Leaving the bathroom, I start walking around the room. I try to sing, a nursery rhyme from my childhood, but the French words remind me of all that I’ve lost, so I begin counting instead. I’m on step three hundred and seven when I hear the rattle of the key in the lock.
I drop to my knees, crawl to my mattress, my heart thumping. It’s the first time they’ve come during the day, between the two meals. There’s an urgency to the sound of the door being pushed open, to the movement of air as the man crosses the room toward me. I’m sure it’s the same man, there’s the same clean smell, but there’s something different about him; what is it? I sense him looming over me and instinctively press myself as far into the corner as I can.
It makes no difference; hands on my shoulders lift me to my feet, I’m turned to face the wall, my arms brought behind my back, my wrists held together, then bound with something elastic. A hood comes over my head, bringing a different darkness, airless, suffocating.
Everything is happening fast, too fast. My panic intensifies but I fight it down. Pushed from the room, I try to focus on where we’re going. From the left-hand turn we make into the hallway, I know we’re going toward the stairs that lead to the basement.
Without warning, I’m pulled to a stop, my body angled slightly to the side before I’m jerked forward again. Instinctively reading the nonverbal signs, I extend my leg, feel the void, reach down with my foot, find the first step.
Twelve, I remember there were twelve stone steps, half the number of the stairs in Ned’s house. I count them as we descend, and when the floor levels out at twelve, I feel a flicker of achievement. The sensation of cooler, fresher air on the bare skin of my arms makes me want to rip off my hood and take great gulps of it. A turn to the right, a few more steps, I don’t know how many, I’ve lost concentration.
We stop. I hear a door being unlocked. Is this the room where Ned is being held? Panic flares in my chest, I try to push back, but it doesn’t work. I’m pushed forward, and the door slams shut behind me. I’m grabbed by someone else, forced downward. My legs hit against a seat beneath me, I sit, feel hard wood against my back. Something is tied around my chest, binding my body to the chair. My heart races. Is this it, is this the end?
The hood is pulled off and for a moment, bright light sears my eyes before they’re quickly covered by a blindfold. A hand grasps the back of my neck, holding it firm so that I’m facing straight ahead.
“State your name,” a man’s voice says from behind me. “State that you are being held prisoner with your husband, Ned Hawthorpe, and that they will be contacted again soon. If they do as we say, you’ll be released unharmed. The police are not to be involved. If they don’t comply with our demands, you’ll both be killed.” The grip tightens. “Speak.”
I take a breath. “My name is Amelie Lamont,” I begin.
“No,” the voice says. “Your married name.”
“My name is Amelie Hawthorpe,” I say, my voice shaking now. “I am being held prisoner with my husband, Ned Hawthorpe. You will be contacted again soon. Do as they say, and we will be released unharmed. Do not involve the police. If you do not comply with their demands, we will be killed.”
The blindfold is whipped off and a sour smell has just the time to reach me before the hood comes down over my head, blocking it out. My mind spins. If this is the room where Ned is being held, where is he? And then, from somewhere behind me, I hear it, muffled but full of hate.
“Bitch.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
PRESENT
I open my eyes, darkness. For a moment, I wonder if it’s morning, or the middle of the night but then realize that it doesn’t actually matter.
I lie for a while, thinking about the recording I’d had to make. Did our abductors make me do it because Jethro Hawthorpe has refused to cooperate? Ned had been in the room, was he tied to a chair too, a knife at his throat? The thought almost makes me smile. He deserves this. For everything that he’s done, he deserves this.
The lock turns. I don’t bother to sit up or say anything when the man puts the tray down. There’s a slight pause before he moves away, was he checking that I was alright? He leaves, but I stay as I am, realizing for the first time how silent he is, not just verbally, but in the way that he moves. He must walk barefoot, or in his socks.
I sit up—that’s it, that’s the difference I noticed yesterday when he walked across the room to take me to the basement. He’d been wearing shoes. I smile, pleased to have learned something about my abductor. If he brings me food, he comes barefoot, if he’s wearing shoes, it’s to take me to the basement.