I released my grip. Could see grooves in her wrists from my fingers.

“Let’s walk and talk,” she said, standing. “You don’t want to get too relaxed.”

“You think I’m relaxed?” Standing seemed like an Olympic sport, but I managed to climb the wall to my feet. “I’m about to have a goddamn heart attack.”

Malia laced her arm with mine like an escort. This time I didn’t fight her off. “It’s a bad night, I know,” she said, walking me toward the shadowed end of the hallway. I slowed and she urged me forward. “I think you deserve a break.”

“No, I deserve answers. I deserve the truth.”

Darkness blanketed the wallpaper, concealing my severed heads. Several blind steps brought us to a door.

“That’s what everyone says,” she said, swinging it open. “Until they get it.”

It indeed looked like a break room, but even this was another lie.

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

The room we entered looked just like the break room at the recording studio where I cut jingles. A rectangular table in the middle surrounded by six mesh ergonomic chairs. A small side table held a coffee urn and a sealed carton of Krispy Kreme donuts. The far wall featured a large mirror stretched horizontally. I waited to see what false image this mirror would show me, but my flushed face and manic eyes looked authentic enough.

“Coffee?” Malia said. “Donut?”

“Sure.” I expected sewage to pour from the urn and snakes to pop from the carton. “Why not.”

I was wrong. The coffee was steaming hot with a rich, nutty flavor. The glaze still wet on the warm donuts. The first bite dissolved on my tongue. “Good Lord, almighty,” I said, the words tumbling from my mouth.

We sat facing the mirror, staring at our reflections. I flinched when something clicked on overhead, then relaxed when I felt the cool breeze of centralized air blowing through the vent above.

It dawned on me, then. A two-way mirror. We were being watched.

“Truth is,” Malia said, breathing in the fragrant steam rising from her cup. “I don’t know much. Probably not much more than you.”

I would have called bullshit but my throat was clogged with sugar-glazed dough.

“I’m still stuck in this thing. I don’t even know for how long now. Forever, it feels like.”

Another donut, another drink of coffee, sugar and caffeine rushing straight to my brain. I cleared my throat. “Bullshit.” There, I said it.