Fathom by L. Standage (spanish books to read .TXT) 📕

like vomit?” he asked, his nose wrinkled. He looked at Polo Shirt, who shifted his footing uncomfortably.

“She’s frightened,” he replied. Rich guy looked at me, his eyes softening with kindness.

“Well,” he said. “There’s no need for that. We’re old acquaintances, after all.”

The accent. The suit. He was the other guy at the tide pools. He went on.

“I’ve seen others like you, you know. But it’s been a very long time.” I still couldn’t place his slight accent. He had a nice voice, calm and even, but it did nothing to dispel my distrust. What was he going to do with me? I was too afraid of the answer to allow my vocal cords to function right.

“What…want?” I whispered. My throat still hurt.

“What I want is simple,” the man before me replied. “If you cooperate, you live. If not, your friends will find your body floating out at sea.”

I stiffened. He smiled.

“Give me the vessel.”

I stared into the man’s eyes, waiting for some kind of explanation, but none came. The others watched me, expectant.

“I don’t…” I began in a croaky whisper, my mind blank. “What’s a vessel?”

The rich man’s cool exterior turned fierce as he frowned in ugly fury. The man with the missing pinky laughed.

“They are trained to say that,” he said.

But Rich Man looked ready to hit or even shoot me. “I know you have it,” he continued. "Hand it over now, and I'll let you live.”

“I don’t have anything.” I glanced back and forth from the weapons on the table to the men able to wield them. Rich Man’s hand shot to my face and gripped my chin. I cried out.

“Dishonesty is not going to help you,” he snarled. The sound of a gun cocked somewhere nearby.

Quivering sobs choked out of my throat as I struggled to find breath enough to speak. “I don’t know what you’re t-talking about!” I shouted in desperation, every inch of my body numb with terror. “I swear! Please!”

His fingers dug harder into my jaw like crab pincers.

“Last night, your friend paid you a visit and gave it to you, didn’t she?” He shook my face as he spoke. “Don’t try to deny it, you little siren; your life hangs by a thread.” Flecks of spittle landed on my face.

“I don’t kn—” I paused. Realization dawned on me as my frenzied mind caught hold of the memory from the night before. “Y-you mean the red-headed lady?”

Pinky laughed again, and Rich Man loosened his grip a little.

“She’s dead,” he said, teeth bared. “The same will happen to you if you don’t tell us where the vessel is.”

“I d-don’t know who she is,” I cried. “She j-just came t-to my house and g-gave me a seashell! I don’t know why!”

He let go of my face. I cowered in my chair, sobbing and massaging my jaw.

“Where’s the magazine?” he asked over his shoulder. The Brit grabbed it from a side table and handed it to him.

“Explain.” He held the magazine before me. It was the same tabloid Samantha and I had found in the grocery store.

I swallowed. “That? It was a costume.” I almost explained about the photoshoot, but I wanted to keep Samantha out of it.

Rich Guy straightened and stared down at me. “And the tide pools?”

“The tide pools? I j-just wanted to go explore them at negative tide. It was at midnight that night. I didn’t tell anyone, I swear!”

His face mellowed to a contemplative stare. “Do you still have the seashell?”

I nodded. “At my house.”

“May I have it?”

Oh, now he was all politeness.

I nodded again. “Yeah. Yeah, you can have it, just let me go.”

He smirked. “Delfina made a mistake. She’s not one of them.”

The man with the missing pinky lunged forward, caught hold of my head, and turned my face sideways. I screamed, thinking he was trying to break my neck, but all he did was push my hair aside and pull on my ear.

“Nothing,” he said to the others. “He’s right.” He threw my head the other direction as he let me go. I watched them with a mixture of fright and, again, confusion.

“Take her back and get the vessel. Make it quiet.”

Polo Shirt grabbed me by the arm and pulled me up. When he let go, my legs gave out and I met the floor. One of the men picked me up and carried me, half-aware, through the hallway in the hotel. We approached the elevators, where Polo Shirt gave me a disgusted scowl. He pushed the button and a different elevator from the one I’d puked in opened. Down eleven puke-free floors, through the lobby, into the parking lot, and I soon found myself sitting in the car again, uncuffed and shell-shocked.

I was alive.

“We apologize for this inconvenience, Miss,” said Polo Shirt once we were back on the road. “It was all a very big misunderstanding.”

“What did the picture in the magazine have to do with it?” I said, more to myself than anyone else.

“We, uh, received word that a prankster was linked to a murder. This was—a test. Part of a new interrogation program.”

I stared at Polo Shirt in disbelief. Interrogation program? What kind of sick, twisted…I didn’t believe it for a second. Saying anything wouldn’t do me any good though. My eyes dry, I stayed quiet and watched the road ahead, trance-like, hoping this nightmare would end soon.

The drive back to my aunt’s house took a long time. I was so eager to be back, every passing mile stretched on just to mock me. Did Sam call my aunt or my parents? A weird combo of peace and foreboding bloomed behind my sternum. I would see them all again.

At last, we neared the street. The car slowed and parked along the curb one block away from the house.

“Go back to your house, get the seashell, and bring it back here,” Polo Shirt said. “Don’t try to run.”

Like a robot obeying programmed orders, I moved to get out of the car. The Brit scooted out