Okay, guys . . . things have escalated.
Oh my God. How do I explain what just happened?
The cop just got, like, really, creepy, creepy weird. I'm definitely starting to worry about what's going to happen to me here. Things have definitely . . . changed.
So, when he knocked on the door this morning, I didn't even consider trying to escape after what happened last time. I cuffed myself obediently to the bed and tossed the key. I could see him peering through the low hole he'd cut in the door to make sure that I was really chained to the bed.
He was carrying a plate of food. This time it was a fat turkey sandwich with what I could swear was freshly baked bread. I devoured it. I hated him for how good it tasted.
"I owe you that meal."
He turned around the folding chair and sat, casually facing me while I tried not to stuff my face too desperately.
"But I didn't post anything." I took another bite and chewed hungrily, staring at my knees.
"Well, you wrote some of it," he said, referring, apparently, to the Jimbo scenes. "And, one way or another, part nine got posted. So I owe you a meal. I can start feeding you again."
"It's not your story," I said, as calmly as I could manage.
"Somebody had to post the next part," he replied, as if this argument was perfectly reasonable. "It's been pretty inconsiderate of you to keep your fans waiting." He gave me a faint, smug smile. "I actually thought I did a pretty good job replicating Ashley's voice."
It was annoying that he actually had managed to mimic my writing style. I hated him even more for this.
"But how you wrote it is not how the story goes."
"Well," he smirked flatly. "It's how the story goes now. Isn't it?"
I didn't answer. I just wanted him to leave so I could think about what to do next. I was surprised by how frustrating it felt to know that Dead in Bed—my novel—was just sitting there online having left off with Ashley blissfully getting it on with Shawn. I hurried to consume the last of the sandwich and pushed the empty plate toward the cop.
But he didn't pick it up. He didn't even move. He just sat there in the folding chair, staring at me.
"You're filthy," he said, finally.
"Excuse me?"
"Have you even bathed, at all, since you've been here?"
After everything I'd been going through, it hadn't even crossed my mind to bathe. There wasn't even a shower, just the claw-foot tub. I was still wearing the same jeans and top I'd been abducted in days ago. My hair was greasy and unbrushed. I hadn't even looked at myself in the sink mirror. Using the toilet without a bathroom door had been bad enough. The last thing I'd wanted was to fully undress to take a bath, no matter how badly I may have needed one—not when the cop could just show up at any moment.
I didn't respond. I was starting to have a horrible feeling about whatever was about to happen.
The cop unlocked the cuffs, disattaching my wrist from the bed. Then he sat back down in the folding chair.
"Go on," he said. "There's a bar of soap in there. A washcloth. I'll wait."
I was so scared that I was feeling dizzy. He wouldn't stop staring at me. I didn't move.
"Bailey, right now." He leaned back in the chair. "Either you take a bath on your own, or I'll make you take one. You're filthy," he added again, savoring the word.
With this, I fled into the bathroom. He didn't follow me. From where he sat, facing away from the bathroom's doorless entrance, he couldn't see me. But I was trapped. I couldn't try to escape again; he'd stop me, just like last time. He was too strong. And I did not want to give him any excuse to touch me.
But I couldn't take off my clothes. I just couldn't do it.
"I don't hear the water." The cop's tone was as calm as it had ever been. "Give me your clothes. Just toss them out the door. I'll wash them for you."
I froze.
"One," he said, drawing out the syllable. "Two . . ."
He was freaking counting to three like I was a little kid. It was so gross.
But the tactic worked. If I had any small chance of keeping him out of the bathroom, I had to take it. I angrily pulled off my shirt and threw it out the door. My chin was trembling. I took off my jeans and threw them out, too. They landed heavily on the linoleum in the bedroom.
But I couldn't go any further. I felt a tear fall down my cheek...