“You did?” I say, unable to hold back a laugh. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
Byron wags his head back and forth. “He’d have risen to the challenge. Darren would’ve pushed him in just the right way. Motivating people is Darren’s gift; he could get a sloth to climb Everest.”
“I guess.”
He pours us each a second glass and picks up a framed picture of him, Darren and Lance out on the lake, back when Lance was in his late teens. He looks bored, though Darren and Byron smile happily.
“Do you remember that day?” Byron asks.
I nod, recalling the moment I took that photo. I’d only just met Darren. My job that day was to hang onto Darren’s camera; expensive, professional and not at all waterproof, I imagined I’d be a corpse at the bottom of that lake if anything happened to it.
“We catch anything?” he asks.
“Bass, I think. Not a big one.”
Byron’s face lights up a little. “Yeah, that’s right. One of us joked about catch and release.” He sighs, shaking his head. “Must have been ten, twelve, years ago. At my age, that doesn’t feel like very long. Must be different for you.”
“I guess,” I shrug, downplaying just how ancient the memory feels.
“Darren didn’t talk about it much, but I could tell how glad he was Lance had a friend like you. Almost like an older brother, really. The way you looked after him.”
“Thanks,” I say, the whiskey flaring up inside my gut. Yeah, I definitely had a hand in keeping Lance out of trouble sometimes, but was he like a brother? I wouldn’t know — I never had a real one. Getting dragged on a fishing trip photo-op with Lance and his dad wasn’t what I expected when Lance and I became friends. Neither of us wanted to be there, forced to wake up at the break of dawn and then sit quietly in a boat for hours on end. At least we each got to drink a beer.
Still, that day felt like an obligation. I went with them with a job to do, not for fun or so they could bestow life lessons on me and Lance. I didn’t feel like family to them that day — I was the hired help. Is that normal?
“You’re going to make things right,” Byron says.
“Of course.”
Byron sets down the photo and clutches a fist. “Lance will never receive justice out there. We can only pray that what you achieve here will somehow, some way, bring him peace.”
I don’t know if Lance will ever wake up, or if there’s anything waiting for him at the end of that long tunnel, but I hope he’s watching. I hope he gets to see the things I’m going to do to Quinn.
“Darren plans to sponsor Quinn at the end of his campaign,” Byron continues. “Until then, make her suffer.”
Getting up from my seat, I look him in the eyes. “I’ll make her hate herself for what she did. By the time I’m done with her, she’ll be so broken inside she’ll thank us for the punishment.”
Byron gets up and claps my shoulder. “Good.”
Chapter 4
My breath catches in my throat when I wake. I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to let them know I’m up. Is anyone even watching? There’s no way to know — I can’t even say where I am right now, or how I got here. Instinct has taken over.
Memories of being whipped surface as I feel the throb from my backside. Recollections of what happened after are hazy: I stood still, locked in the stock, for a long, long time. Did I pass out that way? It’s hard to imagine. They dragged me away from that thing, I’m pretty sure — I can still feel the cold scraping of a dry cement floor beneath my toes. Then the sound of clanking, followed by a crash…
Hearing nothing, I open my eyes and see metal bars — a prison cell. Beneath me is a hard, bare mattress on a creaky wire cot. I’m still naked, curled into a ball. Shivering, I sit up and notice a set of gray, folded clothes at the foot of the cot — my prison uniform.
When I look up, there’s another jail cell across from me — a girl inside sleeps soundly, wrapped up in a blue blanket. Why does she have one but not me? In fact, her cell boasts a variety of comforts: beneath her head is a big pillow, while a shelf on the wall holds books, a hairbrush and a package of crackers. Where did all that come from? Did her family send it? Do they know what this place is?
I don’t care about personal belongings, but why don’t I have at least a pillow and blanket? Is that Prescott’s doing? I may be their prisoner, but I still have to sleep.
Lying back down, I spot the glass dome of a security camera in the corner above. They can see me.
My stomach turns at the thought of Prescott, Ashworth or Reed watching me in my sleep. All of them make my skin crawl. If I saw Reed out in public, maybe I’d think he’s hot, but not if I knew who he is and what he does to women. I glare at the security camera as I get dressed — there’s no way to know if anyone’s watching now, but if they are, I want them to know I’m not going to take this.
I have to get out of here. Going to jail, having none of the freedoms and comforts I took for granted before — that’s bad enough. Getting stripped and whipped by sadistic monsters isn’t supposed to happen to people. I’m not a killer, no matter what they say — this is wrong, and I don’t care what I have to do — I’m going to escape, and take down everyone involved.
Yeah, sure you will, Quinn.