Page 33 of Death

I gesture at the open door. “You can go at any time.”

She places her hand on the floor and cautiously begins to drag herself out from under the bed.

Wanting to see what she’ll do, I stop looking at her and pull my phone out of my pocket.

Santiago: Bring a bowl of chicken soup to Ciara’s room. Knock on the door, then leave it outside on the floor.

I send the text to Dr. Pires, then just keep staring at my phone while I listen to Ciara slowly moving toward the bathroom.

When she suddenly darts inside, I remain sitting, but I’m surprised when she doesn’t shut the door.

I listen as she relieves her bladder, but a few seconds later, a soft sob has my head snapping up.

Climbing to my feet, I walk closer to the door and ask, “Are you okay, Ciara?”

Her breaths become audible, and when it sounds like she’s hyperventilating, I rush into the bathroom.

Ciara’s still sitting on the toilet, her arms wrapped around her middle and her eyes squeezed shut.

I take hold of her shoulders and help her up into a standing position before I crouch down to pull her panties up her legs.

When I straighten out again, I wrap my arms around her and press her face to my chest.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. “You’re safe,mipequeño sol.”

I just hold her, repeating the words until she finally begins to calm down on her own.

That’s a step in the right direction.

A knock at the door has her yanking free from my hold and running to hide under the bed again.

I open the door, and seeing Dr. Pires holding the tray with the soup, I raise an eyebrow at her.

She peeks into the room, then whispers, “How is she doing?”

“It’s touch and go.” I take the tray from her and say, “You can lock the door again.”

“Call me if you need me.”

I nod and watch as she pulls the door shut before locking it.

Carrying the tray to the bed, I crouch and set it down on the floor before slowly pushing it closer to Ciara, where she’s still under the bed.

Without a word, I get up and walk to the armchair. I sit down, and with a clear view of the tray, I wait to see what will happen.

I check the time on my wristwatch and sit still for thirty minutes. When Ciara doesn’t touch the soup, I get up again and sit down on the floor beside the bed.

Leaning down, I look at her. “You haven’t had solid food for a while. Aren’t you hungry?”

Her chin begins to quiver, her eyes darting between me and the tray.

“You can eat,” I murmur in case she needs permission.

We sit like this for another ten minutes before she pulls herself out from under the bed, then she moves into a kneeling position and opens her mouth.

The blood chills in my veins, but I keep my expression relaxed as I pick up the spoon and scoop some soup into it. When I bring the spoon to her mouth, she lets me feed her before lowering her head again.

Jesus Christ, she’s been severely conditioned.

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