My eyebrows lift. “This coming from someone who went to jail rather than inform on other activists?”
She looks away.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” I insist. “Talk.”
She bites her lower lip. “I have a bad feeling.”
I eye her curiously. A couple of years ago, Nolene jumped into a Japanese bay where fifty dolphins were herded for slaughter. She used a knife to cut the fishing nets imprisoning them, managing to free some of the dolphins before the authorities arrested and deported her. Nolene is not the type to waste time on nerves or sentiment. So what’s going on here?
“You’ve never had a bad feeling before,” I say, frowning.
“We’ve never kidnapped someone before.”
“We all agreed to it,” I point out. “You know what’s at stake here.” I let a second tick by. “Nolene, if you’re backing out—”
“I’m not backing out,” she says fiercely. “If I had to, I’d go in there and drag that woman out by the hair. Just...keep safe.”
Ah, so it’s personal. I don’t have time for this right now. “I’ll be careful.”
I exit the car before she says anything else, hefting my golf bag out the trunk.
Her window slides down. “Text me when you’ve got her. I’ll come pick you both up.”
I nod and watch as she drives off to wait for me in the clubhouse.
As I stand there, I feel that tingling sensation in my gut, the one I always get before a job, that sense of anticipation overlaid with a shaming dose of nerves.
Adjusting the golf bag so it fits comfortably on my shoulder, I start walking. Amy’s house is situated on the fourth hole, a short distance away, but I’m not worried about attracting attention. Rightnow, with my cap pulled low, golf shirt, and chinos, I look like a typical resident returning from a round. A few token irons and drivers poke out of the bag, but inside I’ve hidden all the necessary equipment: ski mask, rope, and syringe filled with Ketamine.
I raise my face to the sun, letting the heat of its rays dissolve the tension tightening my skin. I marvel at how quiet the estate is. Traffic is a distant hum, children’s laughter the only sound disturbing the almost eerie stillness in this section of the estate. It’s an unbelievably idyllic lifestyle.
Memories of my own childhood sweep over me, living in a two-bedroomed apartment in a rundown neighborhood, listening to the neighbors’ music blaring day and night, watching drugged-up delinquents doing donuts in the street.
It’s an existence Amy has never known. That’s about to change though. A couple more hours and then I’ll strip away the world Graham Hutchinson has so carefully bubble-wrapped for his only daughter.
#
I stand outside Amy’s front door and ring the doorbell, a formality since I know Sunday is the cleaner’s day off. Using my body as a shield, I slip on disposable gloves, my pulse kicking up with each passing second. The lock is an easy one to pick and I step inside.
I have about an hour to explore Amy’s house before she returns. Skipping the guest toilet on the right, I walk into the TV room. Huge TV. Expensive, cream-colored corner couch. Only a woman with no kids would opt for that color. Dirty mugs and plates are scattered across the coffee table. A floor lamp has been left on. Definitely the cleaner’s day off.
In the dining room, instead of the large, imposing table I imagined, there’s a round mahogany table framed by six chairs. It tells me Amy favors intimate gatherings with no social hierarchy.From monitoring her, I know she invites a group of friends over once a week, but the invitation rarely includes the same faces. So she has no close friends. That’s good. That means there are fewer people concerned when she disappears.
A double-sided fireplace separates the dining room from the formal living room, another floor lamp lighting up two wingbacks. It’s only when I stand in the kitchen that I realize what’s bothering me: Amy has left a light on in every room. Frowning, I glance at my watch. It’s two in the afternoon. If Amy sticks to her usual routine, she’ll return around three. Because it’s summer, there’s still plenty of light at that time. Only in the event of a late-afternoon storm will the lights have to be turned on. So Amy’s playing it safe. Which means she doesn’t like the dark. A hangover from her childhood? Some sort of phobia? The information could prove useful, and I mentally store it away.
After committing the downstairs layout to memory, I head upstairs to Amy’s bedroom. Her four-poster bed dominates the room, some sort of sheer material draping down the cherrywood posts. A closet romantic. I wouldn’t have guessed.
I glance at the items on her bedside table. An alarm clock, a cluster of silver-framed photos, and a reading lamp. The lamp is switched on.
I study the photos. These are images she turns to before closing her eyes each night. They’re all snapshots of father and daughter in various poses, both of them laughing, confident, only the backdrop changing—from the slopes of a snow-covered mountain to the bow of a yacht moored in an impossibly blue ocean. The photos confirm my research, that father and daughter enjoy an unusually close relationship.
Like me, Amy is an only child. I think of all the trappings of that position—the pampering, the loneliness, the parental pressure. Most importantly, the fierce protectiveness of the parents. An unexpectedpang cinches my throat muscles. My parents are dead, killed in a head-on collision. Seeing the easy intimacy between Amy and her father, I realize I’ve lost all the bonds that blood affords.
The photos catch my eye again. Even in their flat reflection, few can dispute Amy’s attractiveness. Her elbow-length hair hangs like a sheer golden curtain around her heart-shaped face. Large luminous blue eyes stare at me. Delicate-looking blondes like Amy are not my type. Even disregarding my physical preferences, there’s one crucial reason I can only ever despise someone like her. She’s a woman capable of loving a monster.
