Torture (Siren Book 2) (8 page)

“I am
so, so
sorry, Camilla. When we find him, I'm gonna make him dry out. In his place,
I'll
give you the apology I think he would like to, if he was here and sober.”

I snort. “Well, you've gotta find him first, right?”

I take a halfhearted bite of my pasta, the warmth no longer sinking into me.

“Seriously—I am
so fucking sorry
.”

He's halfway to reaching for my hand, like a schoolkid with a crush. I had no
clue
the little bit of truth to the lie would work that well.

I shake my head. “
You're
not the one who did anything wrong. So you're gonna go walking again?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I hope it goes okay.”

“And I hope I'm dragging his sorry ass back to your doorstep soon, to apologize.”

I can't resist a bitter smirk. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

“I mean it.
Please,
take care of yourself.” His eyes seek mine out. “Like you said, he didn't rape you. But that doesn't mean you aren't hurting.”

How am I supposed to be comfortable with that kind of sympathy? For a moment, I'm downright
guilty
over trashing Calder's friendship with him. But it's not like he's gonna see Calder alive again, so it's not like it
really
matters. Will probably just make the eulogy awkward, when they give up looking, and have a funeral anyways.

I stand, and show Evan to the door. Long after he's started canvassing the street, I can't resist peeking out my front window to watch his progress.

Chapter Ten

Calder

As near as I can tell, I've been here for days. I can only really know by the intensity of my hunger and thirst. I'm dizzy, blacking out frequently, and have hardly had the energy to move. No one's left food here while I slept, again, and I never thought I'd actually
miss
those drops, with as much as they reminded me of my captivity.

Milla's fragrance is long gone, now. A dream, or an idea more than a memory. The room's overwhelmed with my
own
smells—sweat, defeat, and some from the mess in the corner.

I'm
completely
alone. I'll die alone, wasting away on that metal mesh.

Even though my eyes have adjusted to the dark as best they're likely to, there's not much to see. Smooth walls, no windows, and the particle-board floor. I've avoided walking, as much as the inactivity dismays me, because of the splinters pacing that floor barefoot.

The fury comes and goes, moreso because I haven't heard another scream, again. I can't convince myself there's anyone else out there to hear me. And it seems like there should be
something
I should be spending my precious energy on instead, though I can't figure out what.

My nerves hum with adrenaline and panic, strong enough that I risk moving, to get some of it out of my body. I pace, and pace, but the anxiety only builds. When it's reached a breaking point, like a teakettle shrieking on the heat, when there's
nothing
left but hate and horror, I can't keep it in. I stomp my foot like a kid in time out, only to hear a muffled crack, and feel the floor buck underneath me, barely discernible past the ache of my half-healed feet.

My heart almost stops in excitement, and I drop to my knees to feel the spot. The particle-board's bent, and I'd lay money I can do worse to it. I punch the same spot again, and bit by bit, it splinters, until I can poke it through the floor. I back away slightly, and keep hitting the floor, widening the hole. My knuckles crack and bleed, and it's hard to form a fist. But it's a chance to get out, and I have to seize it.

I tear the sections away with my bare hands, tearing more than one nail off in the process. The pain's temporary, and bearable. So long as I can keep moving, grasp for freedom, I'll deal with any pain that bastard can throw at me.

A particularly stubborn section refuses to give way. I shift, and resume tearing at the other side. But something about it unsettles me. I grope through the hole I've created, until I feel what it is—the flooring for most of the floor is
substantially
thicker than the section I've been working on. Someone left this part thin. Someone
wanted
me right here.

Just the thought brings the fear back, full-force. Even my defiance is predictable. There
is
no getting out of this.

But anything is better than staying here. I can't see into the hole, but it's wide enough for me to drop down.

Whatever brand of hell I might find below is better than the hell I'm in up here.

I dangle my feet over the edge, and drop my hips off the ledge, holding my weight on my arms, before I mutter a quick prayer, and let go.

Chapter Eleven

Calder

I drop, air whistling between my toes, almost
alive
as it teases my hair. But I haven't hit the ground yet. I haven't found the floor.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe I just fucked myself. Maybe that was what he wanted.

I'm still falling.

I flail my arms, trying to find something to catch, to slow my fall. Through the dim, I can pick apart two darker sections receding above my head—other floors.

The hole was here all along; he just let me find it.

My hand slaps on another floor, but it's too fast for me to grab it. My ankle collides with another, a few seconds later. I'm sure I'm screaming, but the sound doesn't register. The pain in my ankle's
bad
. I wouldn't be surprised if I broke something. But it doesn't matter. The rest of me'll be broken once I hit the bottom, anyways.

