Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
My body is pressed against the leather seat, the tension of the restraints sharp against my skin. My wrists are bound, and so are my arms. My ankles are tethered, and there’s another strap across my midsection. I try to shrink into the chair, but the restraints prevent even that. Any movement is frustratingly futile.
And then I see that I am not alone. Sheldon is here too. He’s leaning casually against a support beam, the bat still in his hand, the same one that sent me into darkness. I know it’s that one because I can see the faint streak of dried blood on the wood.
“Ah,” he says with exaggerated delight, like he’s savoring a private joke. “Awake at last. I must say, carrying an unconscious woman out of my apartment might have raised a few eyebrows. But pushing someone in a wheelchair? It doesn’t get a second look. Most people think you’re just helping an elderly relative or a client with mobility issues. Convenient, isn’t it?”
He sounds proud of himself. I almost can’t believe what I am seeing. I never once imagined Sheldon as the bad guy. It’s not just the fact that he hurt me; it’s the way he looks now … different, so different. Unhinged almost. Like the Sheldon I knew was just a front, a way to hide his inner lunatic.
I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry. “W … where… where are we?” I stutter. My voice sounds small, tight, and brittle. Horribly frightened.
I don’t even suppose it matters where we are, but while he’s talking, he’s not hitting me with his bat.
“An old warehouse,” he replies smoothly, his eyes gleaming with a cold amusement that sends a chill through me. “It belonged to our daddy dearest. It hasn’t been used in ages, though.”
I glance around, and yes, I believe him. The space is cavernous, steel beams supporting a ceiling that vanishes into shadows. It definitely could be a warehouse. Dust motes hang in the air, suspended in the weak light from the single overhead bulb. Crates and broken furniture litter the corners. My stomach twists when it hits me that he told me the truth about it being a warehouse and also about it not being used anymore. I hope there are other warehouses nearby, ones still active, ones with people moving around. I start screaming, the sound shrill and raw, my voice bouncing against the walls. My throat feels like I am swallowing glass.
“Help me. Somebody. Please,” I yell.
Sheldon’s footsteps echo across the concrete as he comes closer to me.
“Oh, that’s annoying. It must stop.” His voice is casual, even cheerful, like he’s talking about a minor inconvenience. “Do you know why you may as well stop? Because it won’t help. This building is soundproof. Every inch of it. Your pitiful little screams? They won’t go anywhere. They will only irritate me. And that will be bad for you.”
I freeze, trying to judge whether he’s lying or not. My gut tells me he’s telling the truth. He didn’t gag me, and he’s careful and precise. If the sound could escape, he would have silenced it before I even had a chance to scream. Still, though, he could be bluffing and I scream again.
“Stop that,” he says, a flicker of impatience in his tone. “I already warned you. It’s grating on my nerves. If you continue, I’ll stop it for you.”
My heart races, and I glance at the bat again. The dried blood glints faintly in the low light. He means it. I stop screaming, my throat feels raw, and my chest is tight. I finally manage to accumulate enough saliva to swallow. It doesn’t help my throat as much as I would have liked it to.
“Why … why are you doing this to me?” I stutter, my voice shaking. “It was only a painting. Now that I know what happened, I won’t be pursuing it further. You’re my stepbrother, Sheldon. We’re family. Axel won’t do anything either. You don’t need to hurt me. This … this isn’t necessary.”
His smile spreads, slow and deliberate. There’s no warmth in it. His smile, in fact, his entire demeanor, reminds me of the Joker from the Batman movies. He is unhinged but in a sane way, as in he is crazy enough to do whatever he needs to do, but clever enough to pull it off.
“Oh, Jo, this has nothing to do with the painting.”
“What do you mean?”
“You finding out about that? Coincidence. Purely coincidence.”
I take a shaky breath, trying to steady myself. “So … if it isn’t about the painting, why are you doing this to me? What do you want?”
He tilts his head, his eyes glinting madly in the half light. “It’s nothing personal. I just want what’s mine. My father’s money. His fortune. And it seems the only way to get it is by going through you.”