It was a lot easier to act tough when I wasn’t alone in what amounts to a sensory deprivation chamber. Besides the small vent in the ceiling pumping in cold air at intervals and a faint, mechanical hum from the fluorescent, there’s no sound, no movement, no life.

Sitting with my knees drawn to my chest, I think about the thriller novels Paris used to devour like a kid with candy during her late teens. She was particularly fond of Stephen King. I wonder if King has ever incorporated a cell like this one into any of his novels. If not, he should. It’s already messing with my head.

There might be a surveillance camera in the vent or light, watching my every move. Maybe I’m underground, a thousand tons of earth above me. Depending on how long I was out, I could be in another state. Another country. The rusted drain in the floor is an especially effective technique—combined with the lingering scent of bleach and the mop and bucket, it would be a miracle not to think about blood dripping from the dirty brown tails of the mop, DNA degraded and washed away with chemicals.

Point to you, Rudy.

With no watch or clock in the room, time is an elastic presence. Minutes or hours… seconds or weeks… Logically, I know I haven’t been here long. Maybe twenty-four hours. I’m thirsty and hungry, but not to distraction. Which means they couldn’t have taken me far. I might still be in Los Angeles.

Was Rudy here minutes ago?

Or hours?

I resist temptation for as long as I can, but the harder I try to avoid thinking about the desk, the more my gaze and thoughts are drawn to it. To the single sheet of paper on its surface, the dark blur of compact handwriting. He must have been writing for a while before I came to—words fill the sheet almost entirely.

I consider tearing the paper to shreds without reading. Or using it as toilet paper. Or leaving it to disintegrate right where it is. But in the end I’m only human, and eventually I stand and hobble-walk to the desk, favoring a cut on the bottom of my left foot—souvenir of running barefoot down the alley.

I lower myself to the chair and wait for dizziness to pass. Is there something in the air? Did they give me more drugs? The thoughts come and go, but leave residue behind. Like a fungus, my paranoia will only increase in time, sucking food from every fearful thought I have. I might be able to postpone being consumed by it, but it will take me in the end. Psychological warfare is Rudy’s bread and butter.

Shaking with bitterness and defeat, I finally focus on the letter.

I read the letter a few more times, then crumple it in a fist and toss it to the ground. Limping back to the wall, I slide to the floor and hug my knees. It takes another few minutes, but piece by stubborn piece, my bravado disintegrates. Chunks of me fall, clashing and crashing, into that roaring void.

And the truth finds me.

Because of me, Dominic is dead. Like Paul is dead, like Felix and those young women, and like my heart and entire being and the life I didn’t realize was beautiful until too late.

I should have…

Maybe if…

Too late.

When the door opens, I don’t lift my head from the ground. Don’t open my eyes or move. Sometime in the last twenty-four hours—if that’s how long since Rudy was last here—I’ve made the only choice available to me. Even if it means suffering horribly, dying here, I won’t give him what he wants.

There are shuffling noises, an angry shout, and a heavy body hits the ground several feet from me. The door slams closed. My heart hammers as I open my eyes. A man rests on his side, facing away from me. Dark hair. Dark clothes.

He groans.

Without thinking, I lunge for him. “Dominic,” I gasp, my hands hovering, wanting to grab and hold but afraid of hurting him. He makes a soft, small noise of pain and lifts his head, then rolls onto his back and blinks up at me.

I’m wide-open. Vulnerable in my desperation. And when I see his face, my mind blanks.

Empties.

Burns to ash.

CRACK goes my sanity.

“London?” he whispers through bloody lips. “Oh my God, you’re alive. Alive.”

He winces as he sits up, but ignores whatever pain he’s in to reach for me. Arms band tightly around me, drawing me into a space that’s as familiar as late nights studying in college. First dates at a pizza joint with sticky tables. Ferris Wheels and cheap champagne and marriage proposals. Walks in crisp morning air and Felix’s puppy breath.

Paul finally realizes I’m stiff, unresponsive. He releases me only to frame my face with his hands. One of his eyes is swollen closed, the other tearful and locked on my face. Despite the bruises, the cracks and blood, he looks the same.

My dead husband.