“Snap out of it,” he says, taking my face with both hands and making me look at him. “We have to get out of here.”

“What doesn’t kill you,” I start, then stop because suddenly I can’t remember what comes next.

“Christ. Focus. We need to get the hell out of here. Do you fucking hear me?” Lucien asks. “Where’s Emma?”

Emma? Why is he asking about Emma?

“Emma?” I call for her, looking around the basement, trying to blur the images in my periphery. “Emma?” I try again.

“She’s not down here,” he says irritably. “Where is she?” He unlocks one of the cuffs around my ankles.

I blink, focusing on the top of his head. Has he seen the pictures? Does he know what I did? How can he look so calm?

“Do you see them?” I ask in a voice I don’t recognize.

He looks up at me like I’m fucking crazy. “See who?”

I shake my head. “The pictures. On the walls.” My voice breaks.

“What pictures?”

“There. On the walls?” I won’t look at them, but I gesture with my head.

He looks over, then back at me, and shakes his head. “Jesus. You’re fucking losing it. Where’s Emma?”

Slowly, I look up. Are they even real? But there they are.

“Vittoria. Fuck. Stop fighting. I can’t get these off if you keep moving.”

I force a breath in. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. They didn’t kill me. I killed them. I’m strong, right?

“Where’s Emma, Vittoria?” he asks for the hundredth time.

“Emma.” I think as he works on the second ankle. “Hiding. She’s hiding. She’s safe.” I remember.

“She’s not safe,” he says, and I see how his hair which is usually so well maintained has thinned, how a bald spot is forming. Does he even know he’s going bald? I look down at his hands as he unlocks the cuff around my ankle, and I’m hit with a flash of memory. But this one is different than the others. This one isn’t gone in an instant like the blinking of those lights. This one, it sticks. The image of hands, mine and his. But last time, they weren’t taking the cuffs off. They were putting them on. The ring was there, on the same finger, looking out of place then. Looking out of place now.

I watch his hands work. Clipped nails. Manicured fingers. But I see the dirt under his fingernails.

He moves to the back of the chair to unlock my wrists. “Move,” he says, sounding irritated. “We need to go.” When I don’t move, he pulls me to my feet. My legs feel too wobbly, and my arm is dead weight. I cradle it and follow Lucien to the stairs.