Author's Note: I just wanted to apologize for the major delay. It was my best intention to finish this story in December but I got bombarded in all directions of life and something had to give. Unfortunately, it was this story. I hope to write a chapter a week going forward again but please forgive me if I don't. I am trying to write the best story I can but the words don't always come easy to me. Thank you for all of your support! Enjoy!


NANCY

It was the windows that made me drop my phone. I had been expecting a great many things. Horrific violence, blood, gore, all the trappings of a creepy hospital after dark, but what I was not expecting was a nice apartment with floor to ceiling windows. I felt my headphones pop from my ears as I approached the window, my headlamp reflecting back at me slightly in the darkened room. I placed my hand on the glass and knew the trick.

While not burning hot it was warm, unlike every other window in Boston currently. It had to be LED panels. My stomach clenched as I thought of the trapped Lynch son, sure he wasn't a good person but at least in real prison you get to see daylight and smell the fresh air. He'd been trapped underground looking out frosted windows into LED lights for months, definitely a punishment that would fall under cruel and unusual, despite the cushy trappings.

Slowly I began to turn around to get a better view of the aforementioned cushy trappings when cold metal smacked across my forehead. I screamed, partially from pain, partially from shock. I felt the band clamping the headlamp to my forehead loosen and saw it fly across the room carried by the force of the hit. My trusty headlamp cracked menacingly against the wall and I felt my scream die in my throat as I realized I was not alone, the hard metal barrel poking into my side was a clear indicator of that.

"Who the fuck are you," rasped a voice, with an overly thick Bostonian accent.

I froze and the voice jabbed at me again, "Hurry up buddy," he growled, "if I fire, this bullet is going straight through your large intestine. You'll die before they can get you to a hospital."

I couldn't help but giggle. This guy obviously didn't know where he was since we were already in a hospital.

"You laughin' at me, sister," the husky voice barked, his accent becoming more Irish-Boston as he got angrier.

"No," I choked, attempting to swallow my nervous laughter, "It's just that we are already in a hospital."

I felt the barrel leave my side, creaking slightly. My breath fogged the 'window' and I turned, trying to see my attacker.

"I don't think so," mumbled the man, his voice thoughtful rather than angry now as he pushed the barrel back into my side.

"So I'm guessing you're Rick Lynch," I breathed, squinting out the sides of my peripheral vision, attempting to see the man.

It was the man's turn to laugh, but it was a humourless laugh, "That's right love. Patrick Adian Lynch. Born June 7th, 1991. Age 28. All around ne'er-do-well and scum of the earth." He paused, jamming the metal deeper into my side, causing the barrel to creak again, "I'm also a murderer," he growled, "so keep that in mind when I ask the question: What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing. Here?" He jabbed the barrel into me with each word.

"You sent me a message," I answered simply. That was always the key with interrogation, let them think they're asking the questions but also let them provide all the answers.

"Oh, I highly doubt that," he mused sarcastically, "I've only sent messages to one person the past little while and they definitely didn't have your build."

"Okay then," I sighed exaggeratedly, "why do you think I am here?"

"Have you come to kill me?"

Shock radiated through my body, "What? No!" I spluttered, "Have you come to die?"

There was a brief pause as if Rick was thinking hard, "people can do worse things than kill you," he answered cryptically.

"How so," I asked, both stalling for time while I thought and genuinely curious.

"Oh sweetheart," sighed the wayward son, "don't ever try to get inside my head. It's too dark in there for you."

"You'd be surprised, sweetheart," I sneered, tossing his patriarchal language back at him.

"My father has me trapped here. Refuses to let me leave. There aren't even any locks on the inside of the door," I felt my stomach drop. No locks and no windows meant no exit. "I've tried to get out but I can't," he moaned, sounding pained. "I'm done trying to save myself. So if you're offering death, I'll take it. At least in death I have freedom."

I felt the pressure leave my side and attempted again to look at Rick Lynch, the prisoner, but the metal jammed hard again into my side.

"Ouch," I yelped, a small flame of annoyance being blown into a raging inferno of anger, "By all means please point your 'gun' at me if it helps you relax, but can you answer me one question?" I snarled, done with this poser.

The voice that answered back was thick with rage, sounding more Irish than Bostonian, "Why the fuck aren't you scared of me?" He barked and I felt spit hit the side of my face and neck.

I rolled my eyes to the LED screen pretending to be a window and answered the idiotic playboy pretending to be a victim, "Oh please, I've had nightmares of Physics exams that are scarier than you."

The barrel dug deeper into my side, "Don't give me attitude darling, I've already got one of my own."

"So I see," I responded sardonically. "A bad one. It goes so well with the stupid ideas."

"Hey, I'm not the one that entered into an unknown place without a weapon or an exfil strategy."

"And I'm not the one holding a crutch to a person pretending it's a gun," I said, spinning quickly pulling the metal crutch that Rick had been trying to convince me was a gun.

The large figure cloaked in darkness stumbled and fell face first in front of me. Quickly I scrambled onto his back. Being sure to keep one knee firmly on his spine I grabbed his arms and pinned them against his back. His greasy jaw-length hair began to move too and fro as he attempted to escape, but I held tightly. Then the movement stopped and a loud groan escaped from underneath me.

"How the hell did you know," came his muffled voice.

Despite the circumstances, I felt a little pride, "One," I responded smugly, "the barrel creaked every time you moved it. Real guns don't do that. Two, why wouldn't you have used the gun to escape. And three," I smiled or grimaced to myself, "If you think this is the first time I've had a gun pointed at me you'd be in for a big surprise." I breathed deeply, before remembering, "Oh and four, I used this same trick to escape an abandoned hospital in Kansas once."

Beneath me, the man stopped struggling and I felt my pulse quicken. I tightened my grip in case he was pretending to be blacked out so he'd be able to escape easier.

"Nancy?" Came a confused groan, devoid of Boston accent completely. And my heart stopped. I needed to move but I couldn't. When the gun had been pointed at me I had been filled with calm, even a certain amount of relief, but when the man beneath me had groaned my name I was brought into a world of nightmares. I was back to that hot and sweaty night in April, clothes being torn off with reckless abandon. He'd groaned my name then too. But it couldn't be. It just couldn't. This was Rick Lynch, King of the scumbags, not ...not… not him.