And then there's an impact, smacking into my side from shoulder to knee. A loud crack rends the air, and when I take my next breath, fierce pain stabs through my rib. But I'm not balanced where I landed, and I'm falling again. A short bounce, for sure, but painful enough, in my condition. My vision goes dark, and trying to scream only makes it hurt worse. I lie on the grating—
here, again?
—where I fell, begging the air to come back into my lungs, fractured ribcage be damned.

Finally, I roll to my side and push myself upright, almost blacking out from the pain. I can hardly put my weight on my ankle, but I force myself to breathe through it, as much as
that
aggravates the piercing agony in my ribs.

It's dark here, too, and I grope my way to a wall, and to the pipe that stopped my fall. There's some manner of foam or insulation covering on it; it's marginally softer than the metal walls. I'd put money on that having saved my life. I pat the pipe, lowering my face to it, saying another grateful prayer to have the world under my feet again.

In this dark, I don't dare walk further; what if I fall through a section of missing flooring, or rail? I can't trust anything. I've never felt so deprived, with my eyes useless, suffocating in the dim.

I crawl on hands and knees, doing my best to explore.

A low voice reaches me, little more than muffled wheezing, really, and I aim myself in its direction. “Hello?” I gasp, hating how broken my voice is, how it aches and rattles my throat. I probe and crawl until there's warm flesh under my hand instead of chilly grating.

“Ca—Calder?” The voice is low and feminine. Light flicks on, illuminating Denise's face. I start; as impolite as it is to say, she's a nightmare. Blood encrusting her nose and lips, long since dried, and one of the whites of her eyes pure red with burst vessels. Still, she tries to smile reassuringly at me.

“Yeah.” I give her my best smile, too. I don't quite know what to say; she looks worse than I
feel
. “You come down the short way, too?”

She attempts to laugh, but it comes out as a choked and wet cough.

“Easy, easy—Let me—”

She shakes her head. “Don't bother. Don't—” And that's when I see it, just past the beam of light. Her legs and hips are at an angle that's so far from natural, so far from human, it's hard to see them as anything other than misshapen flesh sacks. At the very least, her spine is damaged and she'll never walk. But from the wet coughs, that can't be the worst of the damage.

“Shit—Denise... I'll.. I should—” I scramble to find a solution or comfort I can offer her—anything. As near as I can tell, there's no bleeding to staunch, and nothing to do but wait with her. “I should've found my way down here sooner. How long have you—”

She shakes her head. “It doesn't matter. It was always going to end like this.” She aims the beam of light, obviously
well
familiar with her surroundings, and it lights up a metal wall painted a dull color somewhere between brick red and dried-blood brown. In white chalk, are words:
Hurts when there's nothing below you to catch you; doesn't it?

Her voice is barely a whisper. “I've had nothing to do but look at it. But it's getting harder and harder to focus.”

“When Allen or Milla or I can find some help we'll—”

She laughs, the bitter sound surprisingly loud, given her frailty. “Calder—don't bother.”

“I'm sure they're here, too. I'll find them and—”

She turns the light down, and only then do I see what she was trying to hide. One of her leg bones broke, and punctured  through her flesh, high up on her thigh. There's a lot of blood. More than I've ever seen a person shed. And, barely visible in the flickering light, there's even more that's already drained onto the sub-floor below her. She's bleeding out, even if she's still technically here, for the moment.

“A tourniquet—”

She shakes her head. “I already did.”

Indeed, she must have kept the stockings she took off right before Alex died, because they're wound tight, and wrapped around her leg. Still, the blood is pushing through. Nausea rises in me, to be so close to her, but unable to help.

“Can I carry a message for you?” It's the only comfort I can think to offer.

“No. They know already.” She smiles, a little sadly. “Just sit with me.”

The effort of talking seems to have taken a lot out of her, so I take the flashlight she presses into my hands, and flick it off. I manage to lay next to her, and take her hand to let her know I'm still here.

Her breathing is slow, and uneven, and I'd wager she's deep into shock.

Tears prick my eyes, and I don't have it in me to be insecure about it.

In the dark, both of us stripped of our identities, just two people... it tugs me forcibly back to Mom's funeral, and how upset I was to know she'd died alone. Somehow, I'd always imagined that when her time came, I'd be there, holding her hand or reading to her. There wasn't a lot of affection between us, but what was there I certainly took for granted.

Denise coughs, but weaker than before. Gradually, I become aware of a steady drip in the background, getting less steady—the bloodflow slowing.

I squeeze her hand, and she squeezes back, though it's barely noticeable.

