All the Little Raindrops(3)
“Sorry,” he murmured.
She didn’t respond. He had nothing to be sorry for, and the grief of her mother’s death had long faded. It still pierced her sometimes, randomly, but more so for her father than for herself. But not now. Now, her problems were far greater than any heartache she still carried over the loss of one of her parents. Now, she longed for her father, the parent she still had. The one who might save her, who would save her if he had any chance to do so.
Her mind returned to the man in here with her. He’d said his family did have money. “If they took you for a ransom, wouldn’t you know that by now? Wouldn’t they have had you send a proof of life or something?” she asked.
“I really have no idea. No one’s said a goddamned word to me.” Now that he was talking more, his voice clearer, she could tell he was young. Maybe even close to her age.
“How old are you, Evan?”
“Eighteen. You?”
“Same.” A strange fluttering took up in her chest. She heard him move, sensed him turning toward her, and his voice—even a few inches closer—confirmed it. There was a heavy pause that she felt as much as heard.
“Do you go to Northland High?” he finally asked.
She let out a breath. “Yes.” It can’t be. Oh my God, it can’t be.
“Is your name Noelle Meyer?”
She swallowed. “Yes.” The word was as thick as her parched tongue. And she suddenly knew exactly who he was too. “Evan Sinclair,” she all but whispered. “Your father is Leonard Sinclair. He killed my mother.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Collector leaned forward, his face only inches from the screen. They’ve realized they know each other. His father had killed her mother. They’d discuss it further, of course, which would clue the other players in. It definitely added another layer to the situation at hand, did it not? The picture flickered minutely, the green cast giving it an otherworldly glow. But it was remarkably clear for a room being televised through a night vision lens.
The man (a boy to be more precise, still a teen) sat with his back pressed to the bars of his cage, while the girl was on her knees, her hands gripping the bars of her own container. The audio was good. The Collector could hear every whisper, every breath, every pained sigh.
My, but you bastards enjoy your entertainment.
One of the boy’s eyes was swollen, and he had what looked like caked blood on his lip. He kept bringing his fingers to his cheek and pressing, his expression contorting each time as though if he did it enough, he’d soon encounter a different result. Despite the injuries to his face, it was obvious that he was an extremely good-looking kid. Tall. Muscular. A square jawline and even features. An all-American golden boy. Good breeding, one might say. The thought made him chuckle. But it was a laugh laced with acid.
The boy must be having an especially difficult time relinquishing control. Life was typically quite easy and very good for boys like him. How many allowances had already been made for the kid? Ones he didn’t deserve and hadn’t earned? Many, the Collector surmised. Perhaps far too many. It tended to be a disservice when tragedy struck. And tragedy had definitely struck this particular golden boy, currently sitting in a metal cage like a dog.
Perhaps he should dislike the boy, considering that . . . good breeding. And yet, he rather found that, instead of feeling any loathing, he . . . related to him. In some ways, at least.
His gaze moved to the right, where the girl had sunk down and turned to the side so she was now sitting on her hip, her knees still bent, long legs drawn up, cheek resting on what had to be cold steel. Slender. Fine boned. Straight, dark hair. Pretty in a plain-Jane sort of way. In a cheesy made-for-TV movie, she’d be the girl her friends would perform a makeover on because they could see the potential lying just beneath the surface. That only happened in movies, however. In real life, teenage girls were typically too jealous to purposely create a swan when having an ugly duckling beside you made you the pretty one.
Women. What petty creatures they could be. So ruled by emotion.
It could be their strength, too, of course. But most often, it controlled them, rather than the other way around. Pity.
He reeled in his thoughts. He didn’t want to make too many assumptions and miss something that might tell him otherwise. Watch. Listen. Learn. It was what he did best.
A light in the room flashed, and both the boy and the girl made sounds of surprised fear, moving backward to the corners of their respective cells, away from the bulb. The girl brought her arm over her eyes, her face screwed up in pain. The light must be torturous after so long in the dark. The boy sat still, though his face was contorted similarly, one arm held out in front of him like he expected an attack. He couldn’t do much about it, but he wanted to feel it coming. His left eye was swollen shut, but he blinked the other repeatedly, trying desperately to see.
“What’s happening?” she asked, voice breathless and filled with fear.
“I don’t know,” he answered, his arm moving one way and then the other, warding off whatever invisible threat his mind was conjuring. There was nothing in front of him, though. Only light had entered his cage.
The Collector watched, waiting along with the captives to see what would happen next. His eyes slid to his cell phone on the desk next to him. One of his options was to call the authorities. But he didn’t think that was the best choice. At least not yet.