Page 95 of Beneath the Surface

The doorknob turned.

Quinn’s hands tightened on the couch arm, her short nails digging into the fabric. She could feel her pulse in her fingertips. Could feel the tremor that had started in her hands that morning and hadn’t stopped—a fine vibration like she’d had too much coffee, except she’d only had one cup because that’s all Dax had brought yesterday and she was rationing it.

The door swung open.

“Hey,” Dax said, and she heard the grocery bags rustling—that plastic crinkle that meant he’d stopped at the store again, brought more food to keep her fed and alive and imprisoned.

Quinn didn’t turn around.

Couldn’t.

Because if she looked at him—if she saw his face, saw the concern and fear and love there—she might lose her nerve. Might let him talk her into staying. Into just a few more days, a few more weeks, just until it was safe.

Except it would never be safe. Not really.

“I brought food,” Dax continued, his voice carrying that careful cheerfulness he’d adopted somewhere around day four. Like if he pretended everything was normal, she’d believe it too. “Got those protein bars you like. And the good coffee.”

The protein bars tasted like cardboard dipped in chocolate. The “good coffee” was the same brand he always bought because he’d decided once that she liked it and had never asked again.

Quinn’s jaw ached. She realized she was clenching it. Had been clenching it so hard her temples throbbed.

She said nothing. Just kept staring at that knot. At the screaming face in the wood grain.

Footsteps moving through the cabin now. Heavy boots on hardwood. She could track his progress without looking—he’d walk through to the kitchen first, set down the groceries. Then he’d do his rounds.

Always the rounds.

Click. The front door deadbolt sliding home.

Quinn flinched at the sound, though she’d heard it every day. That metallic snick of the lock engaging. The sound of being sealed in.

More footsteps. Heavier now as he moved to the living room windows.

Click-click. The window latches being tested.

One by one.

Left window. Middle window. Right window.

Quinn could feel each sound like a physical thing. Like chains being wrapped around her, link by link.

The security panel beeped. Once. Twice. Three times as Dax tested it.

“Everything looks good,” he said, and there was satisfaction in his voice. Pride, even. Because the cabin was secure. Because he’d done his job. Because Quinn was safe in her pretty cage.

Her hands were shaking now. That fine tremor had spread up her arms, into her shoulders. She could feel it in her chest—this vibration of barely suppressed panic or rage or something she didn’t have a name for.

Plastic bags rustling in the kitchen. Dax unpacking the groceries with his usual efficiency.

Refrigerator door opening. Items being placed inside with careful precision—he’d organize them by type, she knew. Dairy on the top shelf. Vegetables in the crisper. Everything in its place.

Everything controlled.

Quinn’s breath was coming shorter now. Faster.

She’d counted her breaths this morning too. Lying in bed at 6:47 AM, staring at the ceiling, counting inhales and exhales because there was nothing else to count. Had gotten to three hundred and forty-two before she’d given up and gotten out of bed.

Three hundred and forty-two breaths.