"Really?" I took a sip of coffee to buy myself time. Maybe it was just her obvious social awkwardness, but my instincts screamed that Yvonne was…lying to me. But why would she bother?

  "You're friends with Hunter's sister, Maureen, right?" I knew this to be the case but wanted reassurance. My brain was fuzzy from exhaustion, and knowing this woman had Mo's stamp of approval would put me more at ease.

  Yvonne nodded. "She took a cooking class I teach."

  My insides were churning. It must be all the stress. Or my lousy diet. "You teach cooking? That's so funny. My mom's been taking cooking lessons."

  "I know." Yvonne had that odd look in her eye again. "I'm the one who convinced her to try it. Do you like the coffee?"

  "It's great," I lied. It had a faint bitter taste, as though it had been sitting in the pot too long, but I took another sip just to be polite. I was having a hard time holding a thought, and my vision dimmed around the edges. "Sorry. I'm exhausted and really not up for a visit. I should get Snickers home."

  Then something clicked. "You know my mother?"

  Her smile had turned predatory.

  My bones seemed to turn to liquid, and the coffee mug slipped from my grasp.

  "You aren't going anywhere," a male voice said from behind me.

  I turned my head and the room spun. Large hands caught me before I hit the floor, and I heard Yvonne say, "Take her downstairs, Frankie." Then the world faded away.

  * * *

  The cold woke me. I must have kicked the covers off in the middle of the night again. I tried to move my arm to hunt for the missing blankets, but there was a clang and my wrist was jerked to a halt. Blinking away sleep, I looked up and saw my arm tethered to a low sink by a thick metal bracelet, more shackle than handcuff. "What the hell?"

  "Did you like the presents?" someone asked from behind me.

  I rolled as far as I could with an arm tethered above my head and blinked up at a familiar face. "What presents?"

  The man I'd mentally tagged as Baby Huey from the support group bared his teeth in the most unnerving smile I'd ever seen. "The rose. The love letter."

  "She didn't get the letter, Frankie." This from Yvonne, who was perched in the corner. "I took it back before she could read it."

  "But I spent hours on that." Baby Huey—it was less frightening to think of him as Baby Huey than as Frankie, the sick SOB who'd been stalking me and now had me chained in his basement—whined. "How would she know I loved her if she didn't read the letter?"

  "She doesn't care." Gone was Yvonne's stuttering, her shyness. "She's a boyfriend- stealing whore."

  "No, I'm not," I made the mistake of saying.

  She crouched down, grabbing a fistful of my hair and twisting painfully. "What do you have that I don't have? Why would he want you instead of me?"

  I tried to jerk my head free of her grip but only succeeded in losing a few strands. "Who?"

  "Hunter, of course." She released me and stood. "We were meant for each other."

  "And you are for me." Baby Huey nodded as though any of this made sense.

  I shuddered at the marked similarities between Brett's earlier declaration and the much more sinister one. "No." My voice was thin and raspy from whatever they'd used to drug me, my vocal chords tight with fear.

  He went on as though he hadn't heard me. "We're going to live here together. Forever. Look, I've already moved some of your stuff in."

  Somehow, I managed to crane my neck in the direction he'd been pointing and spied a magpie-like pile of clutter. My things, like the jacket that had gone missing, my favorite mug, and my beautiful mermaid snuggie. Jumbled up with them, other assorted items that I hadn't noticed were MIA, a hairbrush, one of the clips I kept in the bathroom, a purple sweatshirt with the words Buyer Beware inscribed on the back in a creepy font. Seeing all of it, the evidence that he'd been through our apartment, touching our things, made my situation even more real than waking up chained to the wall.

  He continued on, his tone definite. "You'll have everything you need. I even brought over your dog."

  I wondered if maybe he was a bit simple and if there was any way to use that to assist in my escape.

  "Frankie, I don't know that you can keep her."

  "But you promised." Frankie stomped his foot like a five-year-old denied an after dinner candy. "You said I could keep one. The last one got away. You promised!"

