Tentatively, she reached for the wool sports jacket. Instead of putting it on, she laid it over herself like a blanket. All at once, his scent—masculine with spicy cologne—filled her senses, mixing with the dread of the future. It was a new concoction bubbling in her gut and challenging her sanity.
“Where are we going?” she asked, needing her bearings if she were to plan her escape. As she waited for his answer, warm air flowed from the car’s vents. It didn’t only fill the air but surrounded her. Had he turned the heater on in her seat? Her eyelids grew heavy. And then she remembered his phone was in his jacket. Maybe she could somehow use it…
The thought slipped away.
He hadn’t answered her earlier question. She tried again. “Where…?”
With her inability to complete the question, the realization hit: the cocktail must have been in the second water bottle. She wanted to call him out but she couldn’t. Thoughts disappeared, no longer making it to her lips as she submitted to the warmth and his scent. The world went dark.
Chapter Seven
The irrationality of a thing is no argument against its existence, rather a condition of it.
~ Nietzsche
Natalie awakened with a start. She was in the moment where dreams collide with reality at the intersection of consciousness and unconsciousness, where memories linger only to be blown away, the end of one and beginning of the other, the flash where connections blur and lines fade away.
Cold and damp.
So cold.
She huddled closer, tighter within herself, her knees at her chest as she hugged her arms nearer. Heat was the element she craved, yet her body was without.
Every muscle ached as if she’d been maintaining this position for too long. It wasn’t only her arms and legs that hurt; her stomach also cried out. Its need wasn’t for warmth but for food. Audible grumblings of hunger echoed off the empty walls.
Where was she and why was she cold and hungry?
Blindly she reached for a blanket, a sheet, anything. Her cool fingertips met a scratchy surface.
Crash! The sound of reality and dreams smashing together.
Natalie’s eyes squeezed tighter as memories appeared behind her lids. If she didn’t look—didn’t see—perhaps nothing would be real. Yet in her heart, she knew that she hadn’t dreamt or even had a nightmare. The deep ache in her bruised thigh confirmed the reality—flashes of recollections on the plane, in the car, and in a room—she’d lived it.
Her eyes sprang open as she quickly scooted to a sitting position. Her knees still pressed against her breasts, and her arms now hugged her legs. She moved across the rough bedding until her back collided with something hard. Behind her, at the side of the bed where she’d slept, was a cool painted concrete wall. Like the mattress where she’d lain, its texture scratched her skin.
Her skin.
Natalie ran her palm over her bare leg, one and then the other, both. Goose bumps peppered her body, not only her legs but her arms and torso too. Her nipples beaded. Everything—all of her skin, of her body—was exposed. Her clothes were gone.
Her teeth chattered and body trembled as she unsuccessfully fought the urge to cry. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be real.
As occurs in dim light, her eyes adjusted, allowing her prison to materialize.
There wasn’t much to see.
The same dull white walls, four of them, created a box—perhaps more of a rectangle than a square. The ceiling was high and painted the same white as the walls, devoid of color. She searched for a light or even a bare bulb. The dimmed illumination that allowed her to see didn’t come from electricity but from a narrow strip of glass high upon one wall. It was a window, but not one that would open. Even if it did, it was too high to reach and too small for her to fit through. As she stared, the distortions in the pane caught her attention. The glass was reinforced and leaded, the kind of window found in renovated ancient castles to keep invaders out or prisoners in.
The only interruptions in the sameness of the walls were two doorways. One was covered with a solid wooden door, closed and painted to match the monotony of the room. She didn’t need to check to see if it were locked. The absence of a handle told her that it only opened from the other side. The other doorway appeared open, simply a frame with no door.
A quick flash.
She blinked.
Had she imagined it? She scanned each surface, searching for its source.
Again.
It didn’t last longer than a millisecond.
Like the walls, the tiny flash was devoid of color, so quick and insignificant that if she blinked at the same second, she would have missed it. Shivering upon the makeshift bed, she waited and counted.
Twenty-two seconds.
If the room were brighter, she wouldn’t have noticed it. Nevertheless, she did.
She counted again.
Twenty-two seconds later, it flashed again.
The flash came from a small knob fitted snuggly into the window sill. Well disguised, it could pass for a blemish in the trim. However, imperfections didn’t flash. It was a camera and meant that she was being watched.
Another person may not have known, but Natalie grew up with surveillance as part of her life. It hadn’t bothered her before. Then again, before, she’d been clothed.
She was now sitting. She couldn’t pretend to still be asleep. Her empty stomach twisted. Dexter would know she was awake. Would he be coming to her? Was he asleep? What time was it?
Did she dare look in the other room?
Again, her stomach complained.
She clawed at the bed in the dimness, hoping for a blanket, sheet, or even the mattress covering, something in which to wrap her body. But there was nothing, only a cot with a single scratchy mattress.
Turning from the window—from the camera—she used her arms and hands to cover her breasts and core. It wasn’t much, as she hurried toward the open doorway.
Once within, she fumbled along the wall for a switch and in the air for a string. Nat found none. This room was darker with no window, only the dim light trickling in from the room with the bed.
As her eyes continued to adapt, the second room came into focus: a simple yet efficient bathroom. Everything was white, reflecting light and helping her see. Straight ahead upon a pedestal was a sink, to one side, a toilet, and to the other side, an old iron clawfoot tub. Above the tub, mounted on the wall was a showerhead. Reaching in the darkness, she searched for a curtain, one to contain the shower’s spray.
Rings rattled upon a track, higher than her head, but the curtain was gone. Natalie sunk to her knees and crawled about the cold floor, searching for towels, a robe, or anything. Back on her feet, her hands splayed over the walls. An empty towel bar beside the toilet and an empty hook near the doorway were all she found.
Thankfully, there was toilet paper, but it would take the entire roll to cover her, and then what if he wouldn’t replace it?
How could she even rationalize his thoughts? These were the doings of a madman. She wasn’t crazy. He was.
Again, her stomach grumbled.