But Reggie?
Reggie was a different story altogether. He was cold and harsh and unnerving. Hell, how many times had I said to myself that he had creepy eyes? This was why. He was a creep. I always felt like the eyes told you a lot about a person. There was always just “something” there when a person was off in some way. Something that made a chill run up your spine, that activated your fight-or-flight response.
How many times had my aunts told me to listen to that instinct? To immediately respond to that flinch because sometimes something inside of us could sense trouble before even our brains could process it.
But I’d just kept pushing away that weird feeling I had about Reggie.
Why?
Because he was paying? Because, for once, I let greed make me second-guess myself?
Damnit.
And Lizzie, well, I just plain had her wrong. I thought she was, for all intents and purposes, just a good woman stuck with a bad man. We’d all seen it a dozen times in our lives. So many good women who just couldn’t break free from their toxic partners.
Maybe she was just a victim after all. Maybe she was brainwashed and just as much a victim as I was in a way. But I couldn’t seem to muster too much sympathy for her right in that moment since she was free to walk around, and I was tied to a damn chair.
Anger—unfamiliar and overpowering—coursed through me, boiling my stomach, sending flames across my skin.
I was not a violent person.
But my mother had been right.
I was passive, not harmless.
And, God, right that moment, I wanted to do some harm.
“Where’s Reggie?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm and light, not wanting to set her off if she had some sort of trigger.
“Oh, he’s coming. He wanted to shower and make himself extra clean for you,” she said, sending me a sick, hollow-eyed smile.
“I, ah, I got your boxes,” I said, trying to wiggle my wrists without my shoulders moving, which was a lot harder than it sounded in my head. “Why didn’t you sign them?” I asked, feeling my lips shake with the effort to keep my tone conversational and friendly when I felt like I was choking on the bile in my throat.
“They were a surprise, silly,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You can’t sign a surprise gift.”
“Right. Yes, of course. That was a silly question, wasn’t it?”
“Did you like my drawings?” she asked. “I’ve always liked to ‘doodle,’ as Reggie calls it. He thought they looked a lot like you, so we included them in the packages.”
That was why the notes had been from a singular stalker.
Because Reggie had written those.
And Lizzie had done the supposed artwork.
“You did really good,” I said, smile so fake it hurt my cheeks. “They really looked like me.”
“Yeah?” she asked, smile bright. “Did I miss anything?”
“Ah, well, I have a tattoo on my side,” I told her. “But you couldn’t have known that,” I added, not wanting her to think I was criticizing her.
“I took some artistic license since I didn’t have the full reference to go off of. But that’s okay. Because I will soon!” she said, bouncing a little in excitement as I realized that while she may have been a victim in her own way, she was also very, very sick herself if she was excited about them forcibly removing my clothes so she could see the ‘full reference.’
“Oh, yeah?” I asked through barely open lips.
“Totally. We can’t wait to see all of you. You know what I think?”
“No. What do you think, Lizzie?” I asked.
“I think you maybe have some very naughty piercings. Like… here,” she said, motioning toward her own breasts. “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen the outlines of the rings through your shirt. Reggie isn’t too happy about it, but I am excited to see them. And to play with them,” she said, nodding a bit maniacally. “Do they hurt?”
“When I got them done?” I asked. “A little.”
“No, like if someone tugs them a little.”
“Ah, um, it depends,” I said, stomach flip-flopping.
“Well, I am excited to see,” she said, drumming her fingers on her knees. “I haven’t really been with a girl before,” she said. “You always talk about how sexuality is fluid for many people. Is it fluid for you? Do you like girls?”
“I, ah, I like people,” I said. “It doesn’t really matter to me what their gender or gender identity is.”
“So you have been with girls.”
“I’ve been with people,” I said, doubling down on what I felt mattered.
“We see a lot of girls at your apartment.”
“Those are my cousins. I have a really big family,” I told her. “And we are all very, very close. So we see each other pretty much every day.”
I hoped my hint was subtle but clear: They will notice me being gone. They will look for me.