  "Calm down." Yvonne shoved her brother, who was easily three times her size. He didn't shrink away or look put out, merely absorbed the blow like he was nothing more than an upright mattress. "We can't keep her here. Hunter or that other guy will come looking. We'll have to move her."

  The words sent chills down my spine. Perhaps moving me would create an opportunity for escape. But glancing up into Yvonne's face told me the truth, that she wanted me to run, so she'd have an excuse to kill me.

  Frankie bent down to look into my face. His breath smelled like overcooked onions. "She's prettier than the other one."

  Ice clogged my veins. "The other one? Do you mean Gwen?" He had known Gwen. He'd attended the same support group. Frankie nodded. "She wasn't happy though. I didn't have her stuff. She tried to run away. She shouldn't have done that."

  My thoughts of a childlike mind vanished as I saw the reflection of the cold-blooded killer who was capable of murdering a pregnant woman, tossing her in a dumpster, and setting her body ablaze in his eyes.

  And he wasn't my biggest problem.

  "This isn't good, Frankie." Yvonne paced the basement like a caged animal. "Maybe we should just get rid of her."

  "Don't worry, sissy. Now that she's with me, the cop will like you again." Frankie worked at a cuticle with his teeth as he reassured his sister. "She'll stay here and be real quiet. Won't you?"

  I would be escaping at the absolute first opportunity, but felt no need to enlighten either Raggedy-edge Ann or Andy about my plans. Had the police officers parked in front of the villa seen me head toward this house? If not, Brett would be by in an hour to help Mac search for Snickers. Or Hunter would come home, spy the groceries in the back of my car, and instinctively track me down.

  Yvonne stalked up to her brother and put her small hands on his massive chest. "Listen to me. Do you want to go back to the institute? Because that's what will happen if they find out you're here with her or that you picked Gwen up off the street."

  Upstairs, the phone rang.

  "Frankie, stay with her. Keep her quiet." Yvonne's steps were light on the stairs.

  "Gwen recognized you from Dr. Patel's support group." I recalled him offering me a ride, never imagining what was going on in his head. He was so sweet, so sincere, that I'd never imagined he was dangerous.

  Frankie nodded. "I broke her car, made sure it wouldn't start. She was on her way to meet her father, but she came with me instead."

  "You hurt her?" The words slipped out before I could think better of them.

  "I loved her. And now I love you." His big eyes gleamed in the dim lighting. "And you'll stay here with me forever."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  There comes a time in every private investigator's career when luck runs out. That's the time when it helps to have skill to back you up. Doesn't have to be your skill as long as you have access to it.

  From: The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living

  An unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI.

  I'd been quiet, doing my best to tune out Frankie's mumbling. He'd perched in an old armchair and was staring fixedly at me. As much as I needed information, the thought of being at his mercy had me frozen in terror.

  Yvonne came downstairs, obviously agitated from her phone call. "I have to go out. Stay down here with her."

  A plan. I had to come up with some sort of plan. Preferably one that included being unchained from the wall and making it to an exit. Shouting for help was out. Not only did I not want to rile my captor, I doubted it would do any good. The basement was deep underground, no visible windows, the only light from a bare bulb by the open stairs. I'd been at the front door last night and hadn't heard Snickers, who always made a racket, so the chances of a passerby hearing me before Frankie knocked me unconscious were slim to none.

  Other than Frankie's chair, there was a sink and a seatless toilet. The entire area reeked of mildew. I sat on a paper-thin blanket topping a bare mattress, which barely kept the cold from the concrete at bay.

  "How come you're quiet?" Frankie asked. "You're not usually quiet."

  More evidence that he'd been observing me. I forced a smile. "I must be tired. It was a long night, looking for Snickers. Where is she?"

  "In Mother's room."

  No, Norman Bates, that wasn't at all creepy. "And is your mother okay with me living down here?" Translation: was she as bat-guano crazy as her children, or would she maybe try to help me?

  "Mother died. That's why I got to come home." Again, his thumb went to his mouth, and he worked the cuticle. "I helped Sissy bury her in the backyard. Mother sent me away."

