While the baby napped, she stripped the master bed, put on fresh sheets, started the laundry. Joe, the sweet man, had offered, and more than once, to hire a cleaning service. But she loved tending the house, loved making it shine.
She was a homemaker now.
By the time evening set in, casting its shadows so the Spanish moss dripped from the oaks like art, she sat in one of the rockers on the wide veranda, the baby once more at her breast. Inside, the house sparkled, and a roast chicken browned in the oven.
She smelled roses and magnolia as she sipped from a glass of sweet tea. And smiled when the car turned in and drove toward the house.
Her heart just swelled as he got out of the car and started toward her.
“Welcome home, Dr. Fletcher.”
“No place I’d rather be, Mrs. Fletcher.” He bent down, kissed her, then touched his lips to Joella’s head. “Has she been a good girl today, Mama?”
“Best girl ever, Daddy. Sit for a minute, will you? Dinner’s got awhile yet, and I brought out a glass for you.” When he did, poured himself a glass, she shifted the baby to her other breast.
“Tell me about your day.”
He reached for her hand, held it while they rocked on the veranda in air smelling of roses and magnolia.
NOW
Mary Kate woke in the dark. For a moment, one blissful moment, she thought she was home, in her own bed. She started to roll over, slide back into sleep. And her wrist shackle dug into her wrist as the chain reached its limit.
She remembered.
For one moment, one horrible moment, she fell into desperate despair. She was alone, held prisoner by some madman who thought he was a child about half the time.
No one knew where she was, so how could they find her?
She was supposed to be basking in the sun on a beach, romping in the ocean with Teeg, not chained up in some room by some crazy old man who wanted his mommy.
But no, no, Teeg had dumped her. The son of a bitch. And surely even if he hadn’t, even if they’d gone to the beach, she’d have been home by now. Surely she’d been in this nightmare more than four days.
It felt like four weeks. Four years.
Someone had to be looking for her by now. She had family, friends, coworkers, people who cared about her. The police were looking for her by now, of course they were. She just had to hang on until they came.
Remembering, she clapped her hands, and when the light came on, she let out a long breath. She saw breakfast—some sort of cereal in a bowl, a disposable container of milk, a cup of what would be—it always was—orange juice, another that would be coffee—probably cold now. That was fine, she never drank it because it had a hard, bitter taste she suspected came from drugs.
He always woke her—if she wasn’t awake—when he brought breakfast. Why was this different?
She started to sit up, and the ugly headache had her letting out a moan.
Her brain felt too big, and somehow clogged.
But she remembered, at least a little.
He’d brought her dinner—chicken fingers, some kind of fake chicken, with soy fries, green beans. Well, more gray than green. A tube of water, a cup of tea.
Then he’d sat in the bolted-down chair. He’d actually asked if she’d had a good day.
She’d wanted to hurl the food back at him, but she’d eaten the food—stay strong!—even complimented it, which made him beam at her.
She tried telling him how the wrist cuff hurt. But he’d just smiled and said she had to wear it to stay safe. She’d pushed a little, as carefully as she could manage. But he’d gotten that look in his eyes, the one that warned her.
She would have dumped the tea, but he sat, and sat, and gave her no choice.
And she’d felt the world slipping away.
Now her head hurt from whatever he’d put in the tea, and she felt vaguely sick to her stomach. It was sore, too, and when she started to press a hand against it, she felt a dull pain. And the silver ball in her navel.
He’d pierced her! He’d violated her body while she’d slept—helpless under his goddamn drugs.
The outrage shot her to her feet, pain screaming. She nearly grabbed the ball, ripped it out. Then she stopped herself, stood, breath heaving. She’d hurt herself—then he’d hurt her. He’d put it back in.
Then she saw the two little cups—like they put meds in for people in the hospital. One held some sort of white cream, the other a clear liquid. Her hand shook as she reached for the carefully handwritten note beside them.
Mommy, use the cream on your pretty butterfly spreading its wings on your back. Use the other on your pretty new earrings and belly button when you turn them. Be gentle!