“You can. I may not answer every question. You may not like what I say. But here, in this room, it will always be the truth.”
His voice rang with sincerity. Impossible. And yet, the offer was too seductive to ignore. I could ask him anything and hear the answer. What would we ask if we could be sure to know the truth? I found myself quiet. The truth had always been terrifying. I’d learned early on not to ask questions.
This will be our little secret, okay?
As a child, my ignorance had been an uncomfortable sort of bliss. And the truth had set me free, but only in the most painful ways. I’d been alone in the world, tossed with one indifferent family after another. The truth wasn’t what I really wanted from him, but it was all he was offering.
“Is he alive?” My voice came low and thready. I was afraid to know the answer.
“Who? Your partner?”
I flinched beneath the blindfold. “The man who was with me at the docks.”
“Ah, that one. Very much alive, last I heard. He was wearing a vest. Unlike you.”
Relief. Because Lance had worn his vest. Had he been shot because he wouldn’t die? No, I was giving my captor too much credit. He didn’t care about Lance’s life. He wouldn’t care about mine.
“Are you going to let me go?”
“Eventually.”
Most kidnapping victims died within the first twenty-four hours. “Are you going to rape me?”
“No. Not until you ask me to.”
Then it wouldn’t be rape, his tone implied. But we both knew otherwise. I was his captive, under his control. There were thousands of ways a person could be made to do something they didn’t want to. Ways a person could be made to ask for something they didn’t want. Coercion. Blackmail. Persuasion. Which ways would he choose?
Deep breath. “Are you going to hurt me?”
“Only as much as I need to.”
Which meant yes. As horrible as it sounded to be hurt, there was a relief as well. At least this time I wouldn’t be spared. There was also a glimmer of hope with how regretful he sounded. Maybe he didn’t want to hurt me. Maybe it was something we could talk about. Negative transference. That was another fancy buzzword the textbook left me with. He didn’t want to hurt me. He wanted to hurt himself. Yeah, I was sure that would go over great with a sociopath.
Last question.
“Are you Carlos?”
Silence. I thought for a moment he’d invoke that privilege he’d been careful to retain, not to answer certain questions. Or maybe put me on the defensive with his many aliases, Carlos Laguardia, or Matthew Genner, or William Hernandez. That he’d staunch the trickle of information altogether, but in the end, he did none of that. He told the truth.
“Yes,” he finally said. “But then you knew that. You knew the answer to all these questions. You just wanted reassurance. Put your mind at ease, little one. You’ll be tortured here. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”
Tears leaked from my eyes, dampening the cloth across them. He was right, and I hated that he was right. I hated that I’d always escaped every horrible scenario and that I’d never had the strength to hurt myself instead. I looked at cutters with longing, those who could inflict brutal self-harm. Even people with anorexia caused long-term damage to their bodies.
I’d never been able to do those things. I just chased after bad guys, like Carlos, and hoped they’d be as horrible as their reputations demanded. That was the only way I’d ever atone for not turning my father in sooner. It was the only way I’d atone for turning him in at all.
Survivor’s guilt. That wasn’t the half of it.
“I’m going to break you,” he continued. “Until you look to me for food, for pleasure, for survival. And the truth is, I’m never letting you go. Not really. You’ll walk around outside this place, away from me, but no matter where you go, I’ll always be here.” He tapped my temple gently. “I’ll always be with you.”
Was that supposed to be terrifying or comforting? I wasn’t sure which way I felt either. Both, maybe.
“I’ll punish you for every lie you ever told, for everything you ever took that you didn’t really deserve. For every single thing you’ve ever felt guilty for. But there’s a price. You can’t be a regular person when we do that. We can’t hold onto decorum and manners and cut you open, raw and bleeding, can we?”
And I realized then that Mr. Hyde wasn’t really evil personified. He was a man without decorum or manners. He was raw and bleeding, all over. He was me, inside this cell. I couldn’t control this shift any more than Dr. Jekyll could. I could only react, only feel pain and anger and fear. And in the end, if the darkness ever lifted?