other chemicals back here. I’m trying to breathe slowly and not cry, because if my nose gets stuffy again, I’m afraid I’m going to suffocate with this tape over my mouth.
I heard Du Pont’s conversation with Dante. He wanted me to hear it.
It seems like some kind of sick joke. I can’t believe he actually intends to let me loose, just to shoot me.
I don’t understand why he’s doing this. I didn’t have any part in his cousin’s death. I wasn’t even in the same country at the time.
Though, of course, that’s not why he kidnapped me.
He wants to torment Dante.
And he thinks the best way to do that is through me.
He doesn’t know we just had a fight. Thank god for that. My body shakes as I realize that if he knew about the fight, if he knew what we were talking about . . . he would have kidnapped Henry instead. He doesn’t know that Henry is Dante’s son. That’s the only thing I can be grateful for right now. The only thing helping me to hang onto a semblance of calm.
I don’t actually know where Henry is . . . but I have to believe he’s safe, either with Dante, or somewhere in the hotel, in which case he’ll find his way back to my parents again. Wherever he is, it’s better than the back of this van.
God, I’ve got to get out of this. I can’t let this psychopath kill me. Henry needs me. He’s so young, still. He’s already lost Serwa, he can’t lose me, too.
I look around wildly for something I could grab. Something I could use to escape. A knife, a box cutter, anything.
There’s nothing. Just paint-splattered tarps and the duffle bags that I can’t hope to unzip without Du Pont noticing.
Then he takes another corner, and I hear a rattling sound. A screw rolling around on the bare metal floor of the van.
It’s difficult to reach it. I try to squirm in that direction an inch at a time so Du Pont doesn’t see. I have to back toward the screw so I can grab it in my hands. Meanwhile, it keeps rolling away again, right when I’m about to reach it.
Du Pont starts fiddling with the radio. I take the opportunity to push against the wheel well with my feet, shoving myself back in the direction of the screw. My fingers skate over it, numb from being twisted up behind me and bound too tightly with the zip ties. I grab the screw, drop it, then grab it again. I clutch it tight in my fist, glancing nervously up at Du Pont to make sure he didn’t notice.
He finds his station and sits back in his seat with a sigh of satisfaction. Billy Joel pours out of the radio, loud and eerily cheerful. Du Pont starts to hum along, still off-key.
I grip the screw between my thumb and fingers. Twisting my hand as best I can within the bounds of the zip tie, I start to saw at the edge of the plastic, slowly and quietly.
38
Dante
I take Henry back to my house. We drive up to the ancient Victorian, surrounded by trees that have mostly lost their leaves, the grass so thickly carpeted that you can barely see green between the drifts of red and brown.
The house looks creepy in the dark. The old woodwork has darkened with age, and the leaded glass barely shows the light shining out from inside. There aren’t many lights burning anyway—only the one in our housekeeper’s room, and my father’s.
“Do you live here?” Henry asks, nervously.
“Yes. So does your grandfather.”
“Grandpa Yafeu?” he frowns.
“No, your other grandfather. His name is Enzo.”
I drive down into the underground garage. It smells of oil and gasoline, which aren’t unpleasant scents under the right circumstances. At least down here it’s brightly lit and clean. Nero has always been tidy, if nothing else.
Henry looks around at all the cars and motorcycles.
“Are these all yours?” he says.
“Mostly my brother’s. He likes to fix them up. See that one over there? It’s sixty years old. Still beautiful, though.”
“It looks funny,” Henry says, looking at the bubbly headlights and boat-like length of the old T-bird.
“Yeah,” I agree. “It does.”
I take Henry upstairs into the kitchen. I’m surprised to see my father sitting at the little wooden table, drinking a mug of tea. He looks equally surprised that I’ve appeared with a child at my side.
“Hello, son,” he says, in his deep, rasping voice.
“Papa, this