Then there's nothing. Just her limp fingers in mine, and my thoughts echoing in my head, transcending time and space to render me, once more, the helplessly grieving son.

Chapter Twelve

Calder

I hold Denise's hand long after her body's gone cold. Somehow, my soul feels lighter, to know that at least she didn't go alone. Only once I know I won't disturb her can I let myself sob, lost in despair and failure.

“Mr. Roane?”

“Yes? Who is this?”

“Umm, this is Jackie, Mrs. Roane's secretary.”

“Of course. She has a message for me, I presume?”

“Umm, no sir. You, uh, you may wish to fly into town at your earliest convenience.” Jackie's voice is numb with shock. “Your mother's passed.”

“What? I just spoke to her the other day.”

“Of course, sir, but she did.” Only then does the dam burst, and her voice take on a hoarseness that can only be her hiding tears. “One of the crewmen, they found her, around an hour ago. The message just made it to me, and I wanted to make sure you knew first—”

Politeness be damned, I hang up, and lose myself in the numbness of barking orders.

By the time I've arrived at the airport, more news is in. Lucy delivers it to me, personally. “Calder, I'm so sorry. I—I can't help but feel we should have been able to do more for her.”

“What?”

“The coroner, he says a potassium imbalance stopped her heart. They found her in the bathroom.”

She doesn't have to say more than that. Mom struggled with bulimia. The best answer I'd ever gotten from her as to why, the one time she'd been hospitalized for it, was that she needed the emptiness to calm the chaos in her head.

It's my worst nightmare, the one niggling fear I've had for years. But it was hard to argue with the woman. She'd always turn it back on me, to tell me I drank too much, and that I had more to worry about than she did, with my dad's family history of heart problems. Now, I wish I'd argued harder. I wish I hadn't accepted her assurances that it was harmless; she was a healthy weight, wasn't she? Not too thin? Not sickly looking? And Lucy and Rosalie, her closest friends, knew to let me know if they felt the fight was worth picking again.

The guilt piles on. “Do you want to go view her body, before they cremate her? I asked them to wait for you.” Lucy pats my shoulder, as best she can. “I'm
so
sorry, Cal.”

I don't even have it in me to take her to task for the stupid, juvenile nickname.

“Cal?”

She purged the chaos from her head, until she
literally
purged her soul from her body, too.

And now
I
want to throw up. “How—How could this happen, Lu?”

She bites her lip. “She hid it from us. They didn't find her in the
administrative
bathroom. They found her in the crew one. We have no idea how often she was retreating there. She was tense, but we were—”

Curses explode from me, with no brain-mouth communication. “I should've know. I should've sensed—”

“You can't take someone else's burdens, Cal. Patricia, she was... an amazing woman. But haunted. You can't punish yourself for it. She made her own choices.”

What choices did Denise make? What could she
possibly
have done to deserve this death, bleeding out on decrepit grating, with only a taunting message and a flashlight for comfort?

Ah, the futility of reasoning with grief. Of
course
she did nothing wrong.
Nothing
. I wouldn't even question it if I wasn't looking for some proof that truly
I
don't belong here either.

The only one who knows the twisted reasoning is her killer. I won't demean her life and death by turning
his
problem into hers.

I know I should explore the room, heave my aching body around as though there'll be an unlocked door to a table heaping with food, with someone there waiting to tell me it'll be okay. But I can't make myself.

I sit by her body long after it's cold. And then I argue with myself over whether to see if she had any pockets, anything else that might serve me better than her.

In the end, I can't make myself. She deserves her dignity, even in death.

But there's something in her other hand. A paper, now crinkled and crushed. The list of names from the cooler.

I can barely make out the letters until I turn on the flashlight, but seeing it highlighted in shadow and contrast, nearly destroyed... it disturbs me in ways I can't articulate. I try to clear my mind, but finally, I realize
why
.

A few weeks after my mother's death, when I was removing her more personal effects from her office, I stumbled upon a paper on her desk. It was crumpled and waterstained, none of which made sense, for how fastidious she was. Why not print out a new one? I stared at it, trying to figure out its context, but never could.

A list of names. At least some of which, I now recognize.

It didn't mean anything at the time, but now... after all this...

I clear my mind, try to remember the paper
exactly
, including the other names. But as I struggle through each one, doublechecking my memories to make sure I'm not rewriting them for convenience, the picture becomes clearer and clearer.

The names were the same as the ones on the list we found.

For the first time, I have to question whether my mom's bulimic relapse and death was a
natural
cause. Did she
know
what those names meant? Was someone trying to hurt her or scare her with them?

All thoughts of reason go out the window. I swear on her motherfucking
grave
, I'll kill whoever killed her, and set me up for this torture.