“Today, we’ve got special guests on to talk about the scourge of addiction and how they are used not only by criminals and the elite, but also as a means to control victims of sex trafficking. Drug use may seem like a habit only hurting those who use them, but it also hurts everyone around them. Not only that, our experts have framed it another way: Self-murder."
It’s almost like I planned the murder to coincide with the episode…Really, it’s the other way around.
Chapter seven
Ethan
Beforeleavinginthemorning, MacKenzie makes sure I know he can see me on multiple cameras. Not that I can leave the bed, but he also shows me the texts to his cleaner telling her to stay clear of the guest house. I don’t think anyone is even close enough to the property for me to yell.
Wrong place, wrong time doesn’t begin to cover how stupid I feel for hitting on a man who ended up murdering some rich bigwig in front of me. Checking the news on the big screen TV, I find out the man was notorious for abusing women and children, so at least he killed a bad guy.
But then the Fat Cat Killer always takes out people who are objectively trash humans. I followed his crimes for a reason, and cheered when they couldn’t find a culprit. Hell, even Owen MacKenzie’s show touched on the topic.
And how brazen is that? The man committing the murders reporting on them in such a detached way I have to wonder if he’s a psychopath. Who am I kidding? He’s definitely a psychopath.
Within an hour of leaving me alone, I get antsy. I’ve eaten most of the food, and don’t want to drink too much water without access to the bathroom. Switching to a telenovela for background music to remind me of times before my asshole father, I find myself drifting off to sleep.
My mind conjures up stories where I’m in the show with MacKenzie as the dark, brooding man I shouldn’t want. Not far off the truth, so I can feel myself close to being awake. He calls me ‘pet’ and I like it. I can’t help my body wanting more sexy times as his pet.
Then, of course, my brain betrays me and it switches to the times my dad locked me in a room while he had guests. I sometimes went more than a day without getting fed. I had water, from the attached bathroom, but there were bars on the window and a sturdy lock on the other side of my door. I learned how to be alone, but it doesn’t mean I like it.
At least MacKenzie gave me food and promised to be back in a few hours. I’ll see if he keeps his promises soon, or I really will wet his bed. Punishment be damned, he needs to learn he can’t ignore me. I hate being ignored.
The mental image of getting his attention in the form of a spanking across his lap is interrupted by the sound of a door closing. I jolt upright, grabbing for the blanket until I realize I don’t care if MacKenzie sees me naked. He’s already seen and felt up all of me. I spread my legs to give him a good eyeful, hopeful he hasn’t returned and decided he’s done with me.
The person who pushes open the bedroom door is not Owen MacKenzie.
A curvy black woman with colorful braids gathered in a bun at the top of her head and thick glasses enters the room and I screech, rushing to cover myself.
“Who the hell are you?” I ask, when I should probably be asking her to set me free.
She doesn’t avert her eyes or look surprised to see me though. “Hola, Ethan! I’m Di.”
“What?” I yell, my mind slowly catching up that she didn’t tell me I’m going to die, but her name. I saw the contact name ‘Di’ with a skull and crossbones pop up on MacKenzie’s phone that morning when he was showing me the texts to the cleaner, so I guess this is her. “How do you know my name?”
Di smirks and moves into the room, closing the door behind her. She leans against the wall, and I notice a plastic container in her hands. “Your name is only the beginning of what I know about you.”
Taking in her melodic accent and flowery dress, I’m at a loss for how she’s connected to MacKenzie. She sounds Dominican or Puerto Rican, but could also be Cuban like me. My accent is long gone. Beaten out of me by my father, but I don’t trust her from the familiarity alone.
“For instance, I know you were cut off by your father after being kicked out of culinary school.”
“That’s creepy, you know that, right?”
She shrugs and moves closer, still keeping her distance. Di sets the dish on the side table and adjusts her glasses. “Creepier than being naked with a serial killer?”
“I–” she has me there. “What would you do if you found yourself kidnapped and needed to survive?”
“I know exactly what I’d do.” Di sighs and smiles without humor. “What I needed to survive.”
The implication of her words hits me. She’s been kidnapped before. “Was it MacKenzie?”
She barks out a laugh. “Mac? That man rescued me and helped me find purpose again.”
“Oh,” I let out the breath I hadn’t known I'd been holding. Somehow, the knowledge he is a killer but not normally a kidnapper eases my worry. I also like her nickname. Mac suits him. “So then, how…?”
Di doesn’t answer right away, pulling the lid off her food container and pushing it towards me with a fork before sitting in the armchair between the bed and the door.
“Eat up. It's the mofongo I made last night when I couldn’t sleep.”