Prisoner (Criminals & Captives, #1)

by Annika Martin

“Today I want to narrow the scope a little bit more,” I say as if my heart’s not pounding a billion times a second. “We’re going to think about objects. I’m going to have you open your notebooks and list twenty random”—here I raise a cautionary finger—“but specific objects from where you last lived. For example, a fork. But you can’t simply say a fork. You have to say something about it. For instance, where I live, we have this fork in our utensil drawer—my dorm roommates and I got it in a silverware grab bag at a flea market, and it’s the best fork in the place. The other ones we have are from Target and they’re flimsy, but this one, it’s thick and substantial, way nicer to hold, so we always fight over who gets it, because it’s just better—” A few of the guys are chuckling. Others are exchanging glances and stifling laughter. My face heats when I realize what else my description sounded like. “Hey!” Dixon barks out; then he goes back to his phone. I make the mistake of shooting a glance up front, at Grayson. He’s not laughing and tittering like the rest of the class. No, he’s just sitting there, brown eyes glinting. I flash on how big he would be, how it would feel to hold him there. My cheeks heat to an epic burn. And he quirks his lips. Oh God. I turn away, a deer caught in the headlights, determined not to lose control of the moment. “But without the dirty double meaning, please. No bananas…” If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, right? “No doughnuts, or…you know. Got it? ...

“Today I want to narrow the scope a little bit more,” I say as if my heart’s not pounding a billion times a second. “We’re going to think about objects. I’m going to have you open your notebooks and list twenty random”—here I raise a cautionary finger—“but specific objects from where you last lived. For example, a fork. But you can’t simply say a fork. You have to say something about it. For instance, where I live, we have this fork in our utensil drawer—my dorm roommates and I got it in a silverware grab bag at a flea market, and it’s the best fork in the place. The other ones we have are from Target and they’re flimsy, but this one, it’s thick and substantial, way nicer to hold, so we always fight over who gets it, because it’s just better—” A few of the guys are chuckling. Others are exchanging glances and stifling laughter. My face heats when I realize what else my description sounded like. “Hey!” Dixon barks out; then he goes back to his phone. I make the mistake of shooting a glance up front, at Grayson. He’s not laughing and tittering like the rest of the class. No, he’s just sitting there, brown eyes glinting. I flash on how big he would be, how it would feel to hold him there. My cheeks heat to an epic burn. And he quirks his lips. Oh God. I turn away, a deer caught in the headlights, determined not to lose control of the moment. “But without the dirty double meaning, please. No bananas…” If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, right? “No doughnuts, or…you know. Got it? ...

“Eyes on the ground,” he growls. “Act natural.” Act “naturally.” It’s called an adverb, asshole, I think, but I don’t say it. He seems to get perverse pleasure when I correct his grammar. I wonder how much he does it on purpose, just to get a rise out of me.

“You’re the good girl. The quiet one. The do-gooder. What’s there not to know?” Reverse psychology. It’s clumsy and stupid, but when her eyes meet mine, I think maybe it’s not so stupid. “Perfect Ms. Winslow,” I taunt. “Maybe you’re not the only killer in this truck. How about that?” I snort. “Did you forget to feed your goldfish one time?” Abby stares out at the taillights of the car up in the distance, thoughts heavy, lips zipped. Yeah, I know how to wait.

“Sometimes, Abigail, you have to punch a fucking hole in your soul to survive.” I might be driving like a maniac, I don’t know. We’re off the highway, but I’m still going highway speeds. I reach over and grab her, pull her clear across the seat to me. “Most people never have to find out what kind of shit they’re really capable of. Most people don’t have to turn themselves into something they hate just to make sure they can get that next breath.”

The room is as small and shitty as I expected. It’s a good thing because it means no one will be eager to fill up the rooms around us. I can’t trust her not to scream. It would be a stupid move, but captive animals do stupid things sometimes. The brain shuts off, and then they’re pure panic. Right now, she’s thoughtful. Watching me carefully for a sign I’m slipping up. Ordinary people can’t cope with this kind of stress. She’s not only coping, she’s impressing the hell out of me. I can’t afford to be impressed with her.

