DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 8, AUTHOR'S NOTE - 2/5/15, 7:12pm

Well, I found out why I'm here. 

But I'm still trying to accept that the reason is actually for real. It's just too strange. I'm really struggling to make sense of how unbelievable everything is that's going on.

Okay, here's what happened. It was totally quiet—as quiet as it's always been here—and, suddenly, someone said my name. My pen name.

The voice came from right outside the door. It was the cop's. I recognized it right away. He was using the same politely authoritative tone he'd used before.

"Bailey, I'm going to need you to cuff yourself to the bed rail."

I just stared at the door. My heart was on fire. I couldn't move. I just stared at the handcuffs where they'd fallen on the cold linoleum. I hadn't touch them since I'd taken them off.

He knocked softly at the door. "I'm going to need you to do that right now," he said. Then he told me to toss the key at the door when I'd finished. "That's how I'll know you're ready."

For a moment I wondered what would happen if I just refused to do what he told me to do. But I wasn't willing to try that just yet. I was terrified.

I reached down, slid the cuffs over, and attached my wrist to the bed. I tossed the key at the door. It bounced off and fell to the floor with ringing clatter.

Right away the bolt unlocked. The door handle rotated. The door slowly swung open. And there he was. The cop. The person who'd lured us into the back of a van, who'd nearly asphyxiated Kyle, and who'd driven us miles into nowhere. 

He wasn't in his uniform, and I got a much better look at him. I know it's really important that I describe him, and that I get the details right. He was tall, over six feet, and, now that I could see his face fully for the first time, I saw that he had vulnerable pale green eyes and a squarish jaw. His hair was cropped short in sort of a military style. He was in jeans now, and a simple, loose-fitting shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looked like he'd had a restful sleep and a hot shower. If I'd just passed him on the street or somewhere, I wouldn't have guessed that he'd just driven a U-Haul all night. But, otherwise, there was no mole or scar or anything that would distinguish him specifically. Really, his primary defining characteristic was that he looked friendly and approachable. Which was why, I guess, he'd been able to lure us into that van so easily in the first place. He was even attractive, which I hadn't really expected.

He was carrying a plate with a tin cover, like the kind hotels use for room service. He set it on the bed beside me. I kept flashing back to the moment when he'd pressed his thumb into my mouth to puncture the plastic bag. I curled away from him, holding my knees against my chest with my one free arm. He lifted the tin plate cover, revealing some kind of beef stew. I hadn't eaten for a very long time, but at that moment I couldn't even think about putting anything into my mouth. Nausea crept up my throat.

Without really thinking through what I was doing, in a spike of sheer frustration and revulsion, I swept the plate to the floor.

The porcelain shattered. Hot stew splashed all over the linoleum.

The cop didn't move. He just looked straight at me. He raised his eyebrows very slightly in some frightening combination of compassion and amusement. Instinctively, I pulled against the cuff's metal grip.

Then, without a word, he picked up the broken shards and left. He came back with a mop and began silently cleaning up the mess.

I tried to control my breathing. I thought my chest was going to explode. What had I just done? How could I have done something so impulsive?