me,” Rogers says, glaring at me. “I can mail him one of your pretty little fingers and he’ll see just how serious I am about this. He’ll see just how much pain you’re enduring because of him.”
Instinctively, I hold my hands to my chest, my heart pounding in my ears. “That would never work,” I tell him.
“Why not?”
“Because there will probably be all kinds of forensic evidence all over my fingers. Matvei could take it to the police and they’d all come for you. You don’t want that. You don’t want the cops involved with this plan of yours, not after you’ve worked so hard to pull it off.”
He chilling gaze settles on me. “You expect me to believe Matvei Morozov would ever involve the police? Even the ones he has in his back pocket?”
He and I both know that Matvei doesn’t ever involve authorities. He keeps his business to himself, and if there’s a problem, he shows up and takes care of it.
“If I’m going to do this, I’ll need equipment,” Rogers muses, more to himself than me. “I’ll need something sharp enough to cut through bone. Something to stitch up your wound. Alcohol to keep it clean. God, so many things I’ll need to pick up.”
My heart thuds so hard that it’s nearly deafening. I want to scream, to tell him to stop talking about this and keep away from me, but he’s off the deep end.
Rationalizing won’t work with him.
Lying won’t work with him.
He’s on his own path of destruction, and nothing I can do will stop him.
“I’m going to make a quick run to the store,” he says, smiling with resolve. He turns to me. “You stay right here, darling.”
Quickly, Rogers jumps up from his chair and steps into the hall. He slams the door shut and I hear the unmistakable sound of chains being wrapped around the doorknob to keep me inside. My skin crawls at the thought of him returning with his tools.
I can’t let him touch me. I can’t let him get his filthy hands on me and take my finger.
An indescribable terror shreds through me and I push myself up from the seat, throwing the plate aside. Adrenaline pumps through every vein in my body, and like a wild animal desperate to get free, I rush to the door and grip the handle, twisting and tugging as hard as I can.
It doesn’t move an inch.
Frustrated, I run to the windows. They’re boarded up, but that doesn’t stop me from grabbing at the wood and pulling, putting all my force into it. I imagine tearing the planks of wood from the window, the nails no match for my sudden strength. I imagine using that wood to smash out the window and escape. And when I do, I don’t stop running.
But just like the door, this wood isn’t going anywhere. No matter how hard I throw myself backwards, my fingers slip and I fall flat on my back.
I let out a wail, begging for someone to help me. Someone has to hear me out here. A passerby, a construction crew coming to tear down all these abandoned houses. Someone.
I bang against the wall and shout until my voice is hoarse, slamming fists against walls and tugging at the boarded windows until my fingertips are rubbed raw. It’s no use. None of this is going to work.
I press my face against the wood and sob again, hopeless.
Hopeless to ever escape this nightmarish place.
Hopeless because I know that when Rogers returns, he’s going to cut my finger off and I’ll have no chance of getting away from him.
He’s stronger than me. He’s bigger than me. What can I do to fight him off?
I search the room, looking in every corner for something. Maybe a loose nail or a wooden board that I can tear from the floor and use as a weapon. For a moment, I envision myself finding a way down into the foundation, where I can crawl out from the house by going underneath it.
It’s fruitless. Rogers cleaned this place spotless before he locked me in here. The only thing I have is the dust and the plate. My eyes slide over to the wooden stool that Rogers left on his way out, and I could kick myself for not seeing it before. It was right there in front of me.
Rogers is going to cut my finger off, and Matvei still won’t come. No matter how much I feel for him, no matter how