  "Why?" It was a calculated risk, but the alternative was to sit in fear, possibly agitating my not-all-there captor with my lack of small talk. I'd been told I was easy to talk to, and I was hoping that would be enough to keep me alive until I could either A, escape, or B, someone came to rescue my sorry carcass. "Why did she send you away?"

  "I did bad things." He glanced away as though ashamed. Without warning, he got up and went to the pile of belongings, picking up my mermaid blanket and rubbing it against his face in long, slow strokes. Something about the gesture made me shiver. It was obvious it wasn't the first time he'd done that. "I don't know why I do bad things sometimes."

  I really didn't want to know what sorts of things registered as "bad" since chaining my unconscious body in his basement didn't cause a blip on the old radar. Terror had my intestines cramping, and I was torn between the impulse to beg him not to hurt me and the one insisting I ought to curl into a ball and weep. But losing the shred of composure I had left wouldn't get me out of that basement.

  I could see my cell. It was on the pile of clutter—I refused to think of them as trophies. One phone call and this nightmare would end. Though it was obvious Frankie wasn't playing with a full deck, I didn't think he was dim enough to just hand over my cell phone.

  "Your sister is pretty, too," he said.

  "Sister?" I lifted my head to look at him.

  "In the picture." He had one of our photo albums out, and turned to show me a picture of Mac in a bathing suit.

  He wasn't the first person to make that mistake. "She's not my sister. She's my daughter."

  His expression made me wish I could recall the words and stuff them so deep down that they'd never escape again. He set the book down carefully, as though it had a designated spot on the heap. Then he turned, his foot lashed out and hit me square in the stomach. "Don't lie to me!"

  All the air expelled from my body at the blow. I curled onto my side, gasping. Lesson learned. He couldn't, or wouldn't, accept the fact that Mac was my kid. Fine, I wouldn't argue with him over it.

  "I'm hungry," Frankie mused as though he hadn't just scrambled my innards. "I'm going to get us something to eat."

  Tears spilled over, blurring my vision of him ascending the stairs, though whether from pain or fear, I couldn't tell. How long had poor Gwen been trapped down here? How long until her fatal mistake? What had it been, and how could I avoid repeating it?

  The dizziness subsided, though I doubted I'd be able to stomach any food that he brought down. Would he hit me again? Or drug me? My gorge rose. No, I couldn't think like that. What I needed was to focus all my energy on coming up with a plan. Step one, get out of the damn shackles. Step two, get past the psychotic goon whose moods changed like the weather. Step three, run like hell.

  I liked my plan. It was a solid, sensible, multi-tier plan. Only problem, I didn't have a clue how to execute steps one or two. Which stole some of the wind from my sails. No, I had to keep going one breath at a time.

  The pain in my midsection had receded a little, so I attempted to sit upright, holding my bound wrists up to study the metal. Even in the dim basement, the cuffs shone with newness, the chain just as untarnished. I pulled my hands apart as far as the restraint allowed, about two feet. The same setup tethered my ankles. I could step over the connecting chain one foot at a time, but then my arms would just be behind me.

  The entire mess of chains was bolted to a single ring on the wall. Slowly, trying not to rattle the chains and alert Frankie to my movements, I made my way to the wall harness. Unlike the chain, this didn't look new. I touched it with one finger and rust fluttered down. The ring had been bolted to the wall, but the cement looked crumbled, possibly from old water damage. With time, I might be able to either break the ring or dig it out of the wall. It would have helped if I'd had a tool of some sort to aid me. Or for that matter, a weapon so I could defend myself the next time I inadvertently said something that upset my psychotic host.

  Turning, my gaze fell on the pile of stuff. Somehow I doubted Frankie had taken it upon himself to steel a screwdriver or a carving knife. He seemed drawn to soft or more personal items. Crouching, I moved aside CDs, DVDs, scarves, gloves, and a bejeweled throw pillow. How long had he been letting himself into my place and stealing our stuff? If I'd been less distracted, or had less clutter, I might have noticed the sheer volume of missing items sooner.

