I watched, fascinated, as the waitress took their order and came back with coffee and cakes. My eyes were instantly drawn to the blueberry muffins. The blond woman tucked into hers, breaking off small pieces with delicate fingers and popping them into her mouth. Her friend pushed hers out of the way and left it untouched.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying but suddenly the dark-haired woman’s eyes filled with tears. As she nodded at what her friend was telling her, I could see she was trying to fight them back. After a few more minutes and a quick check of the time on the huge gold watch that seemed too large for her delicate wrist, the blond woman reached across the table, placed a manicured hand over her friend’s, then stood to leave.
“It will be okay, Carolyn, I promise,” she said, and I noticed a slight accent as she spoke.
She walked out of the café, her red bag slung casually over her shoulder, drawing admiring glances from other customers as she went. Left alone, the dark-haired woman took her phone from her bag and began scrolling the screen. Her tears spilled over, and she hurriedly wiped them on the corner of a napkin, then pushed her chair back and got to her feet. As she moved away from the table, I waited for her to take her uneaten muffin, but she didn’t.
“Excuse me,” I said before I could stop myself. “If you’re not going to eat your cake, would you mind if I have it?”
The woman turned. “Yes, of course,” she replied hurriedly. “Help yourself.” Then ducking her head, embarrassed maybe that I’d seen her tears, she left the café.
Before the waitress could clear the table, I bundled the muffin into a napkin and followed the woman outside. I didn’t know why I was following her, but it felt important to make sure she was alright. I expected her to go to an underground station, or wait at a bus stop, but she kept on walking until she stopped in front of a modern block of apartments off Warren Street. Pressing a key to the intercom, she disappeared through the door, and I watched her reflection in the mirrored entrance hall as she waited for the elevator. Maybe she saw my outline reflected in the shiny elevator doors because, as it arrived and she stepped inside, she turned and looked at me through the window. For a moment, our eyes met. And then the elevator doors slid shut.
CHAPTER SIX
PRESENT
I must have dozed off because the sound of the key rattling in the lock jolts me awake. There’s a moment’s disorientation before I remember where I am: sitting on a mattress in a pitch-black room. I hear the whoosh of the door opening and strain my eyes, hoping to see a glimmer of light from the hallway outside. But there’s nothing, except the sense of someone there. My breathing quickens. Is this it? Is this where it ends?
They move toward me, and I shrink farther into the corner. It’s terrifying—if I can’t see, how can I know what to expect? I hear them breathing, I think it’s a man, one of the men who brought me and Ned here, or someone else, I don’t know. For him to have pinpointed my position in the far corner of the room, I realize that he must be able to see me, that he must be wearing night-vision goggles. There’s a scrape of something being put down on the floor.
“Please—I shouldn’t be here.” My voice croaks.
I sense him move away and think of how I can distract him, make him realize that I’m not a threat. “Could I have some water, please?”
There’s a shift in the darkness, then hands on my shoulders lift me to my feet. Is it the man who took me from my bedroom? He pushes me forward, along the wall toward the toilet. A stab of fear—sharp, instant—knives my body. He’s going to lock me in! He opens the door, and my panic careers out of control.
“No,” I beg, twisting toward him. “Please don’t put me in there.” I try to pull away from him, but he pushes me in backward.
Adrenaline floods my body. I fight to get back through the door, but the man holds me at arm’s length with a hand on my shoulder. My arms flail uselessly, I kick out with my feet, but find only a void. Suddenly, without warning, he removes his hand from my shoulder. Before I can react, the door slams shut.
“Let me out!” I yell.
My terror mounts as I wait for the click that will tell me he’s locked me in. But it doesn’t come, and hope surges—maybe there’s no lock, I don’t remember finding a keyhole, maybe I can get out. I fumble for the handle; it turns easily but I can’t push the door open. I try again, using my shoulder, putting every ounce of my strength into giving it an almighty shove. The door gives slightly before snapping back. And I realize—the man is leaning against it to prevent me from getting out.