She’d seen walls like this before. A reporter she knew from National Public Radio had installed a similar soundproof room in her garage for home recording, minus the Barbie dolls, mattress, and threat of endless rape.

Caitlin shuddered. I’m gonna die in here.

The light above came on.

She took a deep breath. Not without a fight.

Two deadbolts turned behind her, then the door opened. Caitlin saw the profile of a man shadowed on the wall. He paused, shifted to one side, then back again, almost a small dance.

She wouldn’t let him control the moment. “Either murder me or come around where I can see you, Branford.”

“Looks like you’re awake,” he said. No movement.

“Is this where you tell me how much power you have over me, or are you jacking off again?”

He laughed, then brushed past her, pulled out the other chair, and sat. “Welcome, Caitlin Bergman, to the rest of your life.”

His black V-neck T-shirt and blue jeans seemed innocent enough. His leather gloves did not. Caitlin hadn’t memorized Branford’s face, but his toothy grin lacked the former shiny toothpaste-commercial goodness.

“Jesus, Branford, you wear false teeth?”

“Not I, Caitlin. Chad has a set that would blind most people. Part of his appeal.”

“You’re not Chad Branford? ’Cause you look just like him.”

He shook his head no.

“Okay, who the hell are you?”

He smiled. “Now that’s the real question, isn’t it?”

“Maybe I don’t want to know.” She flexed her arms against her straps, found no give. “What day is it, anyway? How long have I been here?”

“All in good time. I’d like to teach you the rules.”

“What’s to know? You come in, rape me until I die, then dump me in a soccer field.”

“I’m not going to force myself on you, Caitlin. I’m certainly not going to kill you.”

“Right, ask Paige Lauffer.”

“I didn’t rape Paige Lauffer.”

“Still ended up naked and dead in a goal box.”

“Paige didn’t listen to the rules.”

“Chad Branford’s secret dungeon rules?”

“I told you,” he said, his voice steady but with an electric current buzzing below the surface, “I’m not Chad Branford.”

“What should I call you? Dungeon master? Barbie doll enthusiast?”

Branford put both elbows on the table, rested his chin in his palms. “Are you done?”

“Not in the slightest, you wannabe actor. I can do this all day long.”

“And I want to hear every precious word, Caitlin. This is why you’re here.”

“To ask questions about your obvious narcissism—despite the inevitable micro-penis or downstairs mix-up you’ve got going on that makes you the sicko you are, Not-Chad-Branford?”

He held up a hand. “Rule one, when I raise my hand, you stop talking.”

“That crap didn’t work for my first-grade teacher, and you’re not half the woman Mrs. Browning was.”