Oh, why wasn’t I one of those women who got into true crime? I laugh at horror movies, but can’t stomach serial killer documentaries—and look where it’s gotten me.
Guy shakes his head. “I don’t care if I’m remembered, so long as those players are wiped off the board before they can ruin any more lives.”
My stomach growls. How the hell can my body want food when it feels like the blood’s been drained from me?
“You must be hungry,” he says. “I was going to order takeout. What would you like? Chinese? Thai? Pizza? There’s a KFC around here, but they tend to run out of chicken on Friday nights. Pretty bad business for a chicken franchise.”
I shake my head at him. “Um… I don’t know. Surprise me?”
He nods before turning his back on me. “I’ll be back once the food’s here. Make yourself comfortable.”
He thuds his way back up the steps.
Guy stops halfway and ducks his head down to look at me. “Oh, and you can scream when the driver gets here if you want, but they won’t hear you. I have an iron-enforced door, plus the walls are heavily soundproofed. Like I said, please don’t hurt yourself doing something stupid.”
He disappears upstairs as the heavy creak of an iron bar slips into place.
Fuck. I’m trapped.
Thank God for bobby pins.
That itchy wig and wig cap are tossed into a corner of the bathroom, and luckily, amateur Guy Fawkes forgot he put bobby pins in my hair.
Granted, I have no idea how to use one to pick a lock, so I’m fumbling as I try to pop the lock on my cuff. How do they do this in movies?
After ten minutes of messing with the lock in the safety of the bathroom, finally, the metal falls away with a heavy clunk on the floor.
My wrist aches as the weight falls from it. I tuck the second bobby pin in my bra, just in case, and discard the used one beside the open cuff.
I don’t know how long it’s been since he went upstairs, or how long it’ll take for food to get here, so I work fast. Checking the door, I see it locks from the outside. Damnit, there goes my only way out.
So, I’m going to have to wait for Guy to return.
Gripping the chain, I drag it deeper into the bathroom so it looks like I’m occupied. Then I crouch under the stairs.
And I wait.
The door finally creaks open.
His boots thud overhead. I only have one chance at this.
“Daphne, I hope you’re hungry.”
As he steps down and into the room, adrenaline shoots through me. He takes a couple of steps into the room, his back to me.
I dart out and go to kick the back of his knee to drop him to the floor.
But his hands are empty. There’s no food.
He whips around, jumping out of reach before grabbing my wrist. He spins me around, and my back slams into his chest so hard it rattles the breath in my lungs. My ass presses into him and… oh my God. Is he turned on? Or is that a gun?
His free hand circles around my head, and a tea towel covers my mouth.
I scream.
Everything goes dark.
CHAPTER FOUR
