You Can Trust Me, page 23
Still. I’ll assume there are cameras unless I learn otherwise. I press an ear to the door, pretending I’m listening for footsteps, perhaps wondering when Javier will come with more food. What I’m really doing is getting a closer look at the lock. It’s as I expected, a standard dead bolt, which is good news.
I return to the cot and wrap the blanket around my shoulders. Okay, I have the beginning of a plan for getting out of the cell itself. But even if by some miracle it works and I escape the cell, and then even more miraculously get out of whatever building I’m housed in, where will I go? There’s an expanse of snow outside. I’d freeze to death.
I imagine Leo saying, How did you get here in the first place? You didn’t teleport.
It’s true. This is one of Michael’s properties, which means it must be a residential, research, or commercial facility. Either way, it’s going to have vehicles, a road. He’s a billionaire, after all, a busy man pulled in many directions. He can’t be too far out of pocket.
I remember my dream and wonder if Leo really did give this idea to me or if it came from my own subconscious. My throat closes, aching with sudden tears.
The door clicks open, and Javier steps through it. “You’re awake again,” he says unnecessarily.
He sets the tray in front of me. It’s oatmeal and coffee, both tempting. I pick up the plastic coffee cup and pretend to sip, making sure to emit a faint slurping noise, but spit the coffee back into the cup. My whole life, I’ve pretended to smoke or drink when the situation warranted my staying sober. I’m always the one with a clear head in a room full of wasted people.
I clear my throat. “Javier, I don’t want to be rude, but I have to go to the bathroom.”
He chuckles. “No worries.” He backs away, and I’m left alone. I take the coffee with me, and in the process of peeing, I do a sleight of hand for the benefit of a potential camera and dump it into the toilet. When I’m pulling my pants up, I rip the crotch panel off my dirty underwear and tuck it into the waistband of my sweats.
Step one.
I wander back to the cot and sit down with the bowl of oatmeal. I pretend to eat for a little while, then walk around with it, just a restless pacing I hope will seem natural if Michael is watching. On my third lap, I make a show of stumbling on the stone floor and spill the rest of the oatmeal. I act dismayed and confused, then mop it up as best I can with a few squares of toilet paper.
I start stretching, doing some yoga moves by the wall near the entrance. In case I’m being monitored, this should normalize my being by the door.
I’m already feeling more myself, and I could cry with gratitude just to feel clear and sane again. I make a vow: No matter what, I will fight to the end. I will not go down quietly. Whatever Michael has become accustomed to with his other victims, he will find something much tougher and worse in me.
You’re smarter than all the rest combined.
The memory of the condescending words, like he’d bestowed a gift upon me with this compliment, fills me with a deep, cold fury. I want to prove him right, but not in the way he’s imagining.
Finished with sun salutations, I grab my blanket, fold it up, and use it as a cushion so I can do a few headstands. I use the wall to balance, “coincidentally” just beside the door.
As the hours pass, I keep my movements slow and mellow, pretending to nap on the cot, my mind clarifying as whatever drugs they’ve been giving me clear my system.
When I sense it’s almost time for Javier to return with one of his trays, I start in with the yoga again and spend a long time doing slow, languid stretches with my blanket by the door. I’m coming out of downward dog when the door clicks and swings inward, pushed by Javier, who carries a tray. I make a show of stepping away from him like I’m a little afraid, and he smiles at me appreciatively. “Hello, Summer.”
As the door swings shut, I catch a glimpse of a white-walled corridor. “Hi,” I say. Just before the door closes, I turn to follow Javier, slip my hand out behind me and shove the piece of wadded-up fabric into the hole in the strike plate, giving it a firm tap to make sure it’s solidly in there and won’t fall out when the door closes. Ears strained, I wait for the sound of the dead bolt latching.
The click is softer than usual. My heart is pounding a voracious, violent beat. Javier sets my tray down in its usual spot by the cot and straightens back up. “You like yoga, I see.”
