Page 68 of House of Cards

“A year? Jesus, how much did you owe them?”

She looks away, inches toward the hallway. “Everything.” She tugs up the sleeve of her robe again, trails her fingers over the marks on her skin. “They got me clean, Z. I’d already OD’d twice before I—“ She throws me a quick glance, changing what she’d been going to say. “—before I came here.”

“Jesus.”

Anita gives me a grim smile. “Oh,” she huffs through a laugh, “he can’t help you anymore.”

I don’t bother finishing the rom-com we’d been watching. I’ve missed half of it, and I don’t need the reminder that my life is headed in the complete opposite direction of a happily ever after.

I’m still hungry, but after hunting through the kitchen cabinets and deciding against the empty carbs in the lone box of cereal I discover, I go back to my room and try to sleep.

I have it on good authority that it makes the time go by faster.

As soon as I lay eyes on the narrow bed and the IV stand beside it, my face scrunches up. I turn my back on the camera as I feel the onslaught of tears crash into me, but it’s a futile, childish gesture.

I’m already heaving with sobs by the time I crawl onto the mattress and try to cocoon myself in the warm, soft blanket. It’s so out of place in this nursing-home of a room.

When I suck in a huge breath to replenish my aching lungs and I catch a hint of Smith’s cologne, I realize why.

This came from his room.

Was I wrapped in it when he brought me down? Was he even the one who brought me here, or was it one of his lackeys?

I stifle my misery in my pillow, but I guess it’s normal for the new girl to cry herself to sleep.

Sucks being a stereotype. What I wouldn’t give to be brave and fierce—my usual devil-may-care self.

But I can’t stop thinking about what Anita said.

That I’ve gotten myself trapped in a fucked up version of Disney Land. That I’m waiting in line, blindfolded, no fucking clue what ride I’m going to be shoved on next.

I force my eyes open, turning to peek over my shoulder at the red, blinking eye of the camera, before turning away and huddling deeper inside Smith’s soft, warm blanket.

All I can hope is that my next ride doesn’t leave me even more traumatized.

Or dead.

Smith

Rows of monitors bathe the tiny control room in a sickly blue glow, each screen a window into a different part of The Den. I’ve been here for six hours straight, eyes flickering from feed to feed, pretending I’m surveilling, not stalking.

Zoey is curled up on her bed, facing away from the camera. Despite the grainy night-vision feed, I can make out the rise and fall of her breathing.

Slow. Even.

Finally asleep. Her tears finally dried up.

Our usual setup from the Angels’s quarters is a feed that switches from room to room every thirty seconds.

Room one through ten, living area, repeat.

I adjusted that feed as soon as I relieved the two security officers usually stationed in this control room. Right after I assured them they weren’t being fired. Nick still looked uneasy when he left, like I’d asked to use his laptop and he hadn’t had time to clear his browser history.

I rub my eyes beneath my glasses, the burn of exhaustion making them water.

When last did I leave this room long enough to do more than take a piss? I haven’t opened my laptop in well over a day.

My intentions were pure. In the beginning.

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