The next time I wake, I’m lying down in a moving vehicle. An ambulance, by the looks of it. Only things don’t seem quite right. A woman shines a small light in my eyes before tossing it over her shoulder. And instead of a uniform, she’s wearing tight black pants and a tank top.
“Lucky girl. Just a mild concussion and a small cut on her forehead,” the woman says with an English accent. Next she rips an antiseptic wipe out of its packet and starts cleaning up the blood on my face none too gently. “She’s certainly not his usual type.”
“What were you expecting?” asks the driver.
“I don’t know. Something a little less plump and homely, perhaps.”
A grunt.
“And she’s awake,” the woman says.
“That’s inconvenient.”
“I’m on it.” She drops the wipe and reaches for a syringe.
“W-wait,” I say, my mouth dry and muscles hurting. “What’s going on?”
Without any preamble, the needle is plunged into my arm, the stopper depressed. It all happens so quickly. I try to move, to push her away, but I’m no match for her strength. Not in my current condition. As darkness closes in once more, I see a discarded paramedic uniform sitting off to the side.
“Who are you?” I mumble, my lips, face, and everything else going numb.
“Friends,” she says. “Well, sort of.”
The driver just laughs.
Consciousness comes slowly. It’s like I’m underwater in an ocean of night. This time, however, I’m upright, seated on a chair in a large and dimly lit room. My feet rest on the cold bare floor since someone’s stolen my shoes. Everything’s woozy and horrible. My hands are tied behind my back, the restraints painfully tight. The shadows disappear as a blinding light is shone in my face. It’s dazzling and awful, shooting pain through my already pounding head. Next comes a bucket of ice-cold water thrown in my face.
“Wakey wakey,” yells the shadow of a man. “Time for us to talk, Miss Elizabeth Dawsey.”
I cringe and shiver. “Wh-where am I?”
“I ask the questions and you give me answers. That’s how this works.”
“Is all this really necessary?” the woman with the British accent asks. Her voice comes from farther back in the room. “He’s not going to be happy.”
“Keep your mouth shut,” growls the man.
With the light blinding my eyes, there’s little I can see. My bare feet rest on concrete and the air is dusty and still. I could be anywhere. “I don’t understand. Who are you people?”
Heavy footsteps come toward me; then smack! His hand connects with my cheek. Fothermucker. I’ve never been hit before. It’s a hell of a shock. My face throbs and there’s the taste of blood on my tongue. I must have bitten it. But then everything pretty much hurts to one degree or another.
“I wouldn’t have done that if I were you,” says the woman.
But the man just ignores her, stepping back beyond the light. “What does the word ‘wolf’ mean to you?”
“Wolf?” I ask.
“Answer the question.”
“I don’t…what do you mean?” I shake from more than fear, ice-cold water sliding down my skin beneath the drenched clothing. “As in the animal?”
“What else?”
“Fur? Teeth? House Stark? I don’t know.”
Laughter from the woman.
“Tell me about your fiancé,” he demands. “Everything you know about the man.”
This makes no sense to my already-addled brain. “But why? Thom hasn’t done anything. He’s an insurance assessor, for Christ’s sake. Whenever there’s a fire or a flood or something, he goes and helps people with their claims. That’s where he is right now, assessing damage from that hurricane in Florida. It was on the news and everything.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“What are you saying?” A sudden surge of fear grips me. “Thom’s okay, isn’t he? I mean, he couldn’t have been in the explosion. He’s on the other side of the country.”
“He wasn’t in the explosion, no. Tell me more about him.”
“Ah, we met in a bar downtown, been together for just over a year. He’s a hard worker. He likes watching football and going for morning runs. His favorite food is lasagna and he drinks Bud Light even though it’s trash.”
“MORE.”
“I don’t know what you want,” I cry. Never in my life have I been so scared.
“Describe him to me.”
“He’s just an average guy. Average height. Fit, but not bulky. He has brown eyes and hair. Thirty-one years old.”
“Tick-tock, tick-tock,” says the woman. “You’re running out of time.”
“Whose fucking fault is that?” hisses the man.
“Guess I gave her more sleep juice than I meant to. Oops.”
A grunt. “Keep talking, bitch.”
My head pounds. “I, um…he sleeps on the right-hand side of the bed.”
“What weapons does he keep in the house?”
“Like guns? None. I hate the things. We both do.”
Again, the woman laughs. “Not the brightest, is she?”
“Keep talking,” repeats the man.
“Thom’s a decent person. He’s nice…polite. Doesn’t do social media. Has no close family.” Nothing I’m telling them is damning or even particularly interesting. Still, I feel guilty for answering at all. But what the hell else am I supposed to do? “Is this what you want to know? I don’t understand; what’s he done? What’s he involved in?”
“Who says he’s involved in anything?”
“The fact that I’m here and you’re questioning me says something’s going on.”
“Watch it. I don’t think you appreciate how nice I’m being,” says the creep. “Things could get much worse for you very quickly. You have no idea exactly how bad things could get.”
“I don’t know what you want. Are you the ones who blew up the condo?” My heart is pounding and I can’t seem to get enough air. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Asking me questions again. Tsk tsk. You just never learn. Perhaps you’d like to try some waterboarding, hmm? Does that sound like fun?”
I choke on a sob.
“Got to say, it really messes you up. Feels just like you’re drowning. You start suffocating and water gets in your lungs, which fucking stings, let me tell you. And your sinuses feel like they’re going to explode. Eventually, Betty, you’ll lose consciousness. Then I’ll wake you back up not so gently and we’ll start all over again.” The sadistic prick laughs. “I hate to do it. But I just don’t think you’re being entirely truthful with me, you see? It’s sad, really. All of this football-and-lasagna bullshit, it’s just surface information. You must know more about the man you live with, the man you’re going to marry. You’d have to know all his secrets by now, wouldn’t you?”
I shake my head. “Thom doesn’t have any secrets.”