I nod, trying to feign the drugged, lifeless optimism I’d felt while under the influence of whatever they gave me. “It really gives me peace. And I’m warmer now with the boots.” I indicate the Uggs, my reward for being docile. “What do you think the chances are of me getting to take a bath or a shower?” I construct a hopeful expression. Someone on the verge of escape wouldn’t ask her jailer to stay and chat, and she certainly wouldn’t be worrying about the conditions in prison.
His smile is rueful. “I’ll ask, okay?”
“Thanks, Javier.” I start on sun salutations again, and he leaves. Yes, the click of the latch is softer now.
The tray contains soup and part of a baguette, as I was hoping. Instead of eating, I peel the stiff bottom crust off the bread and begin pressing it between my thumbs, flattening and hardening it into the shape of a credit card.
That accomplished, I sling my blanket around my shoulders like a scarf, square my shoulders, and breathe deeply. Here goes nothing. I slip the bread into the crevice beside the strike plate and feel the dead bolt pull out of the now-shallow hole. I cross my fingers and give the door a push, remembering the two-way hinges.
A crack of white hallway winks at me.
My heart stutters.
Game on.
I slip through the door, and I’m in a stark white corridor that reminds me of all the spaces in Michael’s world. Indiscriminately, I pick a direction and run. I imagine someone sounding the alarm, yelling that I’ve escaped, sending troops of armed men pounding after me. But no. It’s only going to be Javier, isn’t it? Michael can’t have the whole world knowing what he does with the women he brings here. The thought gives me hope, which makes my feet fly faster.
The hall terminates in a heavy-looking wooden door. I have no other choices, so I turn the knob and open it fast, bracing myself for the freezing blizzard I’ve seen for interminable hours outside my cell window.
I stand dumbfounded.
Bright, midafternoon sunlight. Rugged terrain. Rocky hills in the distance. A gravel path leading away.
I step outside and let the door swing shut behind me. The hot yellow sun is high in the sky, beating down, and birds are chirping in the nearby oak trees. The unmistakable, briny smell of the ocean wafts past on a light, cool breeze.
I move away from the building to get a look at it, eyes stinging from the sunlight. It’s a white, two-story structure the size of a house with no windows on the ground floor. Around its corner, I catch a glimpse of a rocky shoreline, a series of half-submerged wind turbines, their blades flashing in the sun, and a large, white building overlooking them from the clifftop.
That must be the research facility. I recognize its shape and location from the map.
I never left the island. There is no second property, no other location in the snow. There’s only this one place, his hunting ground, and it all makes perfect sense now. One of the ways he keeps women docile is by making it look like they’ll die in the snow if they escape. How long did it take him to construct his torture room? How many years has he been using it?
“Motherfucker,” I whisper, the world spinning around me.
I’m clutching the blanket, having expected to need it for protection against the cold. I hurl it aside, cursing Michael with every cell in my body, and all-out sprint away from the building.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
LEO
MONDAY, JUNE 12
The first thing I registered when I opened my eyes was softness.
I blinked, trying to clear a sticky fog out of my mind and vision. I’d been asleep for a long time; I could feel it. I spun with uncertainty, unable to place myself in space and time. I was snuggled into a nest of white bedding, and the light in the room was airy and bright. A hotel?
In a rush, I remembered Michael—the mansion—running—Julie. I sat up.
I must still be in Julie’s room. I must have fallen asleep.
No. This wasn’t Julie’s room. It looked similar: bamboo flooring, white walls, light wood bed frame. But it was sparser than her room had been, with no furniture except the bed and, strangely, a bathtub in the corner under a window, a toilet beside it.
I pushed the covers off me, revealing a gauzy white nightgown unlike anything I’d ever owned. Who changed my clothes?
I traced my memory backward. I’d come out of the woods and sought help from Julie, who’d given me her shoes. She’d hidden me in her room and gone to the party. Later that night, she’d brought me food and drink, and I’d eaten ravenously. That was the last thing I remembered.
