The assistant rings my purchases through the till, nowhere near quickly enough for my liking, and I hand over my card, punching in the pin so fast my fingers skim the wrong digits. It takes three attempts to get it right.
‘Do you want a bag?’ she calls, but I’m already jogging through aisle upon aisle of Pinot Noir and Pinot Grigio.
My gut is on fire.
Every hair on my body prickles to attention.
Something’s wrong.
My instincts are screaming at me.
Like a sixth sense, I just know. I feel it with every single fibre of my being.
I sprint the two hundred metres to Victoria’s house, my breath burning the lining of my lungs. The front door’s still locked. There’s no sign of forced entry. So why is every electrified nerve ending screaming she’s in trouble?
I insert the key in the lock with shaky fingers and force the door open.
My boots pound the stairs up to the first floor. The kitchen’s empty. I drop the bottles onto the counter. ‘Vic?’ Panic weighs my tone. ‘Victoria?’
I scan the living room with eagle eyes. There’s not so much as a cushion out of place.
I run for the stairs up to the third floor. The bedroom door’s closed, but even with the Saturday night traffic passing outside the sash windows, Victoria’s muffled cries are audible.
It takes two seconds to grab a gun from my bedside locker. Two seconds which I can’t undo. Two seconds that may as well be ten minutes.
My boot connects with Victoria’s bedroom door hard enough to shatter the wood into splinters.
Victoria’s wrists are bound with a pinstripe tie above her head, her pretty mouth gagged with masking tape. She’s on the bed, surrounded by an array of her own exquisite lingerie.
Doctor Dickhead leers over her. A long sharp knife glints in his hand.
‘Ahh, Victoria’s resident dog. And lover, I believe.’ The strap of the summer dress Andie insisted she have this morning has slipped down, revealing Victoria’s creamy collarbone. He runs a hand across her bare skin. I hate that he can see her like this, let alone touch her. Rage courses through my arteries, priming every muscle for action.
I point my pistol at his head. ‘Get your hands off her.’ My tone’s lethal, yet somehow it invokes a smile from the sick, twisted fuck.
My ward.
My everything.
Outwardly, my hand doesn’t shake even a millimetre. Internally, I’m quivering with enough rage and adrenaline to fuel a world war.
He presses the knife against her throat. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’ A pinched smile curls his thin lips upwards. His voice is playful. Unhinged. He’s enjoying himself. ‘We’ve been waiting for you, haven’t we, Victoria?’ She flinches as unwelcome fingers stroke her glossy hair fanned out across the pillow.
I could probably put a bullet in his head before he had time to press that knife into her neck, and if it was any other of my wards lying on that bed I wouldn’t hesitate, but what if he hurts her?
What if that knife pierces her throat?
What if I can’t save her?
Stone-cold eyes mock me from across the room. ‘You always did like to watch us together, didn’t you? Well, you’re in for a treat. We’re going to give you quite the show tonight, aren’t we, Victoria?’ The knife slides lower over her heart and she whimpers behind the tape covering her mouth.
Mad, beady eyes dart to the lingerie he’s put out on display. ‘Quite an impressive collection.’
The dirty bastard. I should have known Harrison didn’t have the cunning to execute this type of horror show.
Victoria’s eyes meet with mine, pleading silently. Her body is rigid on the bed where we’ve made love so many times.
‘This has to be my personal favourite.’ He lifts a scarlet thong and presses it against his face with a long, slow appreciative inhale.
