I’d been so preoccupied, what with being abducted and strung up by a psychopath, that I’d completely forgotten he was coming over at eight. Hope flared to life in my chest. I had no idea what time it was now, though I suspected it was midafternoon; eight was likely still hours away, but if I could just hold on till then…
Why hadn’t I agreed to let him come over right away?I lamented internally, hating myself for telling him to wait. By the time he got to my apartment, saw the photos, realized that I’d been taken, and called the police, it may well be too late for me.
Plus, there was the fact that I didn’t even know where I was.
The hope dwindled to embers, then died out.
By this point I’d realized that he hadn’t simply been watching me or spying on me; he’d been listening, learning, picking up every scrap of informationhe could find. He’d probably bugged my apartment with listening devices and cameras – it would certainly explain where he’d gotten the photos of me in the shower and my bedroom.
What I didn’t understand waswhy. So I asked him.
“Why?” he echoed, as if the question was incomprehensible to him. I could see, beneath that veneer of calm, that I’d thrown him off balance. I didn’t understand; it should have been the simplest question in the world for a normal person to answer.
That’s when I realized: I wasn’t dealing with a normal person.
I was dealing with a sociopath.
This wasn’t a revenge mission, driven by passion or vengeance or nearly two decades of anger. It was a cool, calculated meting out of justice; his way of evening the score.And he would eliminate me as easily as a king taking a rook off the chessboard – with meticulous concentration and well-planned moves he’d thought out far in advance.
My sense of hopelessness grew asI realized what that meant.
He likely hadn’t been sloppy when he’d put this plan together,insuring that nothing was easily tied back to him. Emotions didn’t drive him, and therefore couldn’t be used to manipulate him into making mistakes. And he would have no qualms when it came time to kill me.
“Can you believe I only served twelve years before they let me out? I see from your face that you can’t.” He laughed. “You’ve gotta love that trusty old California legal system. Good behavior gets you a long way with the guards. And when I went before that parole board with tears in my eyes and told them all about how I’d found the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, and he’d guided me from the dark path of substance abuse and violence, out into the light? Well, I must say, just about every damned one of them got misty-eyed.”
I stared ahead impassively, trying to show no reaction to his words.
“I should’ve gotten a damn Oscar for that performance,” he said, smiling at the memory. “Instead, I got paroled and sent back out into the world, achanged man. That’s what they want to believe, you know – that prison fixes us, takes out all the bad tendencies and swaps ‘em for goodness and a healthy respect for authority. It’s what they have to believe, otherwise they wouldn’t sleep at night – but it’s not the truth.”
I swallowed nervously, watching as he approached me once more.
“The truth is, sweet Brooklyn, that all time in the slammer does is offer you plenty of time to think,” he whispered, his breath hot on my face. “Can you guess who I thought about?”
I began to tremble.
“That’s right,” he said softly, tracing one finger down my cheek, across my collarbone, and into the cleavage revealed by the v-neck of my sweater. He stopped midway down my chest, his finger skimming slowly back and forth across the swell of my breasts. “I thought about you.”
***
He disappeared for a while, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Arms aching, I hung with my back bowed against thestrain and tried to imagine I was anywhere else in the world. Closing my eyes, I mentally erased the concrete walls around me, and pictured a different night – the night I was supposed to have.
Finn wouldarrive, stepping through the door and into my arms. He’d hold me, kiss me, and everything would be all right in my world again.
I think about an hour passed. It must have been close todinnertime by now – around six or seven most likely – because my stomach had begun to rumble with hunger.
WhenSkinner returned, emerging from a stairwell located somewhere behind me, he was holding the green dress in one hand. A large, wickedly sharp kitchen knife was clasped in the other. He approached me and a helpless, involuntary mewling noise burst from the back of my throat. I’d begun to tremble as soon as he’d appeared.
“Now, now, Brooklyn,” he said, making atsksound. “I’m not going to hurt you before dinner. That wouldn’t be very polite.”
As if social niceties are a factor when you’ve got a girl hanging from your basement ceiling. He really is crazy.
“We’re going to be together for a long time, my dear. All that nasty business can certainly wait until after we’ve eaten.”
My mind raced as I wondered what constituted a “long time” in his warped brain. Minutes? Hours? Days?Years?I could barely survive the mental strain of three hours with the man – if he made me his plaything, keeping me here for weeks on end…
Well, let’s just say, I think I’d sooner choose the quick end with the sharp knife.