“Good. Now, place your hands on the table, palms down. And wait.”
I wait. Forever. Fall turns to winter and then spring in the space of this eternity. But then I sense him in my space. I feel the brush of air beside me, hear soft footsteps, and I long for the return of that eternity wrapped up in the brief few minutes I waited.
I want to run. I want to rip the blindfold off. But I'm afraid if I see his face, he'll pick up that gun—the weapon I stupidly hand-delivered to him—and just kill me.
Something heavy is placed on the table. Metal or glass, I can't be sure. But then I smell it. Food. Steam is rising up off the dish, wafting to my nose. Then something else, a lighter sound, then something like a glass. A cork pops. Liquid is poured into the glass.
“I'm sorry you missed your birthday dinner. Let me make it up to you. I made lasagna.”
I freeze. The tears start to flow down my cheeks again. “Please... don't...”
“Don't what? Don't feed you? You have to eat. And you haven't had dinner.”
He sounds so reasonable as he says this. As if any of this were reasonable. But I can't stop the tears. They only come harder. Lasagna is what I made last night for Conall. It's the food I poisoned. Why would he give me lasagna? Is he poisoning me? Maybe he's just a psychopath who wanted to toy with me for a little while and then kill me.
“This is a pretty strong reaction to lasagna,” he says mildly. “Why? Is it because that was Conall's final meal? So, what? You're just never going to eat this food again? I make a great lasagna. You can't take this from me.”
“Is it going to kill me?”
He chuckles at that. “I told you, I'm not going to kill you. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't use a gun, and I wouldn't use poison.”
His hands slide around my throat, and I tense. My palms are still flat on the table. I don't bother to claw at him because he doesn't squeeze. It's an object lesson. This is how he would do it... to answer my curiosity, to make me stop spinning the thousand ways I could die at his hands. This is the way he would do it. He would just wrap his hands around my throat... and squeeze. It would take almost no effort on his part.
The amount of power he has to hurt me in this moment nearly levels me. I'm about to have a full-on panic attack. But before I can reach that moment of sheer hysteria, he removes his hands from around my neck. Then he says, “Open,” and a steaming bite of lasagna is prodding at my mouth.
I'm still afraid it's poisoned. I can't help it. I don't know this person. And anyone who would do what he's doing... this sick, twisted blackmail... this desire to own my life like this... is not someone I can trust. But I have no choice. I open my mouth and hope it's not poisoned.
This is the best food I've ever had in my mouth. Holy fuck. This man could be a chef. It wasn't an empty boast; he really does make a great lasagna. For a moment I forget to be afraid it's poisoned. It's just that amazing. After a few bites, a glass prods at my lips, and I sip the red wine he offers.
When the food is gone, I hear dishes being removed and then there is another small plate in front of me. I know it's small because of the lighter sound it makes when it settles in front of me. And another glass. Another liquid. This time the liquid comes out of something with a cap you screw off. I can hear it. My hearing is so acute in this moment, listening for every single tiny clue for what's coming next, even as I'm terrified to know.
I flinch when I hear and smell a match being lit.
“Relax,” he whispers in my ear.
As if that's even a possibility. Having a psycho light a match near you while you're blindfolded isn't exactly something that inspires relaxation in most normal people.
“It's your birthday candle,” he says. “Now, I'm going to remove the blindfold for a moment so you can see your cupcake. If you turn around to look at me, you will be punished.”
Punished. I don't know what that means, but I don't want to know.
“Will you turn around and try to look at me?” he asks.
“No, Sir. I don't want to die.”
“I didn't say I'd kill you. I said I'd punish you. Or maybe report you. I know you just murdered someone last night, but this obsession with killing is just unhealthy, Ms. Lane.”
There’s suddenly a flash of knowledge that pops into my head—like that creepy unexplainable psychic intuition people sometimes get. And maybe I'm wrong about this, but I have the sudden very strong feeling that he's already taken a precaution. Maybe he has a ski mask with the mouth cut out to allow unobstructed speech.
I just don't believe he would take this risk with me. He wants to know if I'll turn around and try to find out who he is. If I do that, and he's wearing a mask, I won't have any greater knowledge, and there will be another price to pay for the disobedience.
He removes the blindfold, and I use every ounce of discipline my training has afforded me and resist the urge to turn around. I look straight ahead at a chocolate cupcake, with light pink frosting and a small red candle on top.
He leans close to my ear. “Close your eyes, make a wish, and blow out the candle. But don't tell me what it is, or it won't come true.”
What the fuck is happening right now?
I should wish that this man didn't know my secret. I should wish to be free of whatever demands he may make of me. But I can't waste my wish on that. I wish for what I always wish—every year since my fourteenth birthday. I wish to be a principal. I wish to be the star.
