Shattered With You

Chapter Seven

This man has short, curly red hair. His face is too large and his eyes too small. He wears glasses that sit on a bulbous nose, and his lips are unnaturally pale, so when he speaks, it's almost as if a hole is opening up in his face.

He speaks now, and I instinctively scoot backward until my back is pressed against the headboard, my cuffed arm twisting awkwardly as my free hand clutches the gadget for dear life.

"You're a hard woman to find."

He's such an unattractive man, that his pleasant, almost gentle voice surprises me into speech. "I—I didn't know you were looking for me."

Even as I say the words, I realize my mistake. I'd noticed him watching me at the party, but paid him little mind. After all, he never approached me and never commented on the ribbon tied to my wrist. I assumed he was just a guest sussing out the possibilities.

"You," I say, sparing a look at the gizmo and toggling the switch down to edge the needle further into the green. "You're Mr. X." I relax a little. After all, this is the man I'd come to meet. "Why didn't you come to me? We could have—"

My words are cut off by my scream as he leaps onto the bed, yanks my hair back, and presses the blade of a knife against my throat. I go completely still, completely cold. His face is right in front of mine, and I don't see anything human in his eyes.

I hear a small mewling noise and realize it's coming from me.

"Where is she?"

I open my mouth, but it's too dry to speak. I don't know what I'd say anyway. He can't be talking about Emma. He thinks I'm Emma. Doesn't he?

His thumb presses tight against my jugular. "I could just as easily push down with this blade. Do you understand?"

I'm too afraid that a nod will slice my throat, and I can't find my voice. I manage a strangled sound that he takes as an affirmative.

"I'm glad we understand each other. The girl, you fucking bitch. Where did you hide the girl?"

That's when it clicks. Quincy's thirteen-year-old. That's who he's looking for.

And not only do I have no clue where she is, I'm terribly afraid that I've just destroyed Quincy's chance to protect her. Because in my terror at being attacked at knifepoint, I'd managed to lose the gadget.

I squeeze my right hand as if it will magically appear, but there's only air. I whimper, terrified for me and also horribly guilty about that girl. I know what it's like to be young and afraid. Emma had been there to protect me, just as Quincy's trying to protect this girl. And I went and screwed it up for him.

"Where?"

I start to speak, but I can't tell him that I don't know, and I'm too scared to concoct a lie. All I can manage to do is gape at him and whimper an incomprehensible medley of "I, uh, I—"

"Stupid cunt," Mr. X snarls as he takes the knife from my neck and, before I can even breathe a sigh of relief, drags it from my neck to the slit at my thigh, slicing my dress in one easy motion, then pulling it wide, so that I'm naked except for my tiny thong panties.

The tip of the knife must have grazed my skin, because I see small dots of blood gathering in a line from my cleavage all the way down to my belly button. I hadn't felt pain in the moment, but now the wound begins to sting and tears prick my eyes. I'm terrified and lost and entirely at this bastard's mercy. I want to scream for Quincy—for anybody—but I know that if I do, it will be the last sound I make.

Futilely, I tug on my cuffed arm as I throw my free arm over my breasts to shield myself. I try to pull up my legs so that I can curl up into a ball, but he's sitting just above my knees as he moves the knife slowly back and forth above the band of my thong.