I hold my cup of orange juice like it's a half-empty beer, the rim carelessly suspended by the tips of my fingers, as I stand. Directly in front of me, high on the bleached white wall, hangs a rectangle of predictable pastel colors– red, yellow, and blue. And there I am: ripped blue jeans, scuffed yellow sneakers, faded purple tank, orange juice sticky on my skin.

"Don't judge me," I mutter to the painting. 

The ‘interrogation’ had not gone well for me. If this were a sport, then I am down 0 to 12. Not a single one of my questions had landed. Unfair. I mean, sure, I had clarified the guy didn't care for my death, but… 

I 

deserve 

to 

know.

I swirl the glass. Fingers slip. I wince when fragments skitter away like bugs. 

"Oops." My voice is drowned in the large space. 

I stare at the mess, wondering which way will take me to some clearing supplies. I mean…I’m not that ungrateful. A quiet whirring sound kicks in from somewhere behind me. A small red robot rolls in, its sensors blinking, and begins sucking up the pieces with efficiency.

“Oh ya. He’s rich. I should be asking where the robot butler is. Hmmm. ‘Hey House’.” I await the response of an AI voice. Get nothing but my echo. “Boring. Just do whatever, Janie. Ok. Not like this is a murder’er’ house. Welp…we…I normally watch some crap on the screen, and I did see…”

There. Beside that fake? plant was a plush backrest. I let myself through the doorway to lean my forearms on the couch’s backrest. What I had perceived as a tiny barricade near the window glitches up a projected screen, advertisements rolling across. Wait? No ad-free plan. 

I turn to the high wooden table surrounded by circular tall stools. A polished stick is sitting across the flat top. I move closer and pick up a pool cue. Not just a table then. I pull up the loose top covering the game table. No balls. “Ya, that makes sense. It’s messily filled with DVDs, mostly police shows, documentaries, and Dexter the one about the serial killer. I pluck one out.    

With it in my hand, I cruise out of the room and up the glass steps in the direction he had gone earlier. I find him sitting at a computer in a dark bedroom. The screen flickers with time-stamped security camera footage of my favorite hot dog stand. Should I be worried?  

"Why do you have these?" I question, giving the box a gentle shake. 

“Have what?” he keeps flipping footage without glancing back. 

“Dexter. DVDs. And staff.” 

"Oh, those. They give me ideas of where to dump the bodies."

“Seriously?”

“No. That’s what AI is for, dummy.” 

“Can I go home now?”

“Just as soon as I figure out who wanted you dead. Preferably, why.” 

“Well your house is empty and creepy.”

“Have a seat there then. I’ll let you play your phone games. And give me that case before you break it?”

I pass it off to him and nestle down against the wall next to his computer. The familiar little screen of my wrist phone pops up with an indication that a new network has been connected. I tap a mindless game and play for a few minutes. But when I look up I realize more time must have passed. The room is completely dark aside from a blue dot at the bottom of his inactive screen and the dull glow of the hologram from my wrist phone.  

My captor, his head cradled atop his arms resting on the desk, is asleep. In the dim light I can see scar tissue on the back of his neck.

I look to the open doorway. 

I open up my message app. No new messages have arrived. I click on Donnie and begin to type. Hit send. 

An old phone on his table beeps. I sigh in understanding and power down my wrist phone. It’s dark, unfamiliar, yet nice not being completely alone. A soft hum of mechanics permeates the air. I huddle against the wall, arms wrapped around my legs. I glance at his empty bed. After a moment, I crawl closer and pull the grey duvet down to the floor. Wrapping myself in the makeshift sleeping bag, like a folded tortilla, I feel warmth settling into my bones.  

The last thing I remember is the sudden absence of noise as the air system shuts off. 

*

It’s a dream. I’m standing at the window in my kidnapper's house, the same place he would have stood that morning when he unlocked the car. 

It’s nighttime. Highlighted by a patchwork of window light and passing headlights is a burly man in a brown leather jacket. Bernard. A cop. My adoptive father. Someone I had become quite familiar with. He is holding a small slip of paper and looking at it. 

He must be here to find me. He must have found out about the drugs. Found out I was taken. 

I rush down the glass steps. I throw the front door open to emptiness. 

Instead, I stand just inside a bus stop. My mother has just left, promising to come back. She had gone into that shop just across the street. I just have to wait. I… (I’m sorry.)

I’m alone. 

I realize maybe two hours after, she is gone. Cars rush by on the street. Snow falls around me, sealing the world in a deceptive calm.

On the bus stop bench was something white. Barnard’s paper, my mind tells me. But I blink, and a rectangle of white- a card- rests there. The one that led my kidnapper to find me. I pick it up. Feel oddly relieved. At least…it would be a little less lonely.