Free Capture (Siren Book 1) by Katie de Long

something like this as a lesson or an example. No one's started any pissing matches with me, though, and if it's something Mom did...
    Lucy. Who knows how the fuck many toes she stepped on, while Mom looked the other way? Who knows what the fuck she wanted me to keep my nose out of. Could she do this?
    No. She's an administrator; she'd have to have help. No way in hell she'd think of something this bizarre. And no matter what, Mom never would have broken Dad's adage that you don't shit where you sleep. Everyone else can speak on your behalf, so long as you put the words in their mouth.
    It's gotta be a message. The only question is to whom it's addressed. If it's a negotiation tactic, an attempt to scare me, someone'll be along shortly to let me know the terms of my release. If it's directed at others , to punish me, I'm fucked. Who knows when the hell they'll be along to retrieve my body, or hasten my demise along?
    I can't make myself believe it's a punishment; I'll be damned if I know what I've done to be punished for.
    The thoughts make it easier to keep the fear at bay. So long as I'm soul-searching for any detail that might help me prepare myself, I'm not wallowing in the probability that none of it will do any damn good.
    I've gotta get out of here. My feet slide in loosely laced shoes, not properly tied, and I nearly go flying. The light catches on a round wheel, the locking mechanism for a door, and I hurry over to test my weight on it. It won't budge, but I don't let that prevent me from trying, again. The world spins around me, disorienting me far more than any hangover has a right to.
    Only when my arms are weak with the strain do I let myself lie back on that cool grate. It's not exactly a bed, but just being supine helps stop the world from spinning.
     
    *              *              *
     
    There's no sun filtering through, only one dim bare-bulb light. I have no sense of time. My belly grumbles loudly, and that's the only thing that tells me I've been here for hours, at the very least. I ran out of names, cliff notes, trying to figure out who put me here. After going over them several more times to be sure I hadn't forgotten anyone, the production's lost its luster.
    Instead, all I can do is try to focus on happier times.
    Few are coming to mind. It's surprising how fast the good times fly out of your head when you're surrounded in decay. My breath catches in my throat, and I have to fight back the urge to retch; if I do, it's staying with me for the foreseeable future. Adding that to the reek is the last thing I need. The air's almost thick enough to taste; I can't remember the last time I smelled something so foul.
    Unfortunately, just the thought of it pushes me over the edge. I manage to heave myself onto my side before the retches hit full force. Bile and the remains of a lot of liquor burn in my nose and throat. Shit .
    Just when I thought things couldn't get worse.
    At least now I know something . There was enough booze in my stomach to explain the hangover. One mystery down, I guess.
    I'll take what victories I can get.

Twelve
    Calder
     
    As my stomach's burbling intensifies, I push the nausea aside to try to explore. There has to be a way out of here. Finally, there's nothing left but to try to climb down, see if I'm missing something below the grating. Water seeps into the knees of my pants, cold, brackish, unpleasant. But it's something different , so I'll take what I can get.
    I flatten my palms along the bottom, feeling for a grate, or a drain, or something . Something knocks away from my hand, and I grab for it desperately. I hold it up to the light, turning it until I can put together what it is.
    A tie clip. An expensive one, in almost mint condition. No rust, or oxidation, no dirt crusted to it.
    It can't have been here long.
    I can't think of what happened to its original owner. Not knowing it's probably gonna happen to me next.
    I redouble my efforts, exploring the