Page 127 of Finding Noah

An answer didn’t come.

Ben always made his presence known. He woke me up and ensured he had my full attention right away. He never liked to waste the time we had together.

The chains above my head began to rattle, and I realized, despite being numb and limp, my arms were shaking.

I winced and swallowed. God, the dryness in my throat was torturous.

“Who’s there?” I whispered.

Again, no answer came.

The wooden chair creaked.

The breath blew out from my nose with a tremble. Was it believable to think whatever awaited me in the dark could be worse than what I’d experienced thus far with Ben?

There was no way to tell without opening my eyes and seeing for myself.

A detective would look, I reminded myself. But in this world, I wasn’t a detective. Where I was now, I was a prisoner. Starving and dehydrated, stripped and scared. Cold and dying a little more with every passing moment.

Honestly, even in the world I had come from, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a detective anymore.

If I ever got out of here, I just wanted to go home.

But I had to face whatever bogeymen awaited me now, certain somehow that he’d be more horrible, more sinister than Ben. Even worse than my father. And with a tremulous inhale, I turned my head, careful not to make a sound, and opened my one good eye.

Toward the foot of the bed, sitting within a shard of moonlight, sat a gargantuan man in a suit as black as night. But where there should’ve been a face, there was a mask instead. One as dark as the suit he wore, with goggle-like lenses for eyes and an elongated beak-like shape for a nose—the face of a bird.

A plague doctor’s mask, shrouded by a hood.

A scream raked against my shredded throat as I tried to scramble away, digging the heels of my bare feet against the mattress, with nowhere to go.

He sprang from his seat with lightning-quick dexterity and clapped a leather-gloved hand over my mouth, his glossy, blank eyes hovering over mine. I continued to scream behind his palm, staring into the eternal damning abyss, until the sound disappeared to make way for ragged breaths and quaking sobs.

Slowly, his palm was lowered, and over his beak-like nose, he laid a single finger. Quiet.

“Wh-who are you?” I asked in a hoarse whisper. “W-w-what do you want?”

Silently, he turned and bent over to pick something up from the floor. I stared, straining against the darkness. I wished he’d turn on the flashlight Ben used when he was here. I wished I could make out more of his frame, his features. I wished he’d speak.

Then he turned again to face me and held something out. I winced, expecting the worst, but when I didn’t receive a blow, I opened my eyes to see a bottle of water.

My heart raced with desperation as he knelt beside the bed, carefully uncapped the bottle, and brought its open mouth to my lips. I tried to assist, tried to lift my head, but my shoulders, my arms, my neck were useless, and I cried out in frustration. But the hooded man cupped the back of my head and lifted, allowing me a sip of water. It was cool against my tongue and absorbed immediately.

“More,” I panted. “God, please. I need more.”

He nodded and allowed another sip, a longer one this time. I swallowed willfully, wanting nothing more than to gulp the entire bottle down within a matter of seconds. I could, too, had he allowed it, but after that second sip, he took it away and laid my head back down.

“No, no, no,” I pleaded. “No, please. I need more. I’m dying. Please.”

He held up a hand. Stop.

“Stop?” I asked, and he nodded slowly. “No! I need to drink. Please!”

He shook his head and held up a finger. Wait.

“Wait? For what? Goddammit, do you speak?!”

He laid a finger over his mouth again, his actions urgent.