1
Coming out of the bathroom, Greta stopped right away when she saw the man sitting by the table for two. He held a brown paper envelope, tossing it from one hand to the other like a juggler. Each time the rough paper hit one of his palms, a dry slap broke the room's silence.
He interrupted the exercise as soon as he saw her arrive. You could still hear the light rustling of the envelope being passed through the fingers of the hand now resting on the man's knee. He remained motionless, waiting for her to say something. When that didn't happen, he started the conversation himself.
"I wanted a little company until the meat finishes roasting," the stranger said casually.
Greta didn't believe that for a second, but kept her expression neutral. She lifted the chain and held it in her hand to facilitate the journey to the bed, where she sat facing the visitor. The kidnapper seemed more relaxed now. He'd shaved, which explained the scent of men's lotion she'd detected earlier.
"I think it's about time for a proper introduction, right?" he continued, adding soon after: "My name is Daros. And yours?"
Time to think was short. The image of her neighbor psychologist was the first that came to mind. She was a friendly, balanced figure. She inspired trust effortlessly. It would be perfect if she could reproduce that now.
"Vivian," she replied, trying to sound natural.
He tilted his head slightly, as if paying attention to some sound that Greta was incapable of capturing. It didn't take long for him to resume his previous nonchalant posture. He threw the envelope up with his right hand and caught it with the same hand when it fell. Then he stared at her, resuming the conversation.
"I see. And what do you do for a living, Vivian?"
"I'm a psychologist." The lie slid out naturally. Remembering some conversations with the real Vivian, she added: "I'm doing a graduate degree in cognitive behavioral therapy."
"Oh, really?" He rested his hand on his knee, crumpling the brown paper slightly.
The plan to win his trust was still on. But Greta's palms were damp, her heart thundering in her chest, as if her own body doubted the strategy. The more real details she could use to reinforce the lie, the more convincing it would be. So she nodded.
"Wow. That's very interesting. Really," it might be her imagination, but the man's voice didn't reflect any of his so-called excitement. "Congratulations. But now I need to get your lunch."
He stood up and walked toward the hallway calmly. She let a sigh escape slowly, the tension dissipating gradually. Things hadn't gone as badly as she'd imagined.
At the door, Daros stopped and turned to her, his face equally devoid of any trace of animation.
"Very well, Greta Salles Galvani." His voice had lost any vestige of warmth. "English literature professor at the Catholic University of Porto Alegre. Do you have any dietary restrictions?"
Greta felt her jaw contracting, crushing the words before they reached the world. Assuming he wouldn't get an answer, Daros continued:
"Here is the thing: keep lying is bad for you, but it makes no difference to me whatsoever."
She felt her face burn.
"I don't eat meat," she murmured.
"Are you vegan?"
"No... just... vegetarian."
"Great. We're starting to understand each other." He looked at her with curiosity for a moment, as if assessing an exotic animal caught in a trap. Then he tossed the brown rectangle beside her on the bed.
Her hand trembled when Greta opened the envelope. Her wallet was inside. She reached in and pulled out the contents, knowing exactly what she'd find there: her ID and university badge. She'd been an idiot. A fucking idiot. She thought she was facing an inflated ego, maybe an easy-to-deceive narcissist. But the man wasn't vain: he was methodical. And he knew everything he needed to know about her.
2
Daros returned to the room shortly after. He barely looked at the woman on the bed when he placed a plate on the table, lifting the furniture effortlessly to bring it closer to the bed. The aroma that spread reminded the prisoner of the days when she'd arrive from excursions to the beach and lunch was served.
"I brought food. You can eat whenever you want," he informed her, already moving away.
Greta didn't even wait for the man to leave before moving. The hunger was overwhelming, and the smell was tempting. The plate was large, made of firm plastic. With the plastic spoon beside it, she carefully scraped the fat from the meat to clean the potatoes. The broccoli, rice, and salad were divine. He'd included a cheese omelet too.
As she devoured the meal, her thoughts wandered. He was an intriguing figure. Violent and cold, yes, but... She couldn't find the right word. It was like trying to describe a weird color that hadn't existed until moments before.
The fact that he knew something about alternative diets and dietary restrictions made him a difficult criminal to categorize. She remembered the time she'd gone into a bakery and asked what the meatless snack options were, and the attendant replied that they had a hot dog. Not to mention the people who, upon hearing she didn't eat meat, asked the classic question "Not even fish?"
Criminals were beings of primitive instincts by nature. For the most part, they acted on impulse, out of desperation, out of brutality. And he... Well, he seemed to operate by a different logic. But he was a criminal nonetheless. He'd killed at least one person at the station, had attacked the attendant, and was most certainly a kidnapper. After all, she was there, wasn't she?
The plate was soon empty. The sight was frustrating. She looked away from the table for the first time, noticing he'd left the door open.
"Daros?" she called, testing the name aloud for the first time. That is, if that was his real name. She'd lied about her own name. He had twice the reason to lie about his.
She heard footsteps in the hallway. He stopped at the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest, not at all surprised the door was open. That meant it hadn't been left that way by accident.
"Shoot."
"I was thinking... Could I... Well, can I have some more?"
He reflected for a moment. Then, without any emotion in his voice, he replied:
"No problem."
He returned minutes later with another generous portion and a bottle of water. Plastic, naturally.
3
Only after being satiated did Greta realize that hunger had dulled her reasoning ability. He could have put a sedative in the food. But he hadn't. The drowsiness she felt was typical of times when she ate too much. Now, with a full stomach and able to walk around the room a bit, her mind was clearer. The door left open intrigued her. If it was a test, she was determined to pass.
Daros appeared in the room at irregular intervals throughout the day. He'd enter without saying anything, barely directing his gaze at her. He brought meals and, while she ate, he inspected the bathroom. He might be looking for signs of escape attempts. Either way, on one occasion he took the trash away.
His silence disturbed her. At first, she thought it was punishment for her lies about being Vivian, the psychologist. But maybe there was more to it. He could be bipolar, the voices in his head dictating the next personality to be in charge. Finally, she didn't rule out the possibility that it was a method of psychological torture, in order to make her even more distressed.
"If that's it," she said softly, "it's working. I'm already talking to myself."
The cramp started as discomfort resulting from immoderate eating, but soon transformed into a sharp, familiar stab. A thin, invisible blade pierced her belly, making her body curl over her stomach. Greta squeezed her eyes shut, her hand instinctively resting on her abdomen. Perfect, she thought with disgust. Her menstrual cycle had chosen the worst possible moment to arrive.
Near nightfall, Daros appeared again. This time, his eyes sought hers.
"I'm going out for a bit," he announced. "Do you need anything?"
"Yes," she hesitated, choosing neutral words, "I'm going into those days."
He frowned.
"What days?"
"I'm going to menstruate," she clarified, feeling her face heat up. He must be pleased to force her to say that out loud. If that was the case, he was doing an excellent job of disguising it.
"Oh," the sudden understanding illuminated his face. "And what do you need for that?"
"Overnight pads, the ones with wings. And with a dry cover. They're for heavy flow."
His expression suggested all that information sounded like Greek to him, but he nodded anyway.
"Anything else?"
"No."
"Right."
She thought for a moment.
"Wait! I want cigarettes."
"Which one?"
"Doesn't matter, I quit smoking. It's just that... I've been nervous."
"Right."
He didn't say goodbye. The dry click of the key was an answer she didn't want to hear. Whatever the test was, it was clear she'd failed. Greta threw herself on the bed and squeezed her eyelids tight.