“I know what needs to be done. And a face without substance won’t get in the way of that.”
Nolene’s relief maps itself on her features. “What’s happening with the father?”
“His world falls apart tomorrow.”
9
AMY
––––––––
Monday, July 12
The room is dark when I jerk awake. I must have fallen asleep again after my kidnapper left. Fear swells in my chest. I don’t like this kind of darkness. Although I can’t sense my kidnapper in the room, that doesn’t comfort me. I didn’t sense him before. It seems evil isn’t always a tangible presence.
I feel the top of the bedside table, grateful the effects of the drug have mostly worn off. My fumbling knocks over the plastic cup I drank from earlier.
There’s no bedside lamp.
Panic drums a beat that echoes the dull thud of my heart.
Think. Think!
The door. There’s always a light switch near a door. I grope along the wall until I encounter the doorframe. It seems to take forever before I find the switch and press it. Light floods the room.
Relieved, I slump against the wall, squinting in the brightness. They took my watch so I have no idea of the time or how long I’ve been asleep.
Mentally rewinding the last twenty-four hours, I shake my head in disbelief. I’ve been kidnapped. The thought alone is ludicrous, but the reality is I’ve been drugged, imprisoned somewhere, and threatened. Who would kidnap me? And why? Whoever he is, he seems to have a personal vendetta against my father. I can only assume this is about money. My dad is wealthy, although not exorbitantly so, but I know he will pay anything to securemy release.
Despair creeps in though, when I think of my father and how worried he’ll be. I know from my therapist that if I spend too much time in my head I’m in danger of spiraling so I push myself off the wall and try the door. It won’t open. I look around the room. Built-in cupboards line one wall. I pull on the handles, but the doors are all locked. The one window in the room is boarded up.
How long, I wonder bitterly, has he been planning this?
The furnishings aren’t much. A single bed, a wooden bedside table, a plastic garden chair, and a trash can. From the indentations in the carpet, I assume the other items of furniture have been removed. So the kidnapper doesn’t want me too comfortable. Or he doesn’t want me using anything as a weapon.
But he’s neglected the one weapon I have plenty of experience in wielding: my looks.
I switch on the light in the en-suite bathroom. A toilet, basin, and bath. My eyes widen. The bathroom has no door, which means he can wander in anytime he pleases. When I’m taking a bath or sitting on the toilet.
I briefly close my eyes. This nightmare is getting worse by the minute. I force myself to take stock of the bathroom items provided: bar of soap, threadbare towel, toothbrush, and a roll of toilet paper. Not even a canister of hairspray to aim at his eyes. In the mirror above the basin I catch sight of my reflection. Shock washes over me. My blonde hair hangs in limp strands around my face, my eyes are swollen and red-rimmed, and my normally glowing skin now appears a washed-out white.
Looking like this, no wonder I haven’t had any effect on my kidnapper. I comb my fingers through my hair, splash water on my face, and brush my teeth. Only an eye serum can salvage my eyes, but I pinch my cheeks and bite my lower lip in an effort to bring color to my face. Perhaps an improved appearance will soften my kidnapper.
I press my knees together. I can no longer ignore the fact that my bladder is uncomfortably full. I have to go, but what if someone barges in? I shuffle about for a few minutes, and then cave. Grabbing the towel, I hastily pull down my jeans and sit on the toilet, draping the towel across my lap. I finish as quickly as I can.
I’m filling my cup with tap water when the door opens. My kidnapper enters the room and shuts the door behind him. He’s still wearing the ski mask. Although the sight of it scares me half to death, particularly with those cold gray eyes boring into mine, the mask is also oddly reassuring. If he’s at pains to conceal his identity, surely that means he intends to return me.
“Feeling better?” he asks.
It’s a perfunctory question and I don’t bother answering it. My attention is riveted on my handbag dangling from his index finger. Positioning the chair to face the bed, he sits, putting my handbag on his lap. His posture is relaxed, while my body vibrates with tension.
He points to the bed. “Sit.”
I sit opposite him, taking a sip of water to cover my apprehension.
We stare at one another. I break eye contact first. “I’d like my handbag back, please.”
“I’m sure you would.”
