so I forced myself to think.
My head hurt. I couldn’t tell, at first, if it was because of lying in such an unnatural position for so long, or if he’d hit me. Every thought felt labored and painful.
From the airport . . . back home . . . he must have driven me, in his car. I don’t remember it. It must have been several hours. I don’t remember any of it.
I had no idea what the time was, and I couldn’t even tell if it was still daylight, because the overhead light was on. The curtains must be closed.
I tried to stretch my legs out, but they seemed to be tied up to my wrists somehow. I was hog-tied. I could not move at all. I tried to roll over onto my back but had to stop that immediately because every movement was incredibly painful. My head was swimming and for a moment I could see nothing but stars.
What happened? I needed to think. I had to concentrate on this. It was too important.
He said he was arresting me . . . the people standing watching, and some of them walking past as though nothing whatsoever was going on. He showed his warrant card to the security guards—then they were asking him if he needed any help. I must have been fighting. Dragging me away. I’d been shouting, trying to tell them that he was kidnapping me, he was going to hurt me, but of course they must have all just thought I was a raving madwoman. I would have thought the same, if I’d been in an airport, waiting for my flight to be called, off on vacation somewhere hot, somewhere exotic. Perhaps going on honeymoon, or just somewhere on a business trip. Raving madwoman, being arrested. Drugs, probably. A business trip. Maybe to New York.
I wondered what had happened to my suitcase. They must have pulled it off the plane somehow. I bet the flight was delayed.
How long would it be before I was missed? I wasn’t due to start work until Tuesday—three days. Before that, the landlady of Jonathan’s apartment would likely just assume I was getting a later flight. If she even noticed I wasn’t there. Lee could do a lot of damage in four days.
Tears rolled from my eyes to my nose, dripping off the end and onto the carpet.
How long before he came back? I couldn’t move. He couldn’t just leave me here, surely? I needed to find out what he was planning to do. If he was just going to kill me, I would be dead already. Whatever it was would probably be worse.
Almost as I had that thought, I heard the sounds—the stairs creaking, the sound I remembered from lying in bed, pretending to be asleep, waiting for him to come upstairs, wondering if he would be in a good mood and if he’d leave me in peace.
The door to the spare room was shut, and I heard a key turning, close by. I hadn’t even realized the spare room door had a lock. I’d never needed it before. Just one key, then.
I felt him pulling at the back of my head, and it hurt—pulling my hair. He was untying the gag. I hadn’t realized I was gagged, but I was—with some sort of cloth. And underneath it, the corners of my mouth sore, crusted with blood. I felt fresh blood start to trickle when he pulled the cloth away. I tried to speak but all that came out was a groan. I kept my eyes closed. I didn’t want to look at him. I never wanted to see his face again.
“If I undo the cuffs, are you going to behave?” he asked. His voice was calm, controlled. He wasn’t drunk, then. That was something.
I nodded, my cheek scraping against the carpet. It still smelled new. I felt him grab one of my wrists and unlock the cuffs, the rasping rattle as they came away. My arms contracted and I cried out with the agony of the sudden movement.
“Shut up,” he said, his voice still calm, “or I’ll knock you out again.”
I bit my lip, the tears pouring. Now the cuffs had gone, I could stretch my legs out, although that too was incredibly painful. So much for fighting back, I thought. I could barely move.
After a while, stretched out on my side, I thought I could manage to sit up. I tried to raise myself on one elbow, opened my