Reid My Mind

33. Day Three

99 - ginger taylor

When I woke up I took a mental inventory of the information I had.

Day 1. That's when he took me. When I woke up it was probably the evening. Then I slept on and off through the night.

Day 2. The unsub came in the morning. Then in the evening, judging by light from outside I could see when he opened the door. The same yellow light, so far away but so comforting. He had brought me water and food.

The team must have known I was gone by then if they hadn't realized it before.

Day 3. That was today.

I knew where I'd seen the unsub before, but I didn't know who he was or what he wanted. Great. Clearly, he received immense satisfaction from seeing me helpless, bound, and shivering. He would always talk to me in curt sentences, trying to get me to admit fear. He hadn't hurt me yet, physically at least; he was saving it for the fifth and final night.

But that didn't matter. I wasn't the helpless maiden he held me for. I had my phone. Garcia could triangulate it and there would a SWAT team here in ten minutes. I'd never see the fifth night.

I had that assurance. Despite myself, however, I couldn't help but think about how scared Eliza must have been in my place. She was a sweetheart. She never deserved anything bad, yet a week ago she was in the same chair I sat in now. No one even knew she was gone. That's what he'd said. I should have known.

He was there soon after I woke up.

"Hey, Pizza Guy," I called when he stepped in. He flinched.

"I'm not a pizza guy," he replied darkly. I couldn't tell if I had thrown him by remembering where I saw him or if he was just too proud to accept his moniker.

"Okay, Guy Who Deliver Pizza," I corrected.

"Shut up," he growled. Jeez, enough with the growling already.

"Well, what am I supposed to call you?"

"Sir."

I laughed. Oops. Laughing at a sadistic narcissist was generally not a great idea. My point was proved when he walked up to me and wrapped his hand around my throat. My lungs were a ballon pinched off at the neck by his dirty hand. No air escaped nor entered for a moment until I realized that it was only shock freezing me. He wasn't pushing hard enough to suffocate me. That wasn't his M.O. It was just the exertion of power.

"I... have... a question," I eked out. He let go. I was sent into a coughing fit, almost more by the sudden influx of air than the momentary lack thereof.

"Spit it out, bitch." His hair looked dirty. Greasy.

"Why do you make your voice lower?"

"What?" I must have caught him off guard because his voice jumped up an octave.

"Does it make you feel more masculine? Are you self-conscious or something?" I couldn't help myself. Something about sitting in an empty room alone for three days made me unable to bite my tongue.

He hit me. His fist collided with my cheekbone, which bloomed with pain that stung red hot. I just watched him. What a coward.

"I'll be back," he muttered, voice low again. I spit blood on the floor.

He was back, as he promised. My veins were coursing with adrenaline. As long as my phone was still alive, so was my future. My food was the same as yesterday, but I was hardly in the mood to complain. This would be my last night in this dank, cold chamber of doom. I ate fast.

I was lugged once again into the warmth, feeling almost euphoric, a weird feeling to experience while slung over the shoulder of a murderer. I had a sense of hope that Eliza probably never had.

He deposited me back on the floor outside of the bathroom, untied me, and shoved me inside just as he had the day before. Trying not to reveal my urgency, I stayed perfectly still until the door shut behind me. Then I rushed to the cabinet under the sink and felt for my phone amongst the rusted pipes. A gigantic cockroach skittered away and I pulled my hand back as if from a fire. In the process, I managed to hit my elbow against the side of the cabinet. I breathed in slowly, trying to keep perfectly quiet as a tingling sensation flooded my arm. Alright, there was the bad luck out of the way. I tossed up a quick prayer that the cockroach, which had slipped into apparent oblivion, was the last of my surprise company. Then, I delved once again between the pipes.

There it was. I slipped my fingers around my phone and pulled it out, feeling as though I was navigating between laser beams.

Moment of truth. I clicked the button on. The screen shone on command. Fifteen percent.

Reid. That's who I called. Not Garcia. Not 911.

At least, that who I tried to call. I clicked the button to call and for a shining moment, my phone feigned a call before giving up. No bars.

For an FBI agent, I was getting stupider by the moment. They should revoke my badge, I thought. I wonder if they did that posthumously. I hadn't even contemplated the idea that they would be no service in this hellhole. Reid would be so disappointed. I stared at my phone, clicking "Call" over and over just to be rejected every time.

Duh. If I was connected to anything, Garcia would have traced my phone already. I'd be at home sipping hot chocolate instead of flinching at mammoth cockroaches.

"Hurry up," barked a now-familiar voice. Back went the phone. It would probably be dead by the time I was back.

As the unsub carried me back I was met with a second devastating realization. From the bathroom back to the main room where I was held, the man's footsteps fell on hard floor. There was never the crunch of a leaf or a twig. I could only hear the dull impact of a shoe on tile or hardwood floor. I was never outside.

That meant the warm sunlight I used to judge the time was just a light. All that shit about the different days I had tried to figure out in the morning could be wrong. I didn't know what time it was. I didn't know what day it was. Tomorrow could be my last.