At least I’m comfortable. Or was. Reclined in a cushioned chair. My face against the corduroy fabric that smells like a teddy bear I once had as a little boy. The familiar odor unlocking a memory of my childhood bedroom from some closed chamber in my brain. Light streaming through the window blinds on a Saturday morning. Teddy on one side, a Nerf football on the other. The day stretched out ahead of me like an endless road. No need to rush. No need to worry. Nothing to do but lie in the comfortable bed with my cushioned friends and wait for the smell of bacon grease to worm its way into my room. A day I’ll never experience again.

There’s a crackling fire. An amber glow on the other side of my eyelids. I’ll stay like this until my body starves and the music fades and the soft light goes dark. I’m already under a graveyard.

Then I remember what Malia said. Please don’t give up. I saw Cassie lying battered in the bed having fought several men. The army’s on the battlefield and there’s not a friend in sight. Given the chance, I’d kill them all. And that chance has come.

* * *

I opened my eyes to a room full of shadows. A study or sitting room, much like the one I’d looked in on from my prison above the mantel. Two chairs angled toward the fire. Me in one, reclined so that I’m lying flat. A figure in the other, sitting deep in the plush cushions, a vague shape within a shadow. I glanced above the fireplace and was grateful to find an oil painting, not some decapitated head with gaping eyes.

The chair squeaked when I returned it to a sitting position. My head was like the hollow of a guitar, waiting to be strummed. The music had stopped and all I heard was the flutter of flames. I will not be the first to speak. I will not be the first to speak.

“You the sick fuck behind all this?” I said.

A warm chuckle. “For all intents and purposes, yes. Though I am but one link in a chain.”

That chuckle, like I’m cute. “Some chain.”

“Indeed.”

All I could see were twin reflections of firelight on his eyeglasses. “So many questions,” he said. “And yet, no one ever has much to say.”

“I’ve got something to say.” I leaned forward for a closer look, but might as well have been talking to an oil stain. Silence. It’s an invitation to speak, it seems. So I opened my mouth to spew out my most venomous insults, incriminations, and demanding questions, but all I could manage was a quiet gasp. My mind a ball of tangled yarn.

“Yes, it’s a curious thing,” he said, his calm, soothing voice coming through twin reflections of firelight.