Page 43 of Ruthless Riches
My purse and phone weren’t with me. Neither was my Fitbit. The Butcher must’ve discarded it all before carrying me down to this hellish place.
With a shaky sigh, I lay back down and closed my eyes, pulling the blanket over me as if it could actually protect me. Horrifying scenarios drifted into my mind, one after another.
What if the Butcher left me to die of dehydration down here? The water in the bottle on the floor wouldn’t last long. A day or two at most.
Maybe he’d bring me more water and let me starve to death instead. Or maybe he’d keep me well-fed and hydrated, drawing the days out until I begged him to kill me just to end the crushing dread and terror.
Tears welled up in my eyes, spilling onto my cheeks. “Nate,” I whispered, wishing he could actually hear me. “Please be alive. Please.”
That was all I wanted now—for him to be healthy and safe.
I didn’t bother wishing for him to find me because I knew it wouldn’t happen. No one but the Butcher knew the location of the entrance to Satan’s Penthouse. Nate could search every day for a month, and he still might not find it. Even if he did, I could be dead by then anyway.
Footsteps began to echo in the tunnels. I sat bolt upright, skin tingling all over as my heart pounded.
A figure appeared in front of my cell a few minutes later, wearing the same Greek tragedy mask I’d seen on two previous occasions now.
I shrank back on the seat as far as I could. “You’re him,” I whispered. “The Butcher.”
His chin dipped in a brief nod, but he didn’t speak.
I swallowed hard and stared up at him, wondering if I could figure out who he was based on what I could see. He was about average in height—five feet nine or ten—and he appeared to be quite heavyset. It was hard to tell, though, because he was dressed in very bulky winter clothing. For all I knew, he could be rail-thin beneath it all.
“Who are you?” I asked in a low voice.
He didn’t reply. Instead he reached into a pocket on the right side of his coat and pulled out a cell phone with a large leather-gloved hand. As he played around with it, the glow from the screen lit the tragedy mask, making it look even eerier.
He tapped somewhere on the phone screen, and a robotic voice began to emanate from it. “Handcuff yourself to the bars.”
My brows shot up. “What?”
The Butcher tilted his head to the right. I followed the direction of his gaze and spotted a large black duffle bag on the floor. He unzipped it and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Then he slipped them through the bars.
I stared down at them, forehead creasing. “Why do you want me to do that? I’m already locked in here.”
I heard a short, irritated sigh behind the mask. Then the robotic voice emanated from the phone again. “Handcuff yourself to the bars.”
“But—”
Before I could say another word in protest, the Butcher lunged at the bars, rattling them with his free hand.
With a petrified gulp, I knelt down to grab the handcuffs and snapped one around my right wrist. Then I snapped the other one around the bar directly in front of me.
The Butcher reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. He used it on the padlock on the cell door.
I watched with wide eyes as he grabbed the duffle bag, opened the door, and stepped inside.
He crouched and pulled a few things out of the bag—four large bottles of water, several bags of snack food, and three wrapped sandwiches. After he’d deposited it all on the floor, he stood up, carried the bag out, and shut the door. Then the padlock clicked, sealing me inside again.
He reached into his pocket and retrieved another key. He held it in the air to show me before using it to unlock my handcuffs. They fell away and landed on the floor with a clatter.
“Pass them back to me,” he said via the text-to-speech app.
I did as he said, still staring at him with wide eyes. “Who are you?” I asked again.
He didn’t answer. Just stared back at me from behind the creepy mask.
I gestured to the food. “Why are you feeding me?” I said. “Why don’t you just kill me?”
