Chapter 9
Reed stares at me a long time after I finish my account, then he turns his back. My cheeks are red from crying — the floor beneath me is slippery from my tears.
I did as he asked — I told the story of the night I put Lance Prescott in a coma. I spoke calmly and without interruption. He didn’t interrupt or question me at any point. Maybe he was comparing what I said to his own knowledge of the event, checking the consistency, or perhaps he just wanted to hear me out. More than once my breath caught in my throat, and I had to stop for a time — he never pressed me to continue.
I refuse to forget the fact that I’m still bound in a dungeon, in a prison, run by evil men — or that the only reason I told the story is that I had little choice. But still, it actually felt good — like I wasn’t telling the story, I was inflicting it.
For a while, none of us speak. Reed closes his fists, so I shut my eyes. If he’s about to hurt me, I don’t want to see it coming. Maybe I won’t even feel it.
Nothing happens though, not until I open my eyes again. When I do, he’s watching me intently, like I’m a subject he’s studying.
“Well? Do you believe me?”
We stare at each other, my words lingering in the air. I hold his gaze, unblinking, for what feels like an hour. Then he nods.
“Yes, I do.”
In my head, I replay every second since Lance fell to the moment I arrived at Walker: cops and lawyers and judges and their thousands of questions. Handcuffed in the back of a squad car, handcuffed in a jail cell — fingerprinted, strip-searched, questioned again and again. No one believed me, other than my public defender. No one believed Lydia — they wrote her off as drunk and unreliable. If I’d finished that beer, they could’ve discredited me too.
I start crying — I unload all of it. Reed, this monster — this twisted, sadistic piece of shit — believes me. As small a measure as this is, I haven’t felt relief of any kind since this whole thing started, and I’m grateful. But then my mind sinks to a dark place: what if he’s lying? What if he’s manipulating me? He could be pretending, hoping to earn my trust.
“Why?” I ask.
“Why do I believe you?” he replies, incredulous — like I just spat on a gift.
“Yes. Everyone else doubted me. You did too, before. So what changed?”
Reed, at last, loses the staring match — he looks down at the floor, as if wrestling with the question. Has he ever looked deeper into where his beliefs come from? Has he ever felt a serious doubt about a deeply held conviction? Is he experiencing cognitive dissonance for the first time?
If he thinks this is difficult, he should try getting attacked by a man twice his size.
“Your pain convinced me,” he says at last. “It felt real.”
“It didn’t before?”
Walking over to the collection of paddles, he shakes his head. “You put on a brave face before. You defied me. Instead of seeing pain, I saw a lack of remorse. It’s hard to feel sorry for someone who killed and doesn’t feel any guilt.”
I start to protest, but it dies in my throat. He’s right — I don’t think I feel bad about what happened to Lance. He assaulted Lydia and me — he would have violated us. Is it wrong that I take satisfaction in the fact he’s essentially dead, and that I’m the reason why? I don’t know, although if anyone’s going to judge me, it’s not going to be Reed — or Byron or any of the men who sent me to this hell. They have no right.
“I’m not a bad person,” I say, yanking at my bindings. My arms feel awful after all this time, though I’ve been distracted enough not to feel, for the most part. “I don’t deserve this.”
“You were right to defend yourself, Quinn, I won’t argue with that,” Reed says, picking out a black, leather paddle. “But your disregard for Lance’s life… You deserve to be punished for that.”
Licking my lips, I listen to him slap the paddle against his palm.
“Do you disagree?” Reed asks.
“I don’t know,” I reply. If he’s right, accepting some pain could bring me a sense of absolution. And if he’s wrong, well… my ass tingles in anticipation. “I’ll tell you after.”
There’s something wrong with me, clearly. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time to worry about it later.
Reed grins, setting the paddle down on a nearby table. Working quickly, he releases my arms from the manacles hanging above, then carries me over to the table and sets me down on my front. My arms lie flat against the table, sore and limp. My hands are still cuffed, but even if they weren’t they’d be just as useless right now.
Spreading my legs apart, Reed pulls me closer to the edge of the table. I moan as I slide over the cool surface, enjoying the soothing sensation. It doesn’t last long, though, as Reed begins spanking my backside with the paddle. He starts slowly, waiting between swats for my fear to grow: where will the next one land? How hard will it be? He shifts from my left side to my right, but unpredictably. I must count at least ten smacks before he really gets started.
“Are you sorry for what you did, Quinn Harris?” he asks, pressing down on my shoulder, pinning me against the table.
“No,” I grunt.