"He will pay," the man says. There’s no question in his voice. I realize, dimly, that I think he’s trying to console me, in some odd way.
I swallow hard. My mouth feels so dry. I still haven’t been given any food or water. "How do you know?"
“They always pay.” He pauses. "And because I heard fear in his voice. Real fear. That is not something you can fake."
The observation surprises me. I wouldn't have expected him to notice or care about something like that. But then again, he's clearly good at reading people. You don't get to be in charge of a criminal organization without understanding human nature. And I suppose it probably has nothing to do with caring. He must know what fear sounds like.
"Get some rest," he says, moving toward the door. "In forty-eight hours, this will be over. You will go home."
"And if he doesn't pay?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
He pauses at the door and looks back at me. For a moment, something flickers in those blue eyes—something I can't quite read."He will pay," he says again. He pauses, studying me for a long moment. “My name is Andrei, by the way.”
Then he's gone. The lock clicks. I'm alone again.
I sink onto the bed, my legs suddenly unsteady. The phone call replays in my mind—my father's voice, and the way he demanded to know if I was hurt. The threats he must have made against my captors. The unintelligible shouting.
He was scared. Really scared. I heard it too, I realize. My father was terrified for me.
The realization sits heavy in my chest. I can't remember the last time I heard that kind of emotion in his voice. It’s a strange thing, but for the first time in a while, I’m reminded that my father really does care about me. He shows it usually in a monetary way, but that doesn’t make it any less real.
I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Forty-eight hours. Two days. And then, if everything goes according to plan, I'll be home. I should feel relieved… hopeful, even. Instead, I feel unsettled, still afraid, and confused.
Until I’m home, I won’t be able to stop being afraid that for some reason, some unfathomable reason that would make no sense, my father either won’t give them the money, or he’ll give it, and they’ll kill me anyway. And underneath that, there’s something else, too, a confusion that I know better than to linger on.
The man who has me is a criminal. A bad man, one who would keep a woman captive and let her be afraid for financial gain. But the way it felt when he looked at me…
Andrei.He gave me his name. He tried to reassure me. I know I’m grasping at straws, at anything to make this better, but I can’t shake the way it felt when his fingers brushed against mine, the strange intensity that seems to crackle in the air between us every time he enters a room. His presence, the shock of it.
I push that thought away. It doesn't matter. In forty-eight hours, this will be over, and I'll go home.
And I'll never see him again.
4
LIESL
Morning light filters through heavy curtains when I wake.
For one disoriented moment, I forget where I am. The bed is soft and the sheets expensive, which is nothing new, but the sounds of the city are missing. No horns, no shouts, no traffic or pedestrian noises.
Then reality settles back in. The locked bedroom, the letter, the estate, the shockingly handsome blue-eyed man. Kidnapping, a van, restraints, fear.Andrei.
I sit up slowly and take stock of my prison.
The room is nicer than most hotel suites I've stayed in. The bed is king-sized with ridiculously luxurious bedding and feather pillows, and the furniture looks expensive, too. Heavy drapes frame windows that overlook the manicured grounds. The front courtyard, hedges, and floral beds are immaculate, and I can only imagine what the rest of the estate must look like. I doubt I’ll ever have a chance to see it. In forty-eight hours, if all goes well, I’ll be home… and I doubt they’ll let me out of my prison before then.
There's a sitting area near the windows with a leather armchair the color of cognac, an ottoman, and a side table with a lamp. A desk against one wall, its surface empty and polished to a mirror shine. Everything is tasteful and expensive. It all looks like it was selected by some decorator, someone who knows exactly how to arrange color schemes and furniture sets, but has no actual stake in the personality of the place.
I slide out of bed, still wearing my clothes from yesterday. I need food, water, a shower… all things that even normal prisoners get. The first two haven’t been brought to me, and the third…
Well, if I’m going to shower, I’d like to have clean clothes to put on. I’m still wearing the workout clothes they kidnapped me in, my sneakers kicked off next to the bed, and the thought of it makes my skin crawl. The last thing I want is to get clean and then put dirty workout clothes back on.
There’s no sounds outside, so I walk to the door. I test the handle even though I know it won't turn. It doesn't. I run my fingers along the frame, looking for weaknesses in the construction, gaps in the seal. Nothing. The door is solid wood, and heavy. The lock is sturdy, too.
Next, the windows. I cross the room and try each one. They don't budge. They’re not sealed with paint or neglect, but actually reinforced. I can see the extra pane of glass, and the metal frame that's been welded into place. The view is just that—a view. Not an escape route.
I wander into the bathroom for something do to, and look around. It’s all marble and chrome, again, expensive and luxurious. There’s a rainfall shower, a deep soaking tub, and expensive toiletries tucked in cabinets and drawers and laid out on the counter. I check the cabinets. There’s no razors or scissors. Nothing sharp. Nothing heavy enough to be a weapon. They've thought of everything.
