Page 36 of Pulse Zero
He didn’t let me out last night.
For over three weeks, he’s let me out for several hours every evening around dinner. Last night was the first time he didn’t. He opened the door, set a plate with a sandwich down, and left. No words. Not even eye contact.
It fucking hurt.
I didn’t eat.
He said if I came, I wasn’t getting back out of this room. Did he mean it? Is he sticking to that even though hemademe come?
“So fucking unfair.”
I mutter several more obscenities, most of them aimed at my kidnapper, as I bring my knees up to my chest and hug them to me. The mattress feels harder for some reason, the sheets a little more scratchy on my bare feet. I drag my hand through my hair before burying my face in my knees.
I’ve replayed yesterday so many times it’s starting to blur.
The argument.
The way his face hardened when I started poking holes in this whole fucking thing.
The way he looked at me through the glass.
The gun.
The way he played my body in the shower like it was an instrument he had already mastered.
Heat crawls up my neck, and I groan.
“Great job, Case,” I grumble, my words muffled as I keep my head down. “Stockholm syndrome in under a month. Next up, bringing him home to meet your mom before he buries you in the woods.”
I’m emotionally spiraling over a man who owns duct tape in bulk.
Really stellar life choices.
But the worst part is this suffocating silence.
Did I do something wrong? Does he hate me now for pushing him to do something he didn’t actually want to do?
Did I fuck up?
Why do I always fuck everything up?
The door breathes, that hydraulic hum that sounds like it’s taking a breath. I lift my head just in time to see the door open. Reese stands there. No food. No plate. Just empty hands and a pained expression on his face.
For several seconds, we simply stare at each other. Something in my chest twists tight and painful with somethinglike hope.
He walks inside without shutting the door behind him.
Then, unexpectedly, he sits on the bed in front of me.
I freeze, remaining so still I don’t even breathe. Like if I don’t make any sudden movements, I won’t spook him away.
He just sits there though, staring down at his hands in his lap like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
I’ve never seen him like this.
“Um.” I clear my throat, more unsure than before. “Can I have one of my questions? Because I’d really like to know if this is the dramatic pre-murder silence or if you’re just buffering.”
No reaction.
