A handsome face came into focus as Max entered the room, Alice's eyes blinking away tears that had turned the edges red and raw, that had streaked the porcelain skin of her cheeks.
There was an air of dignity about him. The way he spoke, the way he walked with assured strides - long and powerful - before settling down into a leather chair opposite where she remained tethered to the couch. Despite the scar that belied some distant tragedy he'd endured, he carried himself with strength and authority, untouched by the ravages of a cruel world.
"She won't suffer, not if you prevent it."
Her gaze drifted to the doorway that led from the room they occupied. Beyond that threshold was her sister, tethered and bound, a rough textured sack covering her head.
"Where are you keeping her?"
Alice’s thoughts returned to the cold, dark basement where she woke, the frigid cement floor that pressed against her skin and chilled her to the bone. Enough time stuck in that environment would make any person sick, both physically and mentally.
"She has a room of her own," he explained, his body leaning forward to grab a remote from the coffee table between them. "I've made it comfortable for her. As long as you behave, she will be cared for."
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, refusing to look back at him and meet his eyes.
A grandfather clocked chimed in the distance. When the last bell had tolled, he answered, "Does the why really matter? It won't change things. A better question would be what you can do to prevent the situation from becoming worse."
She looked at him then, saw the glimmer of amusement in his eyes to know that he had her trapped, a mouse left to run the labyrinth he'd laid out for her.
There was no fight left in Alice. It wasn't her life alone that hung precariously on the line.
Twisting to face the left side of the room, Max hit a button on the remote, a television screen coming to life that Alice wouldn't have noticed unless he'd drawn her attention to it. Hung on a wall, the black screen blended seamlessly with the interior decor, a dark space concealed simply because the decor around it sparkled and drew the eye.
Hitting another button, Max said nothing while he watched Alice, studying her reaction as she first recognized what had been revealed on the screen.
A closed circuit camera view of a small, well lit room revealed a woman sitting on a bed, her head concealed by the hood that covered it. Curled over herself, her shoulders shook on a sob, but the sound didn't carry through the speakers of the television.
It was the room where he kept her sister, Alice realized, a room that was in stark contrast to the person it held.
Delilah had never been feminine. Momma always said that even as an infant, Delilah had cried when she was forced to wear the frilly dresses most mothers loved to clothe their little girls. She'd scream and complain until the frocks were removed, much happier in her skin than in satin and lace. She never liked pink, she wouldn't be caught dead playing with dolls.
She was a tomboy through and through, much more suited for sports, climbing trees and splashing in mud puddles than for playing dress up and tea parties.
Alice was the opposite, her attention always drawn to pastels and sparkles. If not for the nightmares, she would have been her mother's perfect living doll.
Growing up, Alice had been the poster child for lace dresses and patent leather shoes. She'd love to wear bows in her hair and would cry if even a speck of dirt marred her clean skin. She'd been everything Delilah was not, but still loved her older sister for humoring her and sitting at the tea table anyway.
With those memories locked tightly within her thoughts, she was thrown even more off balance by the room Max had prepared.
Pink paint covered the walls above white chair rails that ran the room. Posters with kittens and rainbows were hung on each wall, a day bed pushed off to the side with a gold frame and white, frilly bed sheets. The carpet was pink shag that matched the paint, and dolls were scattered throughout the room on shelves and perched to appear lifelike on a large, overstuffed chair.
Clothed in the same yellow dress that Alice wore, Delilah herself resembled a doll, if not for the hood covering her face.
Alice felt sick, the contrast of the innocence of youth against the sinister truth of their captivity - of the wicked game this man was playing - perverting every happy memory she had growing up.
Hot summer days spent lingering in sunlight, the sticky mess popsicles would make when they melted too soon, endless hours splashing in community pools or riding the rope swing into the large lake that sat in the center of her small town: all of those things were now scarred and made dirty by the image of a woman bound, a hood covering her head concealing the tears she shed for her captivity.
Alice hated that room, hated Max for the twisted life he'd forced upon Delilah.