She must have drugged me. The food and drink had been laced with something. But why?
Heartbeat throbbing in my ears, I stood on shaky legs and crossed the room to the window. My head roared and spun, and I clutched the wall until I was able to reopen my eyes and focus. It was daytime, probably afternoon, and I had a view of the ocean, endless and expansively cobalt under a powder-blue sky. There was no sand, only acres of black volcanic rock, the waves thrashing against their jagged edges, spraying jets of white foam into the air. Just past the waves, a few boats floated on calmer waters, more pragmatic vessels than Michael’s sleek speedboat. Past the rocks and waves, wind turbines rose out of the water, pinwheel arms steadily carving circles through the air. I’d seen these before, when I’d been joyriding around the island on Michael’s speedboat. It felt like a hundred years ago.
Refocusing, I noticed the windowpane had a fine metal mesh embedded into it. I’d seen windows like this before, on liquor stores in dangerous neighborhoods. To keep people out? Or to keep people in?
I turned and located a door on the opposite side of the room, white on white, blending into the walls. I hurried toward it and squatted down, examining the smooth place where a handle should have been, glimpsing a dead bolt in the crack. I rapped on it and got a solid, thick sound in return; it probably had a metal core.
I banged harder. “Help,” I yelled. “Help! Help! Someone!” I let out shrill, animal screams, the kind that would strike notes of alarm in anyone, the kind that should cause thundering footsteps to come running in my direction. I screamed more, harder, louder, like a chimpanzee, like a murder victim.
A noise at the door. I stumbled backward to the bed, where I sat with a soft thump. A click, the distinct sound of a lock releasing, and Michael stepped through, letting it close softly behind him.
I was shocked by his presence, though I probably shouldn’t have been. He was in jeans and a soft-looking navy-blue sweater, his dark hair tousled. I tensed, waiting for him to attack, ready to fight to the death, but his expression wasn’t unkind; if anything, he looked amused.
“No one can hear you,” he said.
I swallowed against the rawness in my throat.
“You really gave me the runaround.” He sat on the bed beside me, and I scooted away, keeping out of reach. “We were searching everywhere.”
“Where am I?” My voice shook.
“You’re in one of our rooms, the nicest we have. I thought you’d like having a bathtub. You’ll need me to unlock it if you want a bath. We don’t want you alone in here, flooding the place or…well.” He cleared his throat. “Just let me know if you’d like to take a bath.”
“Why am I wearing this?” I pulled at the stupid, frilly nightgown. “And why am I here in the first place? What do you want?”
His deep blue eyes were solemn and earnest. “I know you might not believe me, but I do care about you.”
“You tried to kill me,” I reminded him, my voice bitter.
He furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”
It was such a weird response that I gaped at him, uncomprehending.
He moved closer. I could swear he looked concerned. “Leo, tell me what’s going on. Why did you run away from me? You could have died of exposure. You’re lucky we found you.”
“You didn’t find me. That woman drugged me. You tried to strangle me. No!” I had my hands to my temples. “You’re a psychopath. Something is wrong with you.”
He looked sad. “Leo, I’m so sorry if you thought I was trying to hurt you. I just wanted to paint you. I didn’t understand why you ran away.” He reached for my hand and pressed his on top of it. “I am so, so sorry. I must have gotten carried away. I truly meant you no harm.” His eyes glistened with sincerity.
In my entire life, I had never wondered if I was losing my mind. Reality was an objective thing, a place we all inhabited. But now, sitting here with him acting like I was the one who’d lost it, I wondered if the fabric of reality was starting to tear, little rips that could leave me standing in a strange wilderness, vulnerable to attack.
All at once, I was consumed by the certainty that I was prey.
After a length of time, Michael touched my shoulder. “Leo? Are you okay?”
