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He had his hand around my throat before I could speak.
I clawed at his wrist. Managed something that might have been words — Hugo, I don't know, I haven't —
Lucas shoved me back and kicked the coffee table over. It hit the floor with a crash, papers scattering.
"Bianca told me everything. You attacked her like a lunatic. She went to the pharmacy to get Hugo's head seen to, and when she came out — he was gone."
"I haven't left the flat," I said. My voice was barely working. "Lucas, think. Why would I —"
"You've been losing your mind for six months. Spraying me with disinfectant every night like I'm something filthy. Now you've moved on to a three-year-old?"
"Tell me where he is. Right now."
I bit down on the inside of my cheek and held his gaze.
"I don't know where he is. And if you want out, sign the papers."
I turned toward the table.
He grabbed the back of my collar.
The fabric tore.
The force of it stumbled me sideways and buttons rattled across the tile. I had just enough time to register cold air on my skin before he had my wrist and was hauling me toward the bathroom — the way you'd drag someone who had no rights worth respecting.
"Let go of me —"
He kicked the bathroom door open. The edge caught my shoulder.
He threw me into the bath.
Cold water. The showerhead came on — high pressure, icy — and the shock of it drove the air from my lungs. I thrashed, trying to get upright, hands sliding on the wet enamel.
Lucas pulled his belt free. He pinned my arms behind me and lashed my wrists to the metal handle bar. The buckle bit into my skin.
I was face-up in the bath, arms fixed behind me, the cold water hammering down.
He reached under the sink and dragged out the five-litre drum of surgical alcohol I kept there.
He twisted the cap off and poured it over me from above.
The fumes took what was left of my breath.
"You love this stuff so much — fine. Tell me where my son is."
He forced my head under the water in the bath. I choked. The smell was everywhere. My stomach contracted in a long, violent cramp.
Then pain — sharp, absolute, located low in my abdomen.
Warmth moved down the inside of my leg.
It spread into the water around me — red, diluting slowly, impossible to look away from.
I stopped fighting.
His phone rang.
He glanced at the screen. Something crossed his face. He answered.
A police officer's voice came through, slightly exasperated:
"Mr. Ashford? We've got the boy. He wandered off to the top floor of the shopping centre on his own and found the play area. He was eating ice cream when we got there."
"We've had two frantic calls in the last forty minutes about a child abduction. He wandered off. Please keep a closer eye on him."
The line went dead.
Silence.
Just the sound of the showerhead.
Lucas's phone hit the floor. So did the drum.
He turned around.
When he saw the water in the bath, his face went white.