“Find out who that journalist is,” Ned snapped to Hunter. “The one who asked about the sexual assault. She’s already bothered me twice, there won’t be a third time.”
He let go of me then, and I ran upstairs. I tried to get into the two rooms that led out onto the front of the house, so that I could shout down to Carolyn. But they were still locked. I ran to my bedroom and rushed to the window, because if I shouted loud enough, she might hear me. But when I pulled at the handle, the window wouldn’t move. My chest was pounding; what was I doing here? I took a breath, calmed myself. Now that Carolyn knew something was wrong, she would come and rescue me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
PRESENT
The silence around me is suffocating, the loneliness heavier today.
My fingers pick at the blanket, I can feel dried food, porridge probably. When am I going to get out of here? Why hasn’t Jethro Hawthorpe paid the ransom yet? Even if he is angry with Ned, wouldn’t he still want him back? He’s lost one son already, and I know from the foundation that he cares about people. Does he know I’m here too? He must. For a moment I imagine what it would be like to be rescued, the police storming in, the shouts and searchlights blinding me. It feels so real that I squint in the darkness.
I move to the window. It reminds me that there is a world out there and I feel even more stifled than I did before. I need to see daylight. I run my hand down the left-hand side of the board, remembering how I tried to jam my spoon between it and the window frame to widen the gap. If only there was something else I could use.
I think for a moment, then go to the bathroom, tear the cardboard lid from the box of tampons, then tear it in half, and in half again. Clutching the four pieces of cardboard, I go back to the window, wishing there was a way to keep the light on in the bathroom once the door was open, so that I could see what I was doing.
Taking one of the pieces of cardboard, I locate the weak spot—the place where I managed to pry the nail out—and push it into the minuscule gap between the board and the window. It goes in quite easily, so I push another piece on top of the first one. Bending, I put my eye close to the cardboard and squint. Nothing, not even the tiniest glimmer of daylight. I force another piece in, take another look. My heart leaps—is that a pinprick of light I can see or is it my imagination? I take the fourth piece of cardboard, fold it in half, jam it in on top of the others, determined to widen the gap a little more. I squint again; it’s daylight I can see, I’m sure of it.
I remove the cardboard, grab hold of the edge of the board, wedge my fingertips into the gap, and pull as hard as I can. I don’t feel it’s made any difference until I take another look. I can definitely see daylight.
The thrill is incredible. I know I’ll never be able to get the board off the window, I’ve accepted that. But to be able to visibly see that time isn’t standing still, to be able to track the passing of day into night through the tiny gap I’ve made feels like a huge achievement.
I take another look, drink in the sliver of daylight. Then, worried that my captor might arrive and see what I’ve done, I take the pieces of cardboard back to the bathroom and hide them in the cupboard.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
PAST
I heard a commotion in the hallway below and jumped off my bed. Hurrying to the top of the stairs, I looked over the balustrade. A man I recognized as Jethro Hawthorpe was standing just inside the front door, immaculate in a dark suit and tie, a pristine white shirt visible under his jacket. Ned, his arms outstretched, was trying to stop him from coming any farther.
“What are you doing here, Dad?”
“What the hell was that about?” Jethro Hawthorpe thundered, pushing past him. “That fiasco with the press? It’s all over the news. I thought you said those charges against you had been dropped?”
“They have been,” Ned said.
“So how come the press got wind of it?”
“Let’s talk in my study, shall we?”
I waited until they were no longer in sight, then ran down the stairs and tiptoed along the hallway to the library. Closing the door carefully behind me, I moved quietly to the double doors.
“It’s an occupational hazard, Dad,” I heard Ned saying. “When I terminate contracts, people get upset.”
“Let me get this straight—this woman decided to accuse you of sexual assault for no other reason than revenge?”
“That’s right.”
“And you think the press is going to accept that?”
“Why shouldn’t they? I told the police what happened, and they accepted it.”