forms in the back of my mind, too far away to reach.
Why can’t I see anything?
My breath hitches. Panic rips through my body as the horrifying answer comes to me:
I’m blind!
I scramble onto hands and knees and desperately claw at the dark, searching for
something, anything, for my senses to latch onto.
A dim overhead light comes on.
Relief swells inside.
I plop back on my butt and close my eyes, taking deep breaths to dispel the rush of
adrenaline released by my body. When my heart’s not beating quite so fast, I open my eyes
The light’s gotten brighter. I look up at the source. It’s far above me, like a dull,
miniature sun. It spreads a little sphere around me, maybe ten feet in diameter. Past that,
everything is swallowed by darkness.
An irksome memory keeps gnawing at me. But my head is too heavy to remember. I
feel… strange. Kind of like I’m hung over, but without the telltale pounding between my ears.
Cautiously, I try to stand. My limbs are slow to react. They feel heavy, too, like they’ve
been dipped in wet clay. I steady myself. Only when I’m satisfied that my knees won’t give out,
do I strain my ears for that hissing sound again.
It’s coming from somewhere behind me. I turn back—and nearly smash my head on a
gleaming white pillar.
What the hell?
The sound is forgotten as I reach out and brush tentative fingers against the pillar’s
surface. It’s cool to the touch. Smooth, too. I put my other hand on it. If I had to guess, I’d say it
was made of marble. But what is a lone, white marble pillar doing in the middle of this room?
The memory is like a gong going off inside my head. But trying to reach it is like
grasping at a smooth, slippery stone at the bottom of an aquarium. Just when I think I have it, it
slips through my fingers and falls even farther out of reach.
I walk a slow, measured circle around the pillar. If I tried wrapping my arms around it, I
doubt if I could even span half the circumference. Something far in the back of my mind tells me
I should be alarmed. I look behind me and frown. By what? A dark room?
No, you idiot. By the reason you’re here!
My eyes widen. The reason I’m here? I don’t… I don’t remember.
I wince and bring one hand to my temple. Why am I having so much trouble
remembering?
I gasp as a second gruesome thought hits me. Did I lose my memory? Do I have…
amnesia?
I sink down with my back to the pillar. Desperation starts to take over. I hold my head
between my knees and close my eyes to focus.
My name is Lilly Ryder. I was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, on May 17th
My eyes pop open. Joyous tears form in the corners. I do remember! I take a deep breath
and try to keep going.
I was raised by my mom. I do not know my dad…
Suddenly, all my childhood memories come streaming back. Moving around as a kid.
Never staying in one place longer than six months. All the cities I’ve lived in. All the apartments
my mom and I called home. Even the revolving door of her boyfriends. There was Dave, and
Matthew. Tom, and Steve. There was…
I shake my head to stop myself. I don’t doubt my memory anymore. But that still does
not explain why I have absolutely no recollection of this place, or how I got here.
I push myself back up. The spotlight above me has gotten progressively brighter. The
little enclosure of light doesn’t feel quite so tight anymore. I trail my eyes up the length of the
pillar. I can’t see where it ends because of the light. But I can tell it’s tall, at least twenty, maybe
twenty-five feet…
There’s also something about its surface that calls out to me. My hands itch to run over
the smooth stone. A giggle bubbles up as I picture myself stroking it. The column is quite
phallic.
I waver at the unfamiliar thought and have to catch my balance against the beam.
Focus, Lilly! I chide myself.
I have no idea where that thought came from. I have never been overtly sexual.
Nothing feels right. The fog that’s heavy on my mind is starting to lift, but not yet enough
for me to understand—or remember—where the hell I am. This place is unfamiliar. I know
that much. But right now, I feel almost like a surgery patient whose anesthetic kinked out: fully
awake mentally, but completely impaired physically.
I go back to my memories. I can remember high school. I remember college. That’s
where I spent the last three years of my life, isn’t it? Yes. Yes, it is.
“Hello?” I call out. My voice echoes into the surrounding gloom. “Is anybody there?”
I wait for an answer. All I get is the hollow repetition of my own voice.