I was stuck, remembering the painting cabin and the feel of his hands on my neck. Those hands were gentle now, and his face bore no resemblance to the mask of fury I’d seen as he’d choked me.
He’d chased me into the woods. Like a wolf hunting a rabbit, he’d grabbed for me, almost caught me, and if I hadn’t outrun him, he’d have…
What would he have done?
I didn’t understand what motivation he could possibly have had to hurt me. I’d already slept with him. I’d given him everything he might have wanted. I remembered him asking me a question, something like, How did you know? Understanding why he’d asked me that seemed like the key, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to bring it up now while he wasn’t in a strangling mood.
“Leo?” His hand tightened on my shoulder, which made me flinch, but then he started massaging the muscles. “You okay, sweetie?”
I kept my eyes away from his, afraid to meet the gaze I could feel burning the side of my face. “If nothing’s wrong, why am I in this room? Why am I locked up?”
He sighed. “I’m in a tough spot. I can’t have you running around scaring my researchers. I can’t send you back to L.A. like this, either, selling everyone crazy stories about how Michael Forrester attacked you. So I thought we should take some time to figure out how we move forward. Sound like a plan?”
His words were like maple syrup, sticky and smooth. After a few moments spent wondering what Summer would tell me to do, I said, “Sure. Tell me what you need from me to feel safe sending me back to L.A.”
“Let’s just spend a little time together, make sure you’re calm, get you some rest. Then we can do the heavy thinking. You were half dead from exposure when we found you. Your body needs to recover.”
His mouth was crooked into a handsome smile, hair curved artfully over one blue eye. The sun was setting over the alien wind turbines, sending strange and spiky shadows across the glistening waves. Michael’s face was golden in the light, and I was reminded of countless evenings spent with Summer on the beach, wrapped in blankets, drinking tea.
He edged nearer to me. “Let me ask you a question. Do you believe in fate?”
What a weird thing to ask right now. “I’m not sure,” I answered truthfully.
“Take a guess.”
“I…I guess I hope there’s no fate, but I can’t be sure one way or the other. At some point, I gave up on trying to find any rhyme or reason in the universe.”
His fingertips reached for my cheek, and I trembled, fear ringing in my ears. They connected with the skin, gentle and delicate. He followed them with his eyes, lips parted slightly. “I never believed in fate, either,” he murmured. “Not until you. But then…Leo, tell me how we met.”
I felt a frown flicker across my brows. “We met in a hotel bar.”
“Before that.” He lowered his hand to my chin, which he pinched lightly between thumb and forefinger.
“What do you mean? There was no before that.”
“I researched the Instagram algorithm, called their CTO personally, and I still can’t figure out how your post crossed my screen.”
I was so confused, I thought maybe I was crazy, because what he was saying made not even a lick of sense. “Michael, I don’t—”
“I remember when I saw it. I was on the patio of my place in Palo Alto, drinking coffee. I don’t usually flip through the posts on the Explore page, but I’d been curious about what content they’d suggest for someone like me. I was just curious,” he murmured. “Such a strange thing. I’d been looking for you for so many years. It was my mistake; I’d lost track of you when you went off-grid. I still don’t understand how the algorithm put it together. People don’t realize, the AI is constantly learning from billions of data points, but if you ask the guys working on it, they don’t always have the answers. It’s incredible and frightening, a genuine consciousness.”
“Michael, I don’t—”
“Anyway. I opened up the Explore page, and there you were. After all that time.” He let out a breath. “It was a close-up of your face, taken in light a lot like this. You were on the beach. Your hair was messy, and you were smiling. You looked like you had all the vitality on the planet packaged inside you.”
Quietly, I said, “I remember seeing that you’d liked that post. I clicked on your name and realized who you were. I…” I hesitated, not sure how much to tell him, terrified to upset him. I decided to frame the story in the most flattering way I could think of. “I was intrigued by you. I couldn’t imagine why a man like you would even take the time to look at my picture. I wanted to meet you.”
