“What did I say?” the man asks, and I scramble to pull the blindfold down over my eyes, my hands shaking at the deep timbre of his voice. The threat and barely controlled hate obvious with every innocuous word.

It’s damp, that strip of cloth. And doesn’t cover the whole of one eye since I rolled it down, but I keep my eyes closed and hope he won’t notice.

I don’t know how long I’ve slept. I’m about to ask what time it is. What day. To ask where Santiago is. What’s happening. But before I can, his hand closes over my arm, and I cry out and instinctively try to pull free. He’s quiet for his size. He crossed the room without me hearing even blind.

“Quiet,” he commands, and my arms are lifted. His hands are cool from the leather gloves as he forces them higher, forces me on tiptoes, and hooks my ropes into something overhead, then releases me.

I hadn’t noticed anything overhead. I hadn’t really searched for anything up there. But here I hang now, toes grazing the ground as the ropes dig into my raw wrists with my weight hanging from them.

“What’s happening?” I ask, listening as he moves behind me and places his hands on the blindfold. It’s gone, at least for a moment, but then he puts it back on so it’s flat over my eyes. He knots it tightly, catching strands of hair in it, but he doesn’t care when I protest.

He then walks to stand in front of me. I feel him. He’s close but not touching, and I wonder what he’s doing. It feels like he’s just staring at me, and it’s unnerving.

“How did you do it?” he asks.

“What?” I’m confused.

“How?”

“I don’t understand. How did I do what?”

He snorts. “If it were up to me, I’d get that confession out of you at the end of my whip.” He pauses, and I feel him step back away from me. “But fortunately for you, I’ve given my word.”

“What?” My voice breaks mid-word. Is that why I’m here? Why he’s strung me up? Is he going to whip me? “What’s happening? Where’s Santiago?” I can hear the panic rising in my own voice as he puts one finger on the middle of my chest and gives me a push. It’s just enough to make me scramble for my feet to gain purchase and alleviate the strain on my wrists.

He moves around, and I hear different sounds. He’s inside, then outside again. The door is still open, and I think I hear a woman whispering out there. I listen hard, and I hear it again. I swear I do. And then his clear voice, not whispering.