She couldn’t hold back anymore, wouldn’t even try. “I couldn’t have sex for years after that. I couldn’t even masturbate without crying. I tried to kill myself twice, chickened out at the last second. And now, twenty years later, every time I have sex, I flash back to that afternoon with that asshole on top of me. I have to fight through that memory every time a man touches me. Every damned time.”

Embower pulled Caitlin’s laptop out of her reach and raised his hand. “Stop talking.”

“But I’m a strong woman,” she yelled. “Strong women yell, and they swear and they fuck and drink and get high, and yes, they cry and sweat and grow hair everywhere, and that’s totally up to them. But every day, some asshole tries to change that because that’s not his idea of what a strong woman is.” She leaned her face as far forward as she could. “Hit me—I don’t care. You want me to live in your bullshit dollhouse? Fine, but I’m not going to follow your script.”

He slapped her hard.

Her head flew back. A mixture of blood and snot flooded her sinuses. She blew a pink bubble out a nostril and laughed. “Is that all you’ve got?”

He pulled back again but stopped mid-swing, composing himself. “You’re upset. You don’t mean what you’re saying.” He nodded, apparently in agreement with himself. “You’ll be happier when you see the changes.”

He picked up the laptop and walked out. Caitlin heard the fan above come to life.

So much for cutting down on the drugs.

Chapter 72

CHAPTER

72

CAITLIN’S FACE FELT raw, maybe from last night’s slap, maybe from the pattern of the playroom couch she woke on. The TV showed the outside world, overcast but sunny.

He’d left breakfast on the steel table once again. Still in last night’s pajamas, she shuffled over, found a note in a paper bowl next to a single-serving box of cereal.

I don’t want to lose you the way I lost Paige, so I’ll give you a day to consider your situation. I think you’ll enjoy the changes.

She crumpled the note and opened the cereal. A sound stopped her, the first she’d ever heard in the room that hadn’t come from the TV or the wall speaker. It sounded like a muffled jackhammer.

Something else was new. He’d cut a rectangle into the door, like a mail slot, but for putting on handcuffs.

She inspected the foot-wide, six-inch-high panel. A metal slab filled the gap from the hallway side. She poked the steel, sensed a little give. Her finger caught the cooler air of the hallway.

The sound returned. Definitely a jackhammer. A drain, he’d said. Not just an evil genius, but handy too.