Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Please, God, no. Anything but rape.
“We’re going to try something different,” he says, and a piece of cloth drops over my face. “See if you’re truly willing to die for that bastard.”
Panting, I twist my head from side to side, trying to throw off the cloth, but it’s too long and I can barely breathe underneath it. Is he trying to suffocate me? Is that the plan?
Then the faucet handle squeaks, and everything becomes clear.
“No!” I struggle harder, but he grips my hair with his free hand, holding me under the faucet with my head arched back.
The initial shock of wetness isn’t so bad, but within seconds, the water travels up my nose. My throat clenches, my lungs seize, and my whole body heaves up as I gag and choke. The panic is instinctive, uncontrollable. The rag is like a wet paw clamped over my nose and mouth, squeezing them shut. The water is in my nose, in my throat. I’m suffocating, drowning. I can’t breathe, can’t breathe…
The faucet turns off, and the cloth is yanked off my face. Coughing, I suck in air, sobbing and wheezing. My whole body is a heaving, trembling mess, and white spots dance in my vision. Before I can recover, the cloth is slapped over my face again, and the water is turned back on.
This time, it’s even worse. My nasal passages burn from the water, and my lungs scream for air. I’m heaving and gagging, choking and crying. I can’t breathe. Oh, God, I’m dying; I can’t breathe—
In the next instant, the cloth is gone, and I’m convulsively dragging in air.
“Tell me where he is, and I’ll stop.” His voice is a dark whisper above me.
“I don’t know! Please!” I can taste the vomit in my throat, and the knowledge that he’ll do it again turns my blood into acid. It was easy to be brave with the knife, but not this. I can’t handle dying like this.
“Last chance,” my tormentor says softly, and the wet cloth drops over my face.
The faucet begins to squeak.
“Stop! Please!” The scream is wrenched out of me. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you.”
The water turns off, and the cloth is pulled off my face. “Speak.”
I’m sobbing and coughing too hard to form a coherent sentence, so he pulls me off the counter to the floor and crouches to encircle me in his arms. To someone looking in, it might’ve seemed like a consoling embrace or a lover’s protective hold. Adding to the illusion, my torturer’s voice is soft and gentle as he croons in my ear, “Tell me, Sara. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll leave.”
“He’s—” I stop a second from blurting out the truth. The panicked animal inside me demands survival at all costs, but I can’t do this. I can’t lead this monster to George. “He’s in Advocate Christ Hospital,” I choke out. “The long-term care unit.”
It’s a lie, and apparently not a good one, because the arms around me tighten, nearly crushing my bones. “Don’t fucking bullshit me.” The soft croon in his voice is gone, replaced by biting rage. “He’s gone from there—has been gone for months. Where is he hiding?”
I’m sobbing harder. “I… I don’t—”
My assailant rises to his feet, pulling me up with him, and I scream and struggle as he drags me toward the sink. “No! Please, no!” I’m hysterical as he lifts me onto the counter, my bound hands swinging as I try to claw at his face. My heels drum on the granite as he straddles me, pinning me in place again, and bile rises in my throat as he grips my hair, arching my head back into the sink. “Stop!”
“Tell me the truth, and I’ll stop.”
“I—I can’t. Please, I can’t!” I can’t do this to George, not after everything. “Stop, please!”
The wet cloth slaps over my face, and my throat seizes in panic. The water is still off, but I’m already drowning; I can’t breathe, can’t breathe…
“Fuck!”
I’m abruptly yanked off the counter and onto the floor, where I collapse in a sobbing, shaking heap. Only this time, there are no arms to restrain me, and I dimly realize he stepped away.
I should get up and run, but my hands are tied and I can’t make my legs function. All I can manage is a pathetic roll to the side, followed by an attempt at a crawl. The fear is blinding, disorienting, and I can’t see anything in the darkness.
I can’t see him.
Run, I will my limp, shaking muscles. Get up and run.
Sucking in air, I grab at something—a countertop corner—and pull myself up to my feet. Only it’s too late; he’s already on me, the hard band of his arm wrapping around my ribcage as he grabs me from behind.
“Let’s see if this works better,” he whispers, and something cold and sharp stabs me in the neck.