Page 165 of Captive Ruin

The thought arrives unbidden, startling me, my subconscious working hard in the background.

That’s the missing piece. That’s the cause of my listlessness, my numbness, these many long weeks.

I know it now.

Opposite me sits a killer, his preferred weapon a knife that is no doubt on his person right in this moment, security on private jets not being quite what it is at the main terminal. His last wife died from a knife wound to the throat in the bed that we slept in. No one will talk about it, and they call it suicide.

But him? He called it a relief.

“Surprisingly unperturbed.” That’s what he said about killing Serranto. What did he say about Juliette?

Will he kill me, too? Is that my fate? Will I make it twelve years? Will I make it twelve months? Was Juliette even ill, an illness no one will talk about? Or was she numb?

The wine in my glass sloshes, and I set it down on the table beside me, my hand trembling too much to hold it. He’ll have noticed; he misses nothing. I’ll have to explain.

“My headache has returned. Red might’ve been a bad choice.” My voice barely wavers, and what’s there could be attributed to pain. He’s right; I am strong.

Just not strong enough to escape him.

Neither was she, until the end.

“Do you have painkillers?” he asks.

“I’ve taken some. I think I’ll just… sleep.” No chance of that. Not without my Ambien, and that’s in my suitcase. But I can fake it. I’ve gotten good at faking things. My life, for example.

He nods slowly. “Very well. Let’s talk about this when you’re feeling better.”

“All right.” There’s no escaping the conversation, just like there’s no escaping him.

I turn in my chair, tucking my legs up beneath me, and close my eyes.

Quiet, passive, still. With a killer sitting opposite me, watching me feign sleep.

Bastien sends his helicopter to pick us up from the airport, our destination an enormous house beside a lake, sandy stone and dark timbers, with numerous glass walls that will only tease the escape I’ll never be able to touch.

Bastien comes out to meet us, along with Anna and Nat. I crave some company other than my own, but after my behavior last night I’m almost embarrassed to see them.

“Welcome, my friend.” Bastien greets Van Wyk with the warmth he always shows, like he hasn’t seen him in ages. But this time with a hint of pride, and that’s justified; his house is stunning. “And the beautiful Amelia.” He bows over my hand, brushing my knuckles with roguish charm, and Van Wyk tenses.

I do hope he’s not going to try and kill Bastien. He’d probably succeed; there’s no security around.

As soon as Bastien releases me, I hook my hand around Van Wyk’s arm, leaning into him, aiming for mollification. I’m not sure why I bother, except that I like Bastien, and I don’t want to be the cause of a rift between them. Numb or not, I don’t need more guilt.

Our rooms are a suite, two large sofas in the living space, a bathroom and kitchen, and a bedroom with an enormous bed. Van Wyk leaves me as soon as we arrive, work pressing as it always is.

I spend my time mostly in our rooms because he doesn’t. Some of it with Nat, although she’s working. Anna I don’t see as much, but then I never had the same sense of warmth from her, and she’s busier still.

It must be nice to have a job, a purpose.

I like Nat’s company because when she’s with me, I can walk outside. When I try it by myself, Bastien’s security guards stand in front of the doors with arms crossed, and it’s obvious they’re under instructions not to let me out. But Nat has the run of the place, and they don’t stop her.

We walk in the gardens, which are lovely and full of rosebushes. She’s good company, but she’s not Sierra or Lucy. I miss them so much it hurts.

I don’t know how long we’re staying because I never asked, but the one day turns into a second and a third, and then a week.

My phone tells me what day it is, but time has little meaning when every day is the same, and there’s nothing to do.

It happens to be a Saturday when I’m sitting in the suite alone, reading my Kindle with a glass of wine, the bottle open beside me. Someone raps sharply on the door, and I immediately know it’s Van Wyk. No one else knocks like that. What energy I had disperses like morning mist under a hot sun.