…anybody there, there, there…
I spent the last three years in college… but that’s not where I think I am right now. No. I
shake my head. I knowthat’s not where I am. My memories are fuzzier the closer I bring them to
today. Time feels… skewed. Freshman year’s easy to remember. So is sophomore, and most of
junior… but things get weird toward the end.
I… finished junior year, didn’t I? Yes. Yes, I did. And then…
And then I took an internship in distant California for the summer, I remember with
another gasp.
Suddenly, my mind is crystal clear. That pressing memory hurtles into view. It’s from
yesterday. The last thing I recall, I was alone in a booth at an upscale restaurant. The waiter
brought me a glass of wine. I took a few sips, contemplating my future….
Oh, God! Fear wraps a stranglehold around my neck.
The restaurant. The wine.
I’ve been drugged!
I can’t breathe. A suppressing tightness constricts my throat. I feel dizzy, and terrified,
and most of all… ashamed.
, 1990.
Holy shit, Lilly, way to look out for yourself! My semi-mad inner dialogue pans with a
generous dollop of sarcasm.
I’ve always known about the dangers of sick men preying on unsuspecting girls. I just
never thought I’d fall victim to it.
I’ve been on my own since I turned eighteen, after the final falling out with my mother.
I’ve always been proud of how well I managed. Even the shabby holes I’ve lived in while saving
up college tuition were an improvement over living with her and all her low-life boyfriends. At
least there, I had autonomy.
I’ve dealt with landlords selling crack on the side and the junkies they attract. Always,
I’ve been known as independent, and strong—maybe offputtingly so. But, those were the
character traits I had to develop to have any chance of getting ahead.
And all that lead to what? To this? To letting my guard down for one night and ending
up… here?
Wherever “here” is, I think to myself.
The shock of the revelation has subsided a bit. I push off from the pillar. I can figure this
out. I take a deep breath and look at my hands and feet. I am not bound. I pick at my clothes.
They are the same ones I wore last night.
Do you know what might be lurking in the darkness?
I shove the meddlesome voice down. I don’t need more worries. Not now.
Carefully, I place one foot in front of the other and edge to the outer reaches of the light.
The strange hissing noise has gone away. I don’t know when that happened. Maybe it was in my
head the entire time.
I strain my eyes, trying to pierce the surrounding darkness. It’s impossible. I reach out
with one hand and find nothing but air. This far from the pillar, I can barely see my outstretched
“Hello?” I try again. “Who’s there?”
There’s no answer.
What kind of madman would do something like this? I wonder. What is hidden in the
shadows?
Without warning, my imagination starts to run wild. Torture devices? Bondage
equipment? Something… worse?
Snap out of it! I tell myself firmly.
I refuse to give in to despair, even if my entire self-preservation mechanism is on high
alert. Despair is what whoever brought me here wants me to feel.
I will not succumb to that.
I look down at the floor. It is made of some expensive stone. I kneel down and brush my
hand over the large, square tiles. They feel solid. Sturdy. They don’t belong in a dingy basement
or a dirty warehouse.
Somehow, that thought strengthens me. Things aren’t quite as bad as they could be.
I stand up and peer into the black. I glance back at the safety of my pillar. If I venture
past the light, I can always find my way back.
Go slow, I warn myself. Who knows what might be waiting for me out there?
I’ve seen the horror movies. Just because I don’t get the dungeon vibes here does not
mean I’m not in one.
Haltingly, my foot reaches past the edge.
A thousand bright lights flood the room. I gasp and shy back, shielding my eyes on
instinct.
After a few seconds, I lower my arm, blinking through the sharp pain that shoots through
my head. I can almost groan. Light sensitivity, too?
Then I see the room.
Holy shit.
It’s huge. Massive. It must be at least five thousand square feet of pristine, flat space. I’m
smack dab in the middle of it all.
The lights come from embedded ceiling lamps high overhead. Three of the walls, far
away from me, are decorated with black and white abstract paintings created in bold brush
strokes. The fourth wall is shielded by a heavy red curtain. The entire floor is made of rich,
creamy white tiles reminiscent of steamed milk.
The ceiling is so high above me I almost feel like I’m in a cathedral. It’s made of
exquisite dark oak beams.
But this is no church.
I do a slow turn. Something about this is all wrong.
So wrong.
