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“Look.” He straddles my hips and holds his phone before my face.
A video plays on the screen, some sort of camera feed that shows Monty sitting in his office, sipping from a glass tumbler, staring off in the distance.
My stomach buckles.
“See the time stamp?” He points at the running clock at the bottom. “Live stream.”
Damn you, Monty. Damn you to hell.
Whoever this bastard is, he planned this. Prepared for it. He’s been watching us.
And Monty isn’t coming.
I’m on my own.
With a soft smile, he pockets the phone and steps toward the bed. Climbing onto the mattress, he rises to his full height and reaches for the fire detector in the ceiling.
What the—?
Realization pummels me as he removes an inconspicuous device from the plastic housing. I know it’s a camera before he holds it up, waving it at me.
How long? I demand with fuming eyes. How long have you been watching me? In my bedroom? While I sleep? While I fuck my husband?
“I know everything about you, Frankie Novak.” He hops off the bed and drops the camera into a bag by the door. A bag filled with other cameras. “I’ve watched you long enough to know your husband doesn’t deserve you.”
Does the device have audio? Has he been listening, too? Does he know I’m carrying Monty’s baby?
My thoughts run rabid as I imagine all the ways he’s violated my privacy. If the camera was aimed at the bed, the pregnancy test might have been out of view this morning when Monty crushed it beneath his shoe. I cleaned up the broken pieces.
There was no audio on the video of Monty’s office. Maybe this man doesn’t know why I planned to leave.
I don’t want him to know. It probably doesn’t matter either way, but keeping my pregnancy a secret feels safer. It’s one less thing for him to threaten or use against me.
Without loosening the restraints or freeing my arms, he wraps the heavy coat around my body and fastens the zipper partway. Since it’s not cold enough outside for this, I can only assume this is an extra layer of bindings.
Then, as if I weigh nothing, he scoops me up and gives the bedroom a once-over.
Nothing is out of place. Not a single thing tipped over. No evidence of struggle or signs of an intruder. My untouched bourbon sits on the nightstand. My phone and wedding rings mock me from the bed. Carefully packed bags wait in my boat. All made to look like a runaway, not a kidnapping.
And the intruder wears latex gloves.
If he hadn’t shown up, I would’ve left everything exactly this way. I would’ve left the phone and jewelry. No note or explanation.
When Monty sits here alone tonight, he’ll come to that conclusion. He knows me better than anyone, and he’ll believe I ran with every intention not to be found.
Will he look for me anyway? How hard and long will he hunt?
Or will he see it as an opportunity to wash his hands of an unwanted pregnancy?
I honestly don’t know.
Efficient and unhurried, my abductor carries me out of the bedroom, grabbing my boots and the bag by the door.
Dread cramps my insides so viciously I labor to breathe.
This is it.
Only two options left.
I escape.
Or I die.
4
Denver
—
I’m flying high, riding the wave of a job well-done as I bring my brilliant plan to fruition.
It’s all too easy with Frankie wiggling sluggishly in my hold. She’s exhausted. Probably shell-shocked.
Until I carry her out of the bedroom.
Her breathing detonates. She thrashes and kicks, and here we go again.
I tighten my grip on her, this tiny bundle of flexing muscle and mounting hysteria. She squirms and hisses like an injured wolverine. Such a rabid little thing, damn near the size of a child with the attitude of an arctic storm.
Down the stairs and through the mudroom, I tread, plucking her boat key from a hook by the door. As I slip it into my pocket and shoulder my way out the rear exit, she continues to flail in uncontrollable fits of seething desperation and adorable grit.
She thinks she can overpower me. So hellbent on changing the outcome I’ve carefully laid out for her. It’s endearing, really. I much prefer tenacity to sobbing fear.
I need her strong. Resilient. A companion in hardiness and determination. It’s the only way she’ll last.
The tendons in her neck strain, her eyes wildly darting over the wet landscape as I amble toward the docks. Raindrops cling to her lashes. Puffs of steam rise from her gag. Every sinew in her body vibrates with her muffled screams, demanding answers.
She doesn’t need her voice. I hear her questions loud and clear.
“I swam here.” My stolen slippers squelch along the paved path, the downpour washing away any evidence of my visit. “We’re leaving on your boat.”
She snarls, enraged by that news. If her hands were free, I imagine she would punch me in the throat. Or try. She’ll learn in the coming days why keeping me alive and unharmed is vital to her health.
