“I’m not crazy,” he says.
Funny, I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours trying to convince myself that this was all just an alcohol-induced delusion, and the first thing out of his mouth is he’s not crazy.
One of us has to be sane. And since I’m not the one with a dead body in my trunk, I’ll take the bait.
“Am I your prisoner now?”
“I’m sorry.” He rubs his thumbs against the raw skin of my wrists underneath the handcuffs. “I had to be sure you weren’t like them.”
“Like the woman you killed?”
He nods. “There are more.”
Today’s tag is “prisoner.”
Stay tuned for “Q” tomorrow!