Why am I here? What is behind the curtain? Other than the massive pillar and the
paintings, there is nothing in the room.
If I’m being kept prisoner, why am I unbound? Why waste so much space on me?
I cup my hands around my mouth and yell.
“HEY! Anybody? Where am I?”
As before, I’m greeted with silence.
I take one more careful look around. If I got in, there must be a way out.
My eyes dart to the curtain.
Behind there.
I start toward it, my bare feet making determined slaps against the cold floor. I’ve not
even gone ten paces toward it when I feel a small tug on my ankle.
I stop and look down. I discover a thread, so thin it’s almost translucent, tied loosely
around my foot. The other end is attached to the base of the pillar.
I bend down and finger it.
What on earth is this?
The thread looks like it should snap with the smallest amount of force. I wrap my hands
around it and tug.
It doesn’t give.
I frown, and apply a little more effort.
This time, it breaks in a clean cut.
I shake my head as I straighten.
Strange.
I half-expected something to happen when I did that. Alarms to blare, the lights to go off,
something.
Nothing.
That’s when I notice a small white envelope leaning against the pillar. It’s right where the
thread connects. In fact, it blends so well with the marble that I’m sure I would have missed it
were it not for the string.
Exploration forgotten for now, I pick up the envelope. Maybe it will give some clue
about what the fuck is going on.
It’s made of heavy paper. A wax stamp seals it, imprinted with a two-faced drama mask
that I would find unnerving no matter where I saw it.
The only time I saw a wax-sealed envelope was when my ex got tapped by the Spade and
Grave at Yale. I can understand the need for antiquity in New Haven. It makes no sense here.
My finger slips under the flap. I carefully ease it open. A foreboding sense of doom
swirls around me as I pull the folded letter out.
I stare at it for a long minute. This is all so surreal. It feels like being caught in a bad
dream. Once, I play myself right into my captor’s hands.
My natural inclination to resist, to fight back, tells me to tear the paper up without
another glance. But that would be madness. The only clue I have to my whereabouts might be
contained inside.
My thirst for information gets the better of me. I sit on the floor, cross my legs, and
slowly unfold the paper.
It’s handwritten in swift, flowing blue ink. The rows of words make perfect strides across
the page. Precision is the first word that comes to mind to describe the owner of the handwriting.
I set the sheet on the floor in front of me, lean forward and begin to read:
Two items require your immediate attention.
1. You may spuriously assume you are being held here against your
will. Nothing could be farther from the truth. You are a guest. As a guest, you
retain full ability to leave my home at any time. The door behind the drapes
shall remain open for the duration of your stay. There are no physical barriers
to speak of—though I would advise you to read to the end of this letter before
making decisions based on a flawed understanding of your situation.
2. You may have already noted the new adornment around your neck. If
so, well done! I applaud—
Adornment? I stop reading. What adornment?
I bring my hands to my neck. I feel the unfamiliar shape against my skin. Why hadn’t I
noticed it before?
I scamper closer to the marble pillar to try to make out my reflection. I can’t see much,
but I can make out the “adornment”. There’s a black collar around my throat. I touch it with one
It’s smooth and flat. It’s made of some kind of matted plastic, like the edges of a
computer screen. It’s not tight or uncomfortable.
It frightens me. If it warranted a place in the letter, there must be something to it. I need
to get it off.
My fingers dart around the edges, seeking the clasp that opens it.
I don’t find one.
The collar is smooth inside and out. It feels like a single piece of plastic. I trail one finger
around the rim on the inside, and, finding no discrepancies, do the same on the outside. Again, I
feel nothing.
There’s no crack, no edge, nothing to indicate how it was put around my neck.
I jam all my fingers between my skin and the plastic and pull with all my might. The
collar flexes ever-so-slightly but doesn’t give.
Dammit! I cry out and try again.
I pull with all the strength God gave me. It’s not enough. I try again, and again, and
Nothing.
I realize I’m panting at this point. The exertion has me almost hyperventilating.
I drop my hands. It’s just a stupid, harmless little piece of plastic. Why do I want it off so
Because the idea of having anything foreign touch your skin is repulsive.
