Page 23 of Auctioned Innocence
Look for weaknesses.
For opportunities.
For anything that might help me understand where I am and who took me.
The art is generic but high-end.
The flowers are fresh orchids and lilies—expensive, requiring daily attention.
The furniture is antique, European.
Nothing has a manufacturer’s mark or hotel logo.
Nothing gives away our location.
Moving makes my stomach roll, but I force myself to my feet, gripping the bedpost until the dizziness passes.
The chloroform—or whatever they used—hasn’t fully cleared my system.
I need to be careful. Patient. Clear-headed.
Designer clothes hang in the open closet, all in my size.
I flip through them quickly.
Valentino. Gucci. Prada.
More money than most people see in a year, hanging casually in a prison cell.
I check every pocket, every fold, but find nothing useful.
No tags with store locations, no receipts, nothing that would give me information.
The attached bathroom has high-end toiletries, fluffy towels, a rainfall shower—and no mirrors.
Nothing that could be broken and used as a weapon.
The soap dishes are soft silicone.
The shower fixtures, while gleaming like metal, are actually some kind of reinforced plastic.
Even the toilet paper holder is designed to collapse under pressure rather than become a potential weapon.
These people know what they’re doing.
These aren’t amateurs or opportunists.
This is an operation refined through experience.
My chest tightens as the implications hit me.
How many girls have been here before me?
How many rooms like this exist?
A knock at the door makes me jump.
Before I can decide how to respond, it opens, revealing a girl about my age.
