I don’t answer. I just stare at the door and listen to that strange humming coming from somewhere nearby.
“Holly, why did you refuse?”
I whisper, “Because I’m a stubborn bitch.”
That’s when the door opens again and Dolph returns.
One hour thirty minutes to go.
Thirteen
Dolph comes alone this time. Clearly he realizes he doesn’t need the extra muscle to deal with the two of us.
He stands in front of me and just watches me. Doesn’t say anything.
I stare back at him. I can’t see his mouth, but I know he’s smiling.
“Ready to make the call?”
I don’t say anything.
Behind me, Brooke issues a terrified gasp as she realizes my intention.
Dolph’s hand is around my neck a second later.
“I do not know how else to make you understand just how important it is for you to do as we ask other than hurting you. Do you want me to hurt you?”
His grip is tight, but not tight enough that I can’t breathe.
I just stare up at him.
He squeezes harder.
Behind me, Brooke starts to sob.
Unable to speak, I mouth a two-syllable word.
Dolph relaxes his grip but doesn’t let go. “What was that?”
“Okay.”
“You will call?”
“Yes.”
He steps back, pulls the cell phone from his pocket. “What is the number?”
I tell him.
He dials and places the phone to my ear.
After two rings, the phone’s answered by a gruff, tired voice.
“Paradise Pizza, pickup or delivery?”
“Delivery, please.”
“What’s your address?”
I say to Dolph, “What’s the address here?”
Dolph glares at me.
I say into the phone, “I’ll get you the address in a minute. I’d like to order a large pepperoni with extra cheese. Actually, wait.” I turn my head to the side. “Brooke, is there something else you’d like on it?”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps sobbing.
I say into the phone, “Yeah, let’s just keep it a large pepperoni with extra cheese for now.” I mock-whisper to Dolph, “What’s your credit card number?”
Dolph snaps the phone shut. He doesn’t do anything else, though, just stands there glaring at me.
“Shit,” I say. “I didn’t ask if you wanted any special toppings. My bad.”
Dolph slides the cell phone back into his pocket. Leans forward. Says, “It is clear now you do not care what happens to you. But I wonder”—he pauses, his gaze shifting past me—“do you care what happens to somebody else?”
It hits me then what he intends to do, but before I can answer, Dolph steps around me until he’s entirely out of my line of sight.
That’s when Brooke starts screaming.
I can’t see what it is Dolph does to her, but I can hear it. The sound of his fists striking her flesh. Repeatedly. Again and again. Brooke screaming and crying and begging him to stop.
I shout out at one point, tell him that I’ll call my father, but he doesn’t bite. He just keeps beating Brooke, and Brooke just keeps screaming and crying and begging, until Dolph finally reappears.
His black leather gloves drip with blood.
“No more fucking around,” he says. “You will call your father. You will do everything we tell you to do.”
He reaches for his pocket. Then he pauses, realizing the gloves are bloody, and seems to debate with himself whether he wants to take the gloves off. Finally, he turns and stalks across the room to the door. Doesn’t seem to care at all the gloves are bloody as he tears open the door and storms out.
Behind me, Brooke’s sobbing is soft but persistent.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Brooke doesn’t answer. Maybe she can’t. Maybe her face is already swelling to the point words are impossible.
“I have some good news,” I say, watching the door in case Dolph decides to make another appearance. “We’re one step closer to getting out of here.”
And with one final tug, I manage to release my right hand from the duct tape keeping it bound to the chair.
One hour ten minutes to go.
Fourteen
Here’s the thing about duct tape.
It’s strong, yeah, but it’s not one hundred percent reliable.
The adhesive is bound to wear off sooner or later. Yes, I haven’t been bound to this chair that long, but this is a metal folding chair. And like most metal folding chairs, it’s cheaply made. The metal isn’t entirely flawless. Sometimes there are rough spots. Spots that are sharp. Spots that are sharp enough to tear into duct tape.
I found this particular sharp spot on the chair after Dolph made his first visit and I refused to call my father. I was alone, and I struggled again with the chair, tried to free myself from the duct tape, and that’s when my arm touched the sharp spot. I’d been working at it ever since, rubbing the tape against the spot every chance I had, until finally the duct tape split apart enough for me to free my hand.
Which I do now, frantically, wanting nothing more than to get the fuck out of here. But I need to stay calm, focused, and while Brooke keeps sobbing, I reach over and start working the duct tape keeping my left arm in place. There doesn’t seem to be any sharp spots on that end of the metal chair, which makes this a whole lot harder. Plus there’s no telling just how soon Dolph—and maybe his entourage—will return. It could be any second now.
Brooke’s sobbing quiets momentarily for her to speak.
“What … what are you doing?”
“Like I said, I’m getting us out of here.”
With my free hand, I work at the duct tape as best as I can, wearing down the adhesive until there’s enough give that I manage to slip my other hand free.
I work at my feet next, which is a little easier now that I have two free hands. It takes a couple of minutes, but then I’m out of the chair and standing for the first time in hours.
I don’t take the time to relish the small spurt of freedom. Instead, I hurry around to check on Brooke.
She looks awful.
No—she looks absolutely terrible.
Her face has indeed swollen, so much so it looks deformed. Blood trickles down from her
