Hero

4

Norman returns to the room, fumbling with the knob and pushing the door open with his back. He spins around to reveal a tray weighed down by food. “Let’s try this again, Cataline,” he says.

“How do you know my name?”

“I wasn’t sure of your preference this morning, so I had Chef Michael make a variety of things. I also don’t know when you’ve last eaten.” He raises an amused eyebrow at me as he nears the bed. “Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, pancakes, and a bowl of Shredded Mini-Wheats. The cereal I prepared myself,” he adds with a chuckle. He shows me the tray again and nods. “Well, go on. Sit back.”

I maneuver so my back is against the headboard, but I don’t let him out of my sight.

“Is this like fattening up a pig before you eat it? What is all this?”

“Not at all. Just trying to make you comfortable.”

“Is it drugged?”

“It might be,” he says, “and this might be a gas chamber disguised as a luxurious bedroom. What choice do you have? If we wanted to hurt you, we would.”

My stomach rumbles loudly, and he stifles a smile while placing the offering across my lap.

I sniff the orange juice, swirling it in its glass. I look at him over the rim and set it back down. My eyes shift to the door and quickly back to him. On the tray is a vase with a single rosebud. “Is that from the garden?” I ask.

“Try to enjoy your breakfast.”

I shovel a spoonful of cereal in my mouth and chew, glad he at least picked my favorite kind.

“There you are,” Norman says. “I’ll let you eat.”

“No,” I cry. Milk dribbles from the corners of my mouth, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. “Stay. Answer my questions.”

“I’m afraid I’ve told you everything. There isn’t much more information I can provide, aside from a tour of the house. Eat your breakfast, and I’ll be back to check on you soon.”

“Did you take off my clothes?”

His face mars with a grimace, but he schools it. “Heavens, no. Rosa dressed you in that. The sleeping gown was chosen by the Master of the House.”

“Why does he care what I wear to bed?”

“I can assure you that I would never violate you in such a manner,” Norman says as though he didn’t hear me. He looks about to speak when a telephone’s earsplitting ring sounds from the hallway. He straightens up and darts away, taking only enough time to lock the door behind him. I stare after him until salty tears streak my cheeks, pooling at the corners of my lips.

When I escape, there’s no knowing how long I’ll be without food, so I eat everything. I survey the empty tray, my eyes resting on the silverware. I pick up the butter knife and run it along the fattest part of my palm. It leaves a wrinkle. I toss it in favor of the fork.

I leave the rest on the bed and slowly, carefully, walk to the door. Hoping the click of the lock was my imagination, I grip the knob. It’s a cold, brass mass in my fist, like the hardened knot of a heart. I wrench it forcefully, trying to push through the resistance. I twist it until my hand stings from the metal’s burn.

With a sigh, I turn back for the bed but find myself heading to the fireplace instead. I lean in and inspect wood that’s clearly never been used. There’s a knock at the door, and without thinking, I stick the fork in my mouth and use both hands to pull a log free. Somebody raps twice more, the handle jiggles, and I panic. I balance the fork between to fingers and rush toward the door as it opens.

“Cataline?”

I raise the log when Norman enters, but in the doorway behind him looms a brute—as big a man as I’ve ever seen. He glances over my head and rolls his eyes.

The lines in Norman’s forehead deepen as he sighs. “Cataline, listen to me. There is no escaping this situation. Best that you don’t resist, or you’ll make things harder on everyone. The Master of the House—”

“Is that him?” I whisper, staring at the tattoos peeking from his shirt’s collar. His neck is red in a way that I think it might be all the time.

“No. That’s head of security, Carter. The Master is kind but impatient. Order and control are important to him. Anything outside that displeases him.”

My arms quake from the weight of the log. I’m unusually weak with fatiguing muscles and wobbly legs. My breakfast rises up the back of my throat. I lower the log in front of me.

“You can go, Carter,” Norman says. “I trust Cataline.”

Carter shrugs, staring back at me. “Can’t. I’m supposed to make sure this one doesn’t pull anything.”

Norman turns his head over his shoulder. “I said you’re dismissed.”

“No can do. Boss’s orders.”

Norman huffs and returns his attention to me. “I assure you, none of us intend on harming you; we want only to make you comfortable. But as you will see on the tour, there is no escape. The exits are sealed and security is top of the line. The house is under lockdown. My advice to you is if you’re told to do something, do it.”

His words anger me, tiny, hot needles piercing at the hope in my heart.