The voice is right, as always. But what can I do? The collar is bound to be part of the
mind game in which I’m an unwitting participant. Reacting the way I just did is probably exactly
what my captor wants. He—and I am certain it’s a “he” now, from the wording of the letter—
wants me to feel terrified.
I will not give him the pleasure. I return to the letter and continue to read:
…applaud your perspicacity! You should know, however, that it is not an ordinary collar.
Contained inside is a small positioning chip and two electrodes. They become activated the
moment you stray outside your designated safe zone.
The string around your foot offers a conservative estimation of the distance you may
roam past the marble column. Stay close, and you will remain untroubled. I am told that the
electric shock the collar provides, while not lethal, can be quite unpleasant.
Holy fuck!
My spine goes absolutely straight and I forget to breathe. Now the collar has meaning. It
feels like a live serpent wrapped around my neck.
My eyes are wide as I look down to my foot. The piece of string is still there, but it’s not
connected to the one linked to the pillar.
I’d ripped it like a moron.
How far do I dare go? I’ll have to retie the string—unless I find a way to get the collar off
my neck, first.
Another thought occurs to me:
Maybe this is a bluff? Does the collar really have an electrode in it? It’s so thin. Where
would it draw power from?
I stand up. Assuming the collar is rigged, and the pillar is the center point… but that’s
just what he wants me to believe, isn’t it? The letter claims there’s a door behind the drapes.
It could be my path to freedom. I would have to be an idiot to stay here without testing the
boundary myself.
I can’t trust anything the letter says. But, I can’t give in to despair, either. My only choice
is to contest everything that’s thrown at me. If this is supposed to be a battle of the wills, the guy
chose the wrong girl to mess with.
I pick up the remainder of the string and hold it in my fist. I square my shoulders to the
long, drawn curtain. I hold my head high. My free hand itches to tug at the collar, but I keep it
still. If my captor is watching me—which I’m sure he is, because I’m positive there are cameras
hidden all around me—I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me hesitate.
I take a deep breath and start toward the curtained wall. My strides are strong and
purposeful. I will not waver. I will not turn back. Fear of a little shock will not keep me from
testing the true limits of this prison.
The string goes taut, and I stop.
So far, so good.
It’s the next few steps that will determine everything.
I glance at the floor to mark my position. So, he expects to keep me in an invisible cage,
does he? A cage of my own imagination?
Yeah, tough luck.
I drop the string and take one solid step forward.
Nothing happens.
I risk one more.
Nothing happens.
The corner of my lip twitches up in a hint of a smile. I called his bluff. But, I’m not home
free yet. The veiled wall is another thirty-odd paces away from me.
I take two more steps forward, and, when nothing happens, start to walk more briskly.
My stroll is cut short by a sharp little zap beneath my left ear.
I tense and wait for more.
Well, color me surprised.
It looks like the collar does have bite, after all. When a second jolt doesn’t come, I can’t
stop my smile from becoming a satisfied smirk. I knew the collar couldn’t possible have enough
juice to hurt me. Where would the battery go?
Extremely pleased with myself, I venture onward, toward the curtain and its promise of
freedom.
The violent torrent of electricity blindsides me. One second I’m on my feet, the next I’m
writhing on the floor.
The current pours into me. I thrash about like a grounded fish. Fierce convulsions rock
my body. And all I know is pain, pain, pain.
I can feel the source of it, snug around my neck. I’m helpless to fight the onslaught. My
head flails about on the ground, throwing hair into my face. A high-pitched squeal sounds in my
ears and I desperately hope that pathetic sound is not me.
My eyes roll up and all goes black.
EXCERPT
“Lilly.”
Oh God. It’s him. There’s no mistaking that rich, masculine treble.
What’s he doing down here?
“M-Mr. Stonehart,” I stutter, turning. I curse my inability to hide my
surprise. He totally caught me off-guard. I have to look up to meet his eyes. Then
up some more.
The face that I find is so striking it should belong to a Greek god.
He’s younger than I expected. Late thirties, maybe early forties.
That means he started his company when he was younger than me!
Dark scruff lines his angular cheeks. His jet-black hair is styled in long,
natural waves. My fingers itch to run through it.
Totally inappropriate.
He has a prominent nose that might be too big on a less imposing man, but
on him, it’s perfect.
