the only Aussie living in the U.S.
A memory shimmers in my mind, gone too quickly to take a snapshot of. It’s a memory I’ve had recently. That much I recognize. But the torture and the cold and my weakened state are making it too difficult to find it again.
“You’ve b-been stalking me.” I hadn’t imagined it, and my PTSD hadn’t been working overtime. Someone had been following me. “W-why?”
He doesn’t respond.
“I didn’t k-kill Wayne.” My garbled words stumble out on a whisper. I can barely keep my eyes open. “Th-thirsty.” So very thirsty. I can’t remember the last time I had something to drink. After I didn’t give them what they wanted during the first two days of captivity, they stopped giving me water to drink. They dumped buckets of freezing cold water on me, but the small amount that trickled into my mouth hadn’t been enough.
Not-Lincoln removes his gun from his holster and points it at me.
“I didn’t k-kill Wayne.” It becomes a chant I repeat on an endless loop, but I don’t know how much of it makes it past my dry, split lips.
“She’s no use to us,” Not-Lincoln says.
