Page 27 of Secret (Chicago Underground 6)
“Have to…have to get out.” His eyes were merely green slits, but slowly they came into focus. Awareness would only bring pain now.
I stroked the hair at his temple. “Don’t worry about that. Just rest. I’ve got it covered. I took a self-defense class…kind of. Of course I don’t have a gun, so it’s not very useful, but the point is, I’m not going to let them hurt you again.”
He struggled to sit up. No matter how I soothed and reprimanded him, he insisted on propping himself up against the wall, away from me. He touched his nose gingerly, then sucked in a breath.
“Broken,” he muttered through swollen lips. “Hope you’re not too attached to the face. Probably won’t heal right by the time we get outta here.”
“I appreciate the optimism, but since you’re planning on living through this, maybe you shouldn’t be sitting up or talking right now.”
He ignored that, using his interrogation voice. “When did he leave? How long until he comes back?”
“Don’t know and don’t know. Must have left my glow-in-the-dark watch in my other dress.”
“I’m assuming you don’t have a phone either.”
“Surprisingly, they didn’t give me one. Guess they figured I would call someone.”
The low sound he made was more frustrated than amused. “Where’s Major?”
I sobered. “Lost him along the way.”
“So no one knows you’re here?”
“I’m sure your precious cops are on their way to help. It’s a good thing they don’t have red tape or bureaucracy or anything that would slow them down when they come rescue us.”
His stern look was overshadowed by the mosaic of blue-green bruises across his skin. “Laying it on a little thick with the sarcasm today?”
“Well, I’ve been on the run for my life for weeks now. Abandoned by you. Kidnapped. Forced to become a hooker. Again. It’s either irreverent sarcasm or a nervous breakdown.”
“Keep on with it, then,” he said gruffly.
So I did. “You’ll be pleased to know I found a wrench, so if we need any furniture assembled, we’re covered. Speaking of which, there are a few tables over in that corner. That’s all. A table, a chair. It’s all very minimalist, very contemporary. The dirt is a nice touch, kind of like tree-hugger modish.”
He stood with a low moan that raised the hairs on my arms. Before he’d had time to recover or become s
teady on his feet, he followed the walls, feeling for himself. After a minute and some rustling I heard, “Take off your stockings.”
“Just like that? No dinner date first? No down payment?”
“I’m going to fill them with rocks.”
“Oh, I see. We’re making homegrown weaponry, like prison inmates. It was only a matter of time, being locked up like this. It’s like some kind of social experiment. Pretty soon we’ll turn on each other.”
He filled them with the loose nails and crumbled concrete. “I didn’t abandon you, by the way. Not exactly. I thought you were dead.”
“What?”
“First it just seemed like you were passed out, some kind of sedative.”
“And then you left.”
“I thought you’d died. I was back in fifteen minutes to get you, but you were gone. No trace, and Jeff told me…” He paused, his grief saturating the air around us. “I thought you were dead,” he repeated, and I heard the uncertainty, as if he still worried it might be true. As if I were just some beating-inspired hallucination.
“I’m here.”
“I know.” A hollow laugh came from his chest. “I heard what Henri told you. I knew you must be real then. I couldn’t have made that up even in my nightmares.”
Was that a denial or confession? “Henri’s a bastard,” I said quietly. “I don’t care what he said.”
