In The Dark

IN THE DARK BLAKE LARSEN BOOK 1 JACK SLATER Copyright © 2023 by Jack Slater All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Created with Vellum CONTENTS PrologueChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33Chapter 34Chapter 35Chapter 36Chapter 37Chapter 38Chapter 39Chapter 40Chapter 41Chapter 42Chapter 43Chapter 44EpilogueFor All the Latest NewsAuthor’s NoteAlso by Jack Slater PROLOGUE Her eyes snapped open as, in an instant, she jerked from a restless sleep into sudden, terrifying wakefulness. A moan escaped her cracked lips. Dark. Why did it have to be so dark? Her eyes scanned the vast, empty space searching for any faint chink of light. But there was nothing, only the gray fuzz generated by her brain as it searched for signal in the noise, like static on an old television screen. The tiny pinpricks of light never stayed in one place long enough for her pupils to focus on them. Where am I? Her bladder now sounded its discomfort, and an acrid scent indicated she’d already relieved herself at least once while she was out. Shame flushed onto her cheeks in the darkness. “Hello…” she whispered, her tone low and halting, as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to be heard at all—and yet unable to stop herself. “Is anyone out there?” There was no response. No sound. Just endless static. How long would they leave her down here, alone in the darkness? And her pain grew. Her thirst deepened. Her hunger became relentless, a manic demon in the pit of her stomach, cutting and tearing and slashing its way to the surface. She started to weep. In her heart of hearts, she knew she deserved this. Not for running away from home as a kid; she’d done that merely to survive. And not for any of the things she’d done since. But for him. He’d been nothing but kind to her. Tried to help. And now he was dead. As she wept, hot tears streaking down her bruised cheeks, the salt stinging in the cuts and scrapes, an image of him filled her mind. Smiling. Concerned. He’d never treated her as different, never showed the slightest flicker of disgust when she broke down and told him the things she had done and the things that had been done to her. He’d been happy to talk. Concerned. Gone. The tears stopped flowing, leaving in their place only an absence where her heart was supposed to be. She had nothing left to give. No control over her own fate. She knew she was going to die, and fear of that outcome no longer even really troubled her. It would be a blessed release from the pain and the guilt and— She heard a metallic scrape and froze. He’s coming. Her greatest fear was no longer of being alone. It was of what he would do to her. His leering, twisted face crowbarred its way into her mind, leaving no room for the kindness of the man she’d failed. Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy thumps. He was muscular, tall, and the sound of his boots on the wooden stairwell reminded the woman of the crack of an axe. He was drawing closer. How many steps was it, a dozen? She tried to remember, tried to lock that piece of information into her mind in case it might somehow allow her to escape this hellhole, but the fear seized her and pushed those thoughts aside. He reached the bottommost step and paused. There was the jingle of a keychain as he pocketed it, a slight, coarse cough. Then one final, heavy step. He stood there for a while, perhaps a full minute, doing nothing but breathing heavily. Tears coursed from her eyes as her fear grew with every second he lingered. He was the monster under the bed. But he was real. Please, just kill me. Get it over with. A click echoed throughout the basement. Light, absent for who knew how many hours or days, filled the space. The woman let out a scream that she barely heard as the brightness of the bare bulb overhead seared into her wide pupils with all the force of a star going supernova. “Please…” she screamed, tearing her throat from the intensity of her plea. “Turn it off. It hurts!” “What did I tell you, bitch?” She didn’t know. She was terrified, weak from lack of food and water, her body covered in bruises and scrapes and open wounds. And then it struck her. “I’m sorry, sir. Please, just turn off the light. It’s burning my eyes.” “Better,” his voice grated in reply. “You haven’t forgotten your manners completely. That’s good.” “Please…” she repeated, her voice growing more and more quiet as the realization built that he would do nothing to help her. “Open your eyes,” he commanded. “I can’t!” His response was cold, emotionless, and twice as terrifying for it. “Do it, or I’ll make you myself.” The thought of his touch on her skin filled her with so much disgust that she did as he said, levering her eyelids open a fraction of an inch at a time until she could see again. Her vision was still blurry, but she could see him. She wished she couldn’t. The basement walls were made of stark, unpainted concrete. There was a dark patch on the opposite side, near the door. It looked like dried blood. Mine? She couldn’t remember. And then a far more chilling thought levered its way into her mind. What if it isn’t? “Look at me.” She did so, her gaze first meeting his tan desert boots before slowly inching up a