  My hand closed on a crystal nail file that I had purchased at a craft fair a few years ago. It was about as long as my index finger, and one end was pointed. Maybe this would do the trick.

  I was halfway back to the metal ring when the door to the upstairs opened and Frankie took a step down. I sat down on the mattress, sliding the nail file under the edge of the blanket to keep it out of sight.

  Frankie carried a tray weighed down with two large sandwiches, the box of doughnuts, and a single glass of milk. A lone rose stood in a crystal vase—the sight of it made me shiver. Why one glass of milk? I wondered if, in his deluded mind, he expected us to share it with two straws like a teenybopper couple in a classic movie.

  No way could I eat. Between his foot and my nerves, my stomach was a mess. As he set the foreboding tray down, I thought frantically, trying to figure out a way to distract him. We couldn't have a real conversation. What was I supposed to ask? So how many women have you kidnapped? Of course my mother had to be right about my smart mouth getting me into trouble. Maybe I should just stay quiet. Minimize the talking on my part so I wouldn't say the wrong thing. But the stilted silence was making me as nuts as my captors. "Tell me about your sister."

  Frankie blinked, and for one horrifying moment, I wondered if I'd made a deadly mistake. But then he smiled, that same smile that had completely fooled me during the group therapy at Dr. Patel's office. "Yvonne's real smart." He bit into a bologna sandwich and chewed openmouthed.

  Not a good sign, since she was the one who wanted me dead. "Is that right?"

  "Yes. How come you aren't eating your sandwich? I know you like to eat." He took a large swallow of milk.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him I didn't like bologna, but I bit it back. He might accuse me of "lying" again. Instead I held out the sandwich and offered it to him. "I think you are hungrier than I am."

  He nodded and stuffed the rest of sandwich one in his mouth before taking sandwich two.

  "Do you have a job?" I asked, wondering if there would be any time when I would be left down here alone to use the nail file to chip away at the concrete.

  He finished the milk, a big white mustache scrawled across his face before answering. "No."

  "So you can stay here with me?" I asked in a weak tone.

  He nodded.

  Of course.

  Frankie continued. "If I don't, Yvonne will kill you while I'm gone. And then I'll have to find someone new to love."

  "Wouldn't want to put you out," I managed.

  My sarcasm went over his head. When he handed me the box of doughnuts, I reached my hand in and, chains rattling, withdrew one.

  "These are your favorites," he told me.

  They weren't, though I had bought some a few weeks ago, before Gwen had been taken. "So, how long have you been visiting my apartment?"

  His brow furrowed as though he was having trouble creating a coherent timeline. "Awhile. Yvonne thought I'd like you, and if you were with me then that cop would be hers."

  Hunter. He was the cop. Yvonne was obviously as deranged as her brother, she was just better at hiding it.

  "We're going to be happy," Frankie informed me.

  It was easier just to nod and let him think what he wanted.

  Was this what being married was like? A smile slipped out, and mistaking the source, Frankie grinned back.

  "I knew you'd be happy here," he said.

  * * *

  Glutted from his meal, Frankie had been asleep for about forty-five minutes, snoring away in his chair like a bear with a head cold. In that time, I'd made a good amount of progress with the nail file on the cement wall. The rusty ring was incredibly loose, wiggling as I worked my chain back and forth slowly so it wouldn't make any noise. My hands were stiff from the cold, joints cramped at holding the same position so long, but I didn't dare pause even long enough to flex them. I was almost ready to tug it free when footsteps sounded overhead.

  Not wanting to draw attention to my handiwork, I dove for the mattress, chains rattling loudly.

  Frankie paused in midsnore and the chair thunked as he sat up. "What was that?"

  "I think your sister's home." I pointed at the ceiling.

  His gaze drifted upwards, and he yawned widely. "Okay."

  "Did you have a good sleep?" he asked me.

  I nodded, feigned appearing well rested. "And you?"

  He stretched, and the footrest went down. "I think I'm ready for sex now."

  I blinked, sure I hadn't heard him right. "You don't mean, with me…do you?"

  Of course he means with you! my inner self shrieked. Did you really think he was just keeping you around for decoration?

 

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