I am struggling against the ropes when I hear footsteps—big ones, coming my way. Rubber soles slapping the hardwood, the feet carrying them too big, far too heavy to belong to one of the kids.
I stare at the door, the breath going solid in my lungs. From across the hall, the TV blares sounds from The Loud House, thumping the air in thundering bursts. I’ve always hated that show.
He comes around the corner, a slouchy black shadow palming a gun. He sees me and stops in the doorway, feigning surprise. “There you are. The kids and I have been looking all over for you.”
I scream into the tape, “Let me go!” It comes out as a long, frantic squeal that ignites the back of my throat.
He steps into the room, his sneakers swishing on the vintage Moroccan shag, and settles the gun atop the dresser on the far wall. “So…how you been? What have you been up to? Been keeping yourself busy?”
I scream into the duct tape again, the silver strip flexing a bubble that pulls like razors on the skin around my lips. I strain against the rope, the yellow strands cutting into my sweaty skin, marring ditches into the velvet armrests.
With his free hand, he cups the lump that is his ear. “Sorry, but I didn’t quite catch that.” His grin inflates, and he laughs again, an exaggerated sound. “It’s called enunciation. You should try it sometime.”
He stands there for a few empty seconds, letting his stupid joke flutter and die. Christ, how I loathe this man.
His gaze darts around the room, taking everything in, pausing on the lamps, the vase, the lucite bowl. I wonder if he’s doing what I did, cataloging them as possible weapons. When he looks back at me, he’s no longer smiling. “You have a real nice house here. Really nice. Did you do all this yourself, or did you use a decorator?”
Even if I could respond to that, I wouldn’t. There’s no way I’m going to explain myself to this man. How I’ve forgotten my mother’s smile but I remember every detail of the flouncy curtains she spent months cutting and stitching, or the way she would fill the house with flowers and branches she cut from the yard. I’m enough of an armchair psychologist to understand the reasons I’ve spent my life since surrounding myself with pretty things, or why I gave up a career that fed the hole in my soul to spend more time with the kids. This man doesn’t deserve to know that about me.
Plus, if I’m right, if it’s money this guy is after, there’s no good answer to his question. Yes, I used a designer—me. And while I didn’t pay a design fee, I also didn’t pinch pennies. Every inch of this place bears my fingerprint. This house, these carpets and tables and meticulously sourced decor, it’s some of my finest work.
So instead I sit quietly, taking in his eyes, hazel and almond shaped, the way they droop down at the outside corners. They’re frighteningly familiar but in the same way a Labrador retriever is, or a pink-edged tulip. Seen one? Seen them all.
He moves closer, a rabid animal on the prowl.
For all my aggression earlier, now I shrink into the chair, pushing my body backward into the stuffing, but there’s nowhere for me to go. The chair I’m strapped to is already pressed to the wall.
“Hold still.” He bends down, and I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for it—his hot breath against my skin, his gloved hands clamping down around my throat.
This is it. This is where I die.
Something brushes my cheek, and I flinch. The sensation stops, then starts again, a steady pawing on the skin just below my cheekbone.
I crack an eye and there he is, a black shadow looming over me. One hand braced on the back of the chair, the other too close for me to see what it’s doing, what he’s doing. But I feel and hear it, the flicking of his masked finger picking at a corner of the duct tape.
His breath is moist on my face. He smells like soap and fabric softener and something bitter, like the remnants of an afternoon cup of coffee.
He manages to work a corner of the tape loose, peeling a piece of it away from my skin. His hand freezes, his gaze meeting mine head-on. “This is going to hurt. Are you ready?”
I don’t even have a chance to nod before he rips the tape off in one red-hot snap, shucking the top layer of my skin with it. I’m too shocked to scream. My face, my lips, my cheeks and chin. All of it is on fire, a dousing of acid smack in the face.
He straightens, standing above me with the tape dangling from a hand. I glance down, half expecting it to be dripping snot and spit and blood. “Let’s try this again. What was it you were saying?”