I dart a glance at the door, wondering why no one has charged into the room. How can they not hear this?
Frederick grips my jaw with his long fingers and turns my head to face his. “Because we’ve made the room soundproof. Simple incantation. They can’t hear anything on the other side of that glass. You can scream at the top of your lungs but no one will come. Now, do you see your friend?” He turns my jaw so that I face Paige, then snaps it toward him again. “That is the least interesting thing we could do to her. If you don’t start talking, we might have to change our minds.”
I try to speak, but it’s like I’ve swallowed a bucket of sand. Frederick breathes through his teeth, his patience visibly wearing thin.
“The Bible,” I choke out, stumbling over my words. “It’s an antique. It was passed down to my mom from my grandma, but it’s just a regular Bible. Nothing of value, except to my family.”
I hope what I’ve said will be enough to satisfy him, that I won’t have to say more to implicate Mom at the shop.
His eyes narrow on mine. And then I realize he must be reading my mind right now. I remember a trick I once saw in an old horror movie, and think, Brick wall, brick wall, brick wall.
For about thirty seconds that feel like an eternity, Frederick and I engage in a staring contest, each of us waiting for the other to give. His jaw twitches, and I think he’s going to hit me, but then he just laughs. “You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?” He straightens and adjusts his suit jacket. “Leo, kill them both.”
4
It makes no difference that Frederick said no one can hear us—I scream at the top of my lungs.
I scream until my lungs ache and my veins fill to bursting and my face is as hot as a furnace. I scream until I have no breath left and I can’t scream anymore.
But no one comes.
“Done?” Frederick saunters in front of the desk, one shiny alligator shoe in front of the other. “As promised, no one can hear you. See, I’m not much of a liar, Indigo. That’s something you’ll learn about me. I may kill people for fun, but lying? That’s something I’m strictly against.”
Here I am, literally struggling to breathe, while Paige just stares ahead like an extra from Night of the Living Dead, completely oblivious that she’s seconds away from death herself.
I dart a glance at the door again.
“Locked.” Frederick leans against the desk and picks his teeth with a dirty fingernail. “Go ahead and try if you like.”
I do like. The chair tips back as I jump up and bolt for the door. There are scuffling noises behind me.
“Just let her get it out of her system,” Frederick says.
I wrench the knob from left to right.
No, no, no, how can it be locked from the inside? I pound on the door with both fists, rattling the wood in its frame. I can see Mrs. Malone’s silhouette on the other side of the window, can actually hear her muffled small talk with Mrs. Fields, but they can’t hear me. It’s as if I don’t exist. I let out an anguished groan and lean my forehead against the cool glass.
“Ready to start talking?” Frederick asks.
I whimper into the door.
“You’re wasting my time, Indigo. Have a seat and we can start negotiations.” A thump behind me indicates he has righted the tipped-over chair.
I don’t see any other option, so I turn around. Frederick gives a nod of encouragement, his hand gripping the back of the chair. I stumble over somehow and slump back into it.
“Good girl,” he says, patting me on the head. “Now tell me about the Bible.”
I close my eyes and press my lips together to stop them from trembling, tasting the salt of fresh tears.
A shadow darkens the room. I open my eyes to find Frederick standing in front me, straightened to his full height. Slowly, he unbuttons his suit jacket. I don’t take my eyes from him as he shrugs out of his jacket, revealing a crisp white button-down worn under one of those gun holsters that look like suspenders. My pulse races erratically. Frederick looks around for somewhere to put his jacket, before resting it on Paige’s lap. When he faces me again, he seems to notice the focus of my attention.
“You don’t know this about me,” he says, walking slowly in front of my chair like a wolf stalking its prey. “But I’m something of a film buff. Isn’t that right, Leo?”
Leo grunts.
“I usually stick to the classics, but there are a few modern films that I really enjoy. Take Reservoir Dogs, for example.” He gestures to his apparatus, as if that explains why he’s wearing it.
“Oh, come on,” he says. “You’ve never seen Reservoir Dogs? Quentin Tarantino?” He clucks his tongue in admonishment, wagging a long finger at my nose. “You kids have no taste these days. Now, if you’d seen Reservoir Dogs, you’d know that it contains one of the best torture scenes in American cinema.”