I need sleep. Which means she needs sleep. I crush the pills I pulled from Nate’s stash. A sedative meant for dogs and cats. I stir it into the juice. She’ll be able to taste it, but that won’t matter. I’m not trying to hide the fact that I’m drugging her. “Here,” I murmur, taking her hands and showing her where the glass is, making sure she has a grip on it. She takes a sip and makes a face. I catch the glass before she can knock it away. “What is that?” she asks, sputtering. “Something to help you sleep.” “You drugged me?” “Not yet,” I say evenly. “One sip isn’t going to do anything. You’re going to drink this whole glass.” “Like hell.” Her swearing gets me hot. And that’s a problem, because in an hour she’s going to be asleep. “You are going to drink it, because the alternative involves cages and metal handcuffs. And then I’d probably stick a needle of horse tranquilizer in you for good measure.” Because judging from her bruised wrists, she might be willing to break her arm to get out. Most people think they’ll do anything to escape, but they won’t. Something about her is different. She’s fierce and a little bit crazy. It means I can’t trust her. It also means I really, really want her.

“She’s innocent.” That’s why I like Nate. Stone doesn’t give a shit about innocence, but it matters. It has to; otherwise justice doesn’t mean anything. Vengeance doesn’t mean anything.

The final piece of the puzzle falls in. The basement. The other boys. All those years. It wasn’t some custody dispute that got him on that milk carton. I know what happened to him sure as I feel his hand pressing my wrists together. I’m filled with a sense of grim triumph. “What would you have done,” I whisper, “if I hadn’t picked your story for The Kingman Journal?” He smirks. “I knew you would.” “Why?” I demand. His eyebrows shoot up. He’s surprised I’m not freaking out still. But I have a long history of coping with insanely violent situations. “Because you’re easy,” he says. My indignant huff only makes him smile, a little smug. “I knew that if I gave you a sob story, you’d fall for it. And you did.” “It was pretty genius,” I say. “By focusing on the most peripheral details, you could leave the horror at the center to the reader’s imagination.” “Thank you for your kind assessment, Ms. Winslow,” he says mockingly. “You only had to get those details just right, and the reader fills it in for you. It’s the best kind of lie to tell. One that’s true. Nothing’s quite as effective as truth, is it?” Grayson freezes. Wondering what I know. “It’s what Hemingway did. Stayed on the edge of it. One raw line of truth and then another.” His hands tighten on my wrists. “And now I’m free.” But I’m not through with him. “How does it feel?” I ask. “To be on the other side?” “Don’t.” A shiver runs through me at the fury in his voice. But when you’re stuck in a ring with a crazed animal, y...

I can barely hold on, my one hand is so bloody. A car passes, slowing, then speeding, a blur of metal and glass out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t let go. This is how I’m going to beat this asshole. Not with physical strength. Not with fighting skills. By never giving up. It’s how I always win.

“You hang in there,” I say. “I’m doing ninety.” He doesn’t answer. “If at any point I think you’re unconscious, you will be dropped at a hospital.” No answer. Don’t leave me alone. “Or I’ll just drive you back to the prison myself. Straight to the clinic and check you in.” I reach down and touch his dark hair, damp against his clammy forehead, inches from my thigh. “Got it? So stay with me.” “Yes, Ms. Winslow.” The words are faint, but they’ve never sounded sweeter. My chest expands with relief. At his core he’s a fighter. A warrior. And he fought for me. Nobody ever came for me or fought for me, and it means everything that he did. Everything.

“This place is ours. It’s a good place.” I turn, lying on my good shoulder. “Safe from everyone,” I whisper, sliding a wisp of hair off her forehead even though I’m not supposed to be moving my arm. “A bare bulb with the price tag on it, from fifteen years ago.” I lean my head to her ear. “You know I can’t let you leave.” She slides a sly gaze to me. It’s different when I say it now, but it’s still true. I can’t let her leave. My heart pounds as she looks back at the ceiling. “You deserve a nice place, that’s all,” she says. “I mean, it has beautiful features, but it feels kind of abandoned still. Temporary.” “Nobody’s going anywhere,” I grate. She turns to me. “Right, but you can’t decorate it with nice things?” “Decorate it?” She snorts. “Guys.” She wants to make it nice. A strange feeling comes over me, like when somebody gives you the last burger even though you’ve been an asshole all night. “It wouldn’t be hard,” she says. “A decent fixture. Some paint for the ceiling or something. Pictures on the wall. Wouldn’t you like that?” My breathing starts to feel funny, a kind of soft heaving, because somewhere back in the cobwebby part of my mind where I never go, I remember somebody, a foster mom, maybe, caring about what was on the ceiling. Hanging toy things from the ceiling, like it mattered what the fuck I saw.