Nessa looks pale and sick.

She was defiant when she thought it was only her life on the line. But when I named her brother and sister-in-law, it became real to her. It stripped away her resistance in an instant.

I’m starting to regret picking her for this little game.

I don’t think she’s going to put up much of a fight.

Sure enough, as soon as I step back to give her space to pass, she meekly runs back in the direction of her room. Without even a final retort to salvage her dignity.

I pull out my phone so I can access the cameras mounted in every corner of this house.

I watch her climb the stairs, then run back down the long hallway to the guest suite at the end of the east wing. She pushes her door closed then collapses on the ancient four-poster bed, sobbing into her pillow.

I sit back down on the bench so I can watch her cry. She cries for an hour, before finally falling back asleep.

I don’t feel guilt or pleasure watching her.

I don’t feel anything at all.

10

Nessa

I spend the next four days locked in that room.

What at first seemed like a huge space, soon begins to feel horribly claustrophobic.

The only time my door opens is when the housemaid brings me a tray of food three times a day. She’s about thirty years old with dark hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a Cupid’s bow mouth. She wears an old-fashioned maid’s uniform, complete with thick, dark tights, a long skirt, and an apron. She gives me a polite nod when she drops off the new tray and picks up the old one.

I try to talk to her, but I don’t think she speaks English. Or maybe she’s just been instructed not to answer me. Once or twice she gives me a sympathetic look, particularly as I become more disheveled and irate, but I’m under no illusions that she’s going to help me. Why should she risk her job for a stranger?

I spend a lot of time looking out the window. The windows are six feet high, tall and rectangular, with arched tops. The beveled glass is striped with strips of lead, and they don’t open. Even if they did, it’s three very tall stories down to the ground.

The windows are set in stone walls more than a foot thick. It’s like being locked in the tower of a castle.

I have my own bathroom, at least, so I can pee and shower and brush my teeth.

The first time I walked in there and saw a toothbrush, floss, hairbrush, and comb lined up next to the sink, all brand new and untouched, it gave me a shiver of dread. My abduction was planned out ahead of time. I can only imagine what other plots are spinning around in my captor’s deranged mind.

I still don’t even know his name.

I was so horrified when we met that I didn’t even ask him.

In my mind, I’ve been calling him the Beast. Because that’s what he is to me—a rabid dog that lost its master. Now he’s trying to bite anyone he can reach.

I don’t eat any of the food on the trays.

At first, it’s because my stomach is churning with stress, and I don’t have any appetite.

By the second day, it’s become a form of protest.

I have no intention of playing along with the Beast’s psychopathic plot. I won’t be his little pet locked up in this room. If he thinks he’s going to keep me here for weeks or months, only to kill me in the end, I’d rather starve right now just to ruin his plans.

I still drink water out of the bathroom sink—I don’t have quite enough nerve to face the torture of dehydration. But I’m pretty confident I can go a long time without eating. Calorie restriction and ballet go hand-in-hand. I know what it’s like to feel hungry, and I’m used to ignoring it.

It makes me tired. But that’s fine. I don’t have anything to do in this damned room anyway. There are no books. No paper in the writing desk. The only way to spend my time is window-gazing.

I have no barre, but I can still practice pliés, tendus, dégagés, rond de jambe a terre, frappés, adages, and even grand battement. I don’t dare practice any serious jumps or cross-floor exercises, because of the ancient rugs on the floor. I don’t want to trip and sprain an ankle.

The rest of the time I sit in the window seat, looking down at the walled garden. I see fountains and statues down there. Gazebos and pretty bench seats. It’s all overgrown—apparently the Beast doesn’t pay for a gardener. But the asters are blooming, and the snapdragons, and Russian sage. The purple blooms are brilliant against the red leaves. The longer I’m trapped inside, the more desperate I am to sit down there, smelling the flowers and the grass, instead of being locked in this dim and dusty room.

By the fourth day, the maid tries to encourage me to eat. She gestures at the tray of tomato soup and bacon sandwiches, saying something in Polish.

I shake my head.

“No thanks,” I say. “I’m not hungry.”

I want to ask her for some books, but the stubborn part of me won’t ask my captors for anything. Instead, I try to remember the best parts of all my favorite novels, especially the ones I loved when I was little. The walled garden reminds me of the one in The Secret Garden. I think about Mary Lennox. She was only a child, and she already had an iron will. She wouldn’t cave in over a bowl of soup, no matter how good it smelled. She’d throw it against the wall.

On the fifth day, the maid doesn’t bring me any breakfast or lunch. Instead, she comes in the afternoon carrying a green silk dress in a garment bag. She starts filling the huge claw-foot tub with hot water, gesturing for me to get undressed.

“Absolutely not,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

I’ve been putting on my same dirty clothes after every shower, refusing to wear anything out of the wardrobe.

The maid sighs and leaves the room, returning a few minutes later with a burly, black-haired man at her side.

I recognize him. He’s the asshole who pretended like he was going to fix my car, then jabbed me in the arm instead. The thought of him putting those big, meaty, hairy hands on me while I was unconscious makes my skin crawl.

I don’t like his smile when he sees me again. His teeth are too square and too white. He looks like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

“Get undressed,” he orders.

“Why?” I say.

“Because the boss says so,” he grunts.

When someone tells me to do something, I feel this impulse to obey. That’s what I’m used to doing, at home and at the dance studio. I follow orders.

But not here. Not with these people.

I wrap my arms tight around my body and shake my head.

“Unlike you, I don’t answer to your boss,” I say.

The maid shoots me a warning look. I can tell from the distance she keeps between herself and the black-haired man that she doesn’t like this guy. She’s trying to tell me not to mess with him, that the veneer of civility only runs so deep.

I could have guessed that for myself. As much as I disliked the Beast, he at least appeared intelligent. This guy looks like a goon through and through, with his caveman brow and his bad-tempered scowl. Stupid people are not creative. They always resort to violence.

“Here’s the thing,” the goon says, frowning at me. “Klara here is supposed to help you bathe and get dressed. If you won’t let her do that, then it’ll be up to me to strip you naked and soap you down with my bare hands. And I won’t be as gentle about it as Klara. So it’s in your best interest to cooperate.”