Page 24 of Strings Attached
He opened the trunk and took the bag from me. “Good afternoon, Jill.”
The way he said my name always sent butterflies fluttering inside my stomach. I hated it felt so nice. I was supposed to be a professional. He was supposed to be a stone-cold killer. And instead, he played mind games with me, going from threatening me to fucking in a matter of seconds. Often at the same time.
We drove off, and the ride was silent. Not uncomfortable or awkward, but pleasant. I hadn’t been in this part of the city since taking a bus would take forever, so I was enjoying the sights. Soon enough, it became more industrial, with warehouses every few buildings. The few apartment buildings were either decrepit or brand new and looked as though they cost thousands per month. Which was ridiculous considering how far we were from downtown.
He pulled into a parking lot with a singular building. It looked like a small warehouse with one floor, but he continued straight down into an underground garage. The door opened after he pushed a button on his cellphone, and then he drove inside. My pulse sped as darkness swallowed us, save for the headlights.
Electricity buzzed overhead, and lights switched on as he put the car in park. “We’re here.”
It was strange being back, considering the last time I arrived and left, I’d been sedated. This time, he was allowing me to see where he lived. Allowing me into his space. He unlocked the only door, and music filtered through; classical.
The place was amazing and not at all what I pictured. Although it had been difficult for me to really imagine anything, considering he’d put me in a tiny empty room the first time I’d been here. The place was built like a studio apartment but huge. Stone walls on either end held more paintings than I could count and of all sizes. The kitchen was large, with several counters and overhead cupboards. Did he like to cook?
“Bedroom area is there,” he said as he rolled up his sleeves. He motioned to a nook inside the wall where a king bed rested, curtains opened on either side. I couldn’t help but envy him; that looked like such a comfortable place to sleep; a four-poster bed, but with mostly walls instead.
A sofa, loveseat, and armchair faced toward a flat-screen television with a few consoles below. Easels of all sizes stood around the room, some with unfinished paintings.
“You paint?” I asked as I approached one that looked finished. “It’s beautiful.”
The portrait of a woman looking to the sky as swans flew past her. Delicate and innocent. So unlike him. Not that I’d say it, but writing it all down came to mind as I took everything in.
“Thank you.” He placed his hand on the side of my hip, leading me farther into the room, past the kitchen. “It keeps me busy.”
I understood the unspoken words: until he had the urge to kill again.
On the other end of the area, there was a single door next to what looked like a large elevator visible through the freight door. I reminded myself that this place was likely once a warehouse, so it would make sense for this to be here. “You have downstairs neighbors?” I asked in surprise.
He shook his head. “The building belongs to me. I live alone.”
I almost asked how he was able to afford it but decided to try keeping my questions to a bare minimum; I was here to observe for the time being.
He motioned at the singular door. “That’s the washroom.” He lifted the freight door and shot me a grin. “Curious about the basement?”
I nodded, my pulse throbbing in my ears as I wondered what would be down there. A torture room? Dungeon? I recalled the empty room I had been shackled in. Was that it?
We stepped inside, and after inserting a key into a hole in the control panel, it went down. My heart seemed to lodge itself into my throat with how fast it went down, and I quickly grabbed on to the nearest thing. Which happened to be his arm.
He didn’t comment, but I still let go. I needed to find a way to put a wedge between us; this couldn’t have a happy ending.
He opened the freight door, and I stepped out. It wasn’t at all what I imagined. A few bookcases lined the wall, and two large shelves with various items were pushed against a smaller wall to the side. An old clawfoot bathtub stood to the side, barrels sitting nearby. I swallowed hard at the old industrial-type fire pit at the end of the room.
“Where was the room you kept me?” I asked, unable to take my eyes off the white and gray ashes at the bottom of the pit.
He picked up one of the bookshelves as though it weighed nothing, revealing a door. He opened it and shot me an amused look as I stared inside. A single cot with a chain bolted to the wall and a chair in the corner.
“Home sweet home?” he cooed in my ear.
I stiffened, half-expecting him to throw me inside. “Do you often lock people up in here?”
“Only the ones I don’t want found.” His voice had turned dark as though he was picturing the people he’d murdered then and there.
“And what... do you do to them?” My voice seemed to grow smaller with each question. Did I want to know?
Of course! I need to be taking notes!
He grabbed the back of my neck and led me toward the bathtub. “They get to pick their card, but when they’re dead, I soak their bodies in lye.”
“Lye?” I repeated with a frown. I’d imagined he’d use some sort of acid.
