Wild and Free (The Three #3)(4)

It was not small, not large. It had cement floors. Down one wall, in the far corner, I could see a shower cordoned off by glass block. No shower curtain. Next to that, a swaybacked, claw-foot tub, which, if I wasn’t in my current circumstances, I would have thought was pretty cool. On either side of that, against the wall, narrow wire shelves holding towels and toiletries, not many of either, most of the shelves bare. A sink next to that, exposed piping under it, a utilitarian medicine cabinet over it. Next to that, glass block walls on both sides of a toilet. No door. No privacy. He either lived alone or his company didn’t mind sharing a variety of intimacies.

I turned and saw stacked milk crates lining another wall, most of them with the openings pointed out, the top ones with the openings facing the ceiling. Jeans, sweaters, tees, boots, running shoes, Henleys, thermals, all stuffed into the ones on their sides, a passing try at folding them—a poor passing try. Belts, socks, underwear shoved into the ones on top.

I looked across the way and saw a small kitchenette against the wall opposite the bathroom area. Not much counter space and what there was was taken up with a coffeemaker, a toaster, a microwave, and a dish drainer. Clean dishes in the drainer. Shelves over the sink with food and a variety of mismatched tableware. An old, bulbous-fronted, white fridge to one side, a narrow stove to the other.

Beyond that, two wooden hutches, their front door handles linked with chain and locked with padlocks. Secrets behind those doors, and in my current situation, I wasn’t a big fan of secrets.

On the opposite wall to the milk crates, the bed I was on, shoved against the wall. Iron. Old. Unattractive. Though, the mattresses were good. The sheets light blue. The comforter rust colored. Lots of pillows. A standing lamp at the headboard, a nightstand beside it.

By the kitchenette, an ugly, old, round metal table with three chairs, none of them matching.

Rounding this out, a comfortable-looking-but-nevertheless-ratty armchair, a small round table beside it, a standing lamp next to the table, and sitting dead center in the room, the lamp’s plug attached to an extension cord that snaked to the wall. A trip hazard if there ever was one.

But whatever. I wasn’t going to be around long enough to trip.

I scanned the space and noted there were no rock concert posters on the walls. No calendars depicting Camaros or scantily clad babes draped over Porsches. No racks filled with weapons. No insane manifestos written in precise, tiny handwriting on every inch of wall. All of this how I would guess that guy would decorate.

There also weren’t any books. No stereo. No CDs. Not even a TV.

But there were two long, narrow garden-level windows, bars on the inside, blacked out.

If I was correct, these windows faced the street.

It was late; it had to be after one in the morning.

But I had to try.

I ran to the kitchenette, heaved myself up to my knees on the counter, and reached to the window.

I tried to find a latch to open it, but there wasn’t one. I looked to the other and saw it didn’t have one either.

Foiled again!

Not giving up, I commenced pounding on it and shouting, “Help! Help! I’m held captive in here! Basement room off the alley under the Dumpster! If you can hear me, please help me! Call the police! My name is Delilah Johnson! Help me! Please!”

I kept pounding and shouting and heard nothing. I did this for a while, until my voice started to get scratchy and my hand began to hurt.

I kept doing it until I heard the door behind me start to scrape open.

I stopped pounding and shouting, jumped from the countertop, and frantically searched around me. I pulled open a drawer in one of the two cabinets on either side of the sink and grabbed a steak knife.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

I whirled toward the door and froze when I saw who was walking in.

A petite, elderly Chinese lady and, with her, a very not elderly, not petite, very good-looking Chinese guy.

The woman came to a halt four feet in. The guy closed the door and moved in, looking around.

Then he muttered, “Jeez, what is it with Abel? This place looks like a safe house for terrorists.”

I couldn’t agree more.

“And would it kill him to put a door on the toilet?” he carried on.

“Chen, quiet,” the woman admonished.

He shut his mouth, stopped staring at the toilet area with amused disgust, and turned his gaze to me. His eyes dropped to the knife I held out in front of me. He grinned, settled in, and crossed his arms on his chest.

The woman took a step forward and I kept the knife where it was but moved it toward her an inch.

She stopped.

“I’m Jian-Li, niece, sister, mother to Abel,” she announced bizarrely, then motioned to the guy behind her. “And this is my son, Chen, nephew, then brother to Abel.”

Well wasn’t that just brilliant? I had hoped with the Chinese guy’s opening remarks that these two were sane and might help me escape.

But from her introductions, which made no sense, I was thinking not.

“And you are…?” she prompted.

“Wanting to leave,” I replied. “Like, right now.”

She tipped her head to the side and her lips curved up in a soft smile. “Abel came to us and shared you were distressed about this evening’s events. He’s asked me to come down and explain a few things to you, thinking perhaps you might find me a little less…imposing.”