Page 140 of Seven
I let out a sound that was half a laugh, half a groan. Then I proceeded to carefully clean my face until I felt like a human again. I used a washcloth to wipe away what I could, but every touch was agony.
I peeled the underwear off. The sight of my own legs, crisscrossed with marks, made me shudder, but not from fear.
I felt a strange kind of pride.
I'd gone in there, I'd faced him, and I'd gotten what I needed.
And in the end, I'd survived.
I was still here, still alive.
The pendant at my throat—the fake crystal hiding thecamera—remained in place despite my assumption that Seven would take it off. Reaching for it slowly, reverently, like it was a religious artifact, I set it on the bathroom counter, careful not to let it roll into the sink. A long minute passed in staring at it before moving on to the task of wiping the rest of my body clean.
A clean T-shirt came from the closet, followed by cotton panties.
Then I shuffled out to the main room.
The loft was empty. The light from the windows fell across the couch, the table, the floor, but there was no sign of Seven.
The kitchen area was the same except for a bottle of painkillers on the counter and a single sticky note on the fridge. I walked over and read it. The handwriting was weirdly careful.
Food in the fridge.
Back soon.
7
My hand shook a little as I peeled the note off the door. There was a plastic container of chicken soup, veggies with rice, and a pack of ChocoNut.
I glared at the pack for a longest time, wondering how he knew I liked these mini bars.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I shook my head and tried not to overthink this. I was exhausted, in pain, and hungry. My headache was getting worse too. I needed to eat.
I was waiting for the food to heat up, standing in front of the microwave and looking at the gray city landscape outside the barred windows when yesterday's memories swarmed in again.
There was a moment—right before I blacked out—when I was sure I'd kissed him. I didn't know if it'd happened for real, or if I'd imagined it just like I imagined his face, but the feel of his mouth was still somehow on my lips. Soft and familiar.
My face got hot just thinking about it.
The microwave beeped, scattering my thoughts.
I took the soup out, burned my hand a little, and brought the container to the table. Then I took the painkillers. I ate standing up, sipping it very carefully because my mouth was hurting. It tasted like broth and garlic and some mystery spice that tickled the back of my throat.
I found myself glancing at the door, waiting for Seven to come back.With every passing minute, the silence pressed in harder. The loft felt less like a safe house and more like a cell.
When I finished eating, I washed the bowl, set it in the sink, and paced the room.
I went back to the bedroom and looked at my phone.
No messages from Seven. Not that I expected any. At least not on this number.
I moved to stand in front of the windows. The view was dizzying—too many floors up, the city spread out in every direction, steel and glass and motion and a little bit of drizzle. On the distant freeway, the cars glittered.
I lay down on the couch, arms wrapped around my ribs, and stared at the ceiling again. The pain in my body was a steady background hum, like the aftershock of an earthquake.
Eventually, I gathered my courage and called Margaret.
She answered on the third ring. "Hi, dear!" Her voice was a hurricane of warmth and worry. "Is everything alright?"
