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“Why not you?”
She makes a face.
“Don’t be coy, Frankie. You know exactly how men look at you. Some are content with just looking. Others want more.”
“So this is about sex.”
“Is it? Or is that your filter warping the truth?”
“You’re talking in circles, deliberately trying to confuse me.”
“Perhaps.”
Maybe someday, she’ll understand. Maybe she won’t. It’s too early to tell if she’ll live long enough to sort it all out.
She stares at her lap, fidgeting with the hem of her sweatshirt. After a moment, she meets my eyes. “Are you watching the news?”
“Do you see a television on board?”
“I haven’t been out of this cabin.”
“I don’t watch the news or look at social media or have any interest in human drama.”
“Says the psychopath who installed a camera in my fucking bedroom.”
“That was due diligence.” I lean a shoulder against the doorframe. “You think your husband is looking for you?”
“I know he is. It’s been what? Four days? That means he already has every police department, private detective, and mercenary along the Gulf hunting for me. His award money alone will incite a frenzy of search parties.”
She sounds so confident. Too confident.
“Are you sure?” I mark the tiny nerve pulsing at the corner of her eye. “Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself, not me.”
“I don’t have to convince you. While you’re down here playing twenty questions, they’re closing in. I’d watch my back if I were you.”
Has she forgotten about the clues we left behind? Her phone and wedding rings on the bed? Her passport and birth certificate missing? No sign of forced entry or struggle? Her boat docked near the airport?
No, she hasn’t forgotten.
Her shoulders slump. “What’s your name?”
It’s the first time she’s asked, and I feel compelled to answer.
“Denver.”
“Denver what?”
“That’s not important.”
“No? Well, if you don’t tell me, I’ll just refer to you as Denver Pitt.”
“Pitt?”
“Brad Pitt’s deranged brother.”
Ah. My resemblance to the actor. I’ve heard it before.
Rather than laughing, I invite an awkward silence to fall between us.
During the span of that unease, I stare at her with laser focus. She returns my stare with stubborn distrust.
I can do this all day, but she just can’t help herself.
“What?” She squirms. Huffs. “Don’t you have better things to do?”
“Yes. It’s time to dock.” I can almost smell the arctic air of a land unknown to the common man. “We’re almost home.”
6
Denver
—
Home.
I watch Frankie absorb that one word, her green eyes aglow with mistaken hope.
No, I’m not returning to her island.
But in that fleeting moment of misunderstanding, I’m struck by how impossibly, flawlessly beautiful she is. All that red hair tangled around slender shoulders. Sinfully shaped lips derived straight from the male fantasy. A pale, graceful neck that stretches and relaxes with a flux of emotions.
Christ, she’s magnificent. So much more than I bargained for.
“Your home.” She blinks, coming to terms with my meaning. “Where is that?”
“Just a little farther.” I remove the hypodermic from my pocket and prepare it for injection.
“No.” Her head shakes rapidly, a fresh fight welling up inside her. “You don’t have to drug me. I’ll behave.”
We’ve gone round and round about this so many times. Four days of it.
Choosing the route of least traffic from Sitka, I’ve spent the long days at sea, fishing while she bellows and begs from the cabin below. Keeping her gagged seems cruel, so I allow her the freedom to eat and drink and wear out her vocal cords.
Until my radar picks up an approaching boat.
With every potential encounter, I have no choice but to dope her or gag her. Usually both.
Each time she rouses from a narcotic-induced sleep, she promises to stay quiet.
Little liar.
At the first sound of a motor or a rudder or a damn seagull, she wails like a demented banshee.
On a positive note, I’ve analyzed her responses to the numerous injections and determined the perfect dosage for her. I know exactly how much to give her to ensure she stays dead to the world until it’s safe.
“This is the last time.” I hold up the injection.
“You’ll regret this.” Rigid and wild-eyed, she shuffles back on the berth. “He’s coming for you.”
If that’s true, he better hurry. The window is closing fast.
Where I’m taking her doesn’t exist on any map. It’s a world outside this one, where very few have ever set foot. Only the strong survive its brutal beauty. The rest are left to languish in the barren hills.
Will she thrive or perish?
Only she can decide that.
No one will save her.
After four days in the Gulf of Alaska, I haven’t seen a Coast Guard cutter or patrol boat. Several locals have waved me down—fishermen inquiring about the Steelhead, Dolly Varden, and Rainbow Trout I caught in my nets. But no law enforcement. No mercenaries. No one is looking for her.
Or they’re not looking in the right place.
I approach her, and as expected, she turns it into another tussle. Another futile attempt to control the outcome. It only takes seconds to plunge the needle into her thigh.