Norman looks back at Carter. “I suppose you’ll be joining—”

The log hits him squarely in the chest when I heave it, thudding on the floor. He stumbles back as I blow past him into Carter’s grasp. I stab the fork into his shoulder, and he releases me instantly with a guttural noise.

His angry curses echo until I’m halfway down the hall, heading for a staircase. I take the stairs two at a time, almost face planting before I reach the ground level. I race across the foyer to the front door, but it’s locked. My entire body fights with the handle until I hear hurried footsteps on the stairs.

I sprint for the nearest door in the hallway. It won’t budge either, but it’s less solid. I pull on the handle like I hate it, like it’s my worst enemy, and throw my shoulder into the door over and over until it finally pops open. In the room I spot a phone on a desk and a window. I close the door behind me. The lock is busted, so I wedge a chair under the handle like I’ve seen in movies.

The window is either locked or stuck beyond my strength. I pick up the phone and dial 911 while dragging another chair with me to the window. I yank the receiver from my ear and glance at it because there’s no sound on the line, not even a dial tone. I throw it at the desk, and the whole phone flies off the edge, scattering papers everywhere.

A folder hits my feet, and I crouch down. “Riviera Cartel” is scrawled across it. I pick up the newspaper article next to it. Black marker circles Carlos Riviera’s name and down the page, more names and details.

My heart stops. My fingers crunch the newspaper in a fist. Why hadn’t I thought of it already? The Cartel was recently accused of kidnapping young girls. Belated nausea washes over me. I swallow down the urge to vomit and pick up the chair. My hands shake violently, but I slam it into the window. It thuds dully. I do it again and again until a wooden leg breaks off.

I turn in time to see the chair under the door handle skid across the floor when Carter bursts in. I dive under the desk, huddling there and grabbing the leg as he snatches my ankles. He pulls. My grip tightens. The desk is so sturdy, it doesn’t move even an inch. I only let go when I’m sure my shoulder joints are about to pop out of their sockets.

I wake up squeezing my eyes shut. My knees, shoulders, and elbows pulse like they have been for hours. My right ankle is heavy and cold. It’s a moment before I remember where I am, squinting into a room streaked sepia by the setting sun. I’ve slept through the first day of sunshine in over a week, and I decide if I’m still here tomorrow, I’ll make use of my windowsill.

After my attempted escape, Carter carried me up the stairs by my waist. There’s a sharp throb in my heel when I remember kicking his shin repeatedly. He locked a cuff around my ankle while Norman held my wrists, assuring me it was temporary. A chain attached to the metal cuff was secured to the other end of the bed. They forced half a sleeping pill down my throat. All I could wonder was why they had such things readily available.

The chain was cumbersome, but it was also long. I paced, relentlessly searching the room and my memory for clues. I passed my hands across every surface, even snaking them behind the headboard and pushing furniture aside. I don’t know what I hoped to find. A crack. A hole. A mistake. There was only smooth disappointment beneath my fingertips.

I opened the doors to a large, walk-in closet to find bars filled with hangers of clothing. I fingered dozens of different fabrics, checking the sizes of garment after garment. Everything was my size. Every piece was beautiful, things I’d choose if ever given the chance to buy designer clothing. Overwhelmed, I stepped out and closed the doors after me.

My thoughts became foggy. Maybe my call had gone through, and the police had heard the whole struggle. I kept thinking I heard sirens. Eventually I closed my puffy eyes and gave in to the drug.

In bed, I turn onto my side, wincing from where Carter threw me on the ground earlier. This is one of those news stories that start with an ending. Because who would take another person with the intention of ever letting them go? But if it’s money they want—revenge, or to send a message—then there must be some mistake. I live my life quietly. I’m not worth anything to anyone.

The question overwhelms my mind—why?

It’s only in the tranquility of the late afternoon and the wearing off of the sleeping pill that my sense recalibrates.

I can still feel the smudged clues on my fingertips from that newspaper. Frida’s voice is close enough to the surface that I can recall her exact tone when she said the words Riviera Cartel.

“At lunch I thought the tattoo on his forearm looked familiar—a small rose.”

Tall. Broad. Threatening. Our taco lunch. I was justified in the uneasiness he inspired. He knew I walked through downtown to get home.

“Hey, guess what? You were right about Guy Fowler.”

Our eyes met in the restaurant, and I blushed under his flattery. I practically threw myself at him despite the warning in my gut. I thought he was interested. I thought he liked me. He stared at me like he wanted me. And now he has me.