In short, he’s a package of the purest masculinity I’ve ever seen.
And then there are his eyes. Oh my God. His eyes. They pierce into me
like honing missiles. They are the deepest black I have ever seen. They would be
frightening if they weren’t so beautiful. When the light reflects a certain way, you
catch a glimpse of the purple underneath.
They are like midnight sapphires. His eyes reveal a cunning intellect. Those
eyes do not miss a thing.
Add all that to his towering height, his wide shoulders, his confident-yet-at-
ease posture… and Stonehart cuts an intimidating figure.
My gaze darts to his left hand before I can stop it. No ring. He’s unmarried.
He looks down at me, expectantly. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, and I
feel like I’m being dissected, measured up, and tucked away in some small corner
of his brain. I imagine this is what a gemstone feels like under the magnifying class
of the most critical appraiser.
Stonehart clears his throat. I come to with a start, realizing I haven’t said
anything in ages. I open my mouth, but the capacity for speech seems like a foreign
concept to my brain. “I—”
Somebody bumps into me from behind. I stagger forward. I’m not used to
these shoes, so my heel steps the wrong way. My ankle twists under me, and I start
to fall.
I don’t fall far. The hand still on my elbow tightens, and Stonehart pulls me
into him.
I plaster myself onto the solid steel wall the man has for a body. I catch a
scent of his cologne. It’s a deep, musky smell with a hint of charred spruce that is
all male. It scrambles my thoughts even more.
“Sorry!” a rushed voice calls out. From the corner of my eye, I see the
postman giving a hurried, apologetic wave.
Although the sequence lasts less than a second, it feels like an eternity.
Pressed up against him like that, I don’t want to move. I know that I couldn’t have
made a worse first impression.
Stonehart eases me off him with a firm yet gentle grip. Our eyes meet. I
flush the most vibrant red. His fingers graze my forehead as he brushes a lock of
hair out of my face.
Any tenderness I may have imagined vanishes when Stonehart takes out
his cell. He long dials a key and growls an order. “Steven. See the delivery boy
leaving right now? Have his building pass revoked.”
I gape. Stonehart keeps speaking. “Wait. I thought of one better. Bar
his company from accessing the building.” There’s a pause. “For how long?
Indefinitely. FedEx can talk to me when they have an improved employee selection
program in place.”
The phone call gives me just enough time to compose myself. My heart’s
still beating out of my chest. But nobody has to know that.
I speak without thinking. “You’re going to restrict the entire company from
serving this building because of that?”
Stonehart humors me with an answer. “A company’s employees are its
most important asset. Their behavior reflects the organization as a whole. If FedEx
decided that clown is good enough for them, it tells me they’re sloppy. I do not do
business with sloppy organizations.”
“What about the other tenants in the building?” I ask. “Won’t that piss them
When I hear myself and realize how improper my question is, my cheeks
flame red again.
Stonehart’s eyes darken, as if he cannot believe I asked that question. I open
my mouth to apologize for my imprudence, hating the way my professional skills
have evaporated into thin air. I’m cut off by a short, barked laugh.
“Miss Ryder.” He sounds amused. “I believe that is the most direct and
honest question anybody has dared ask me in weeks.” He takes my elbow again
and leads me to the elevators. I have to take two quick steps to match one of his
long strides.
“Yes,” he continues. “They will be ‘pissed off.’ But the perk of owning a
building—” he hits the elevator call button, “—is that you get to make executive
decisions.” He gives me an unreadable glance as the doors open. “That is, at the
risk of being questioned by inexperienced interns.”
If that isn’t a loaded remark, I don’t know what is. I flush scarlet red for the
third time since I’ve met him. I’ve never had a man throw me so off balance.
The elevator is packed, for which I’m infinitely thankful. The trip up will
give me some time to properly compose myself.
Gratitude turns to panic when the crowd files out, meek as mice, when
Stonehart steps in. None of the people waiting in the lobby follow us.
The doors close. I’m alone in here with him. My heart’s beating as fast as a
hummingbird’s wings.
He catches me staring. “Impressed?” he asks.
“They know you,” I manage.
His dark eyes flash with amusement. “Astute.”
GIVEAWAY
.png)
