Excerpt of Gregory's Game by Jane A. Adams

They had been waiting for him when he came home from work on the Tuesday evening, grabbed him as soon as he came in through the front door. He was aware of two people, thought there might have been a third. He was also aware, sure as he was of his own name, that he was going to die.

He’d told them he didn’t know the answers to their questions. That he hadn’t been involved hadn’t even been there. Didn’t recognise the names they threw at him, the accusations. At first they’d refused to believe him, later, when they’d realised he was telling the truth – and how could he not? The pain…the pain was just too much to bear. He realised that they didn’t really care.

No, even after they had realised he was telling the truth and he had finished begging for his life, knowing it wouldn’t do a damn of good, they didn’t let him alone. In truth, he was already too lost in the agony to know what they were asking him, but he would have told them anything by then, had he known it. Anything. And maybe he did.

Had he understood, had he been able to take anything in, he would have been glad that the pair were so inept. That they couldn’t keep him alive. That their expertise was in inflicting pain, not in keeping their subject conscious and living. The end came relatively fast; unconsciousness and then death.

They left him hanging there, blood pooling on the kitchen floor. No one had seen them arrive and no one saw them leave. The quiet road, the silent house, all seemed unchanged and as civilised and suburban as it had ever done