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“I can’t do that, love.” My stomach turns at the tone of his voice. “I’ve worked too hard to get you here.”
“What are you talking about? This isn’t funny. Let me go. You’re scaring me.”
Hopping up from the chair, he rushes toward me, and I jerk back. “Shhh…” he hums, dragging two fingers down my cheek. “Don’t be scared. I’m not going to hurt you. I want to cherish you. Treat you the way you should be treated.”
“Vince, chaining me to a bed is not treating me right. Please, just let me go.” I tug at my ankle, trying to loosen the cuff, my head spinning. How did I get here? The last thing I remember is the car ride. We were headed to drop off his sister. She gave me the shot and… “What did you give me?”
“Nothing that will harm you. Just wanted to give you some time to rest and adjust to your new surroundings.” I jerk at his words and quickly scan the dimly lit room.
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re mine, Mindy. You always have been.” He reaches out to caress my cheek again, and I fumble off the side of the bed. I scramble to my feet and lunge away, only to be jolted back and thrown to the floor. To my horror, I follow the chain from my ankle to a bolted hook attached to the floor.
“Vince—”
“I know. It’s just temporary.”
“Vince, this is insane. I’m not staying here.”
He slams his foot to the ground. “Yes, you are.” He wipes his hands down his face, then replaces his manic look with a smile. “You just need time.”
“No, I need you to let me go.”
“It’s late. You should get some rest. I need to run out and grab some things. We can talk more when I get back.” He continues to smile at me, dread twisting in my gut. When he nods and turns away, my terror mounts with every step he takes toward the door.
“Vince, please. Don’t leave me here. Vince!” Without looking back, he shuts the door. I scream his name as the sound of a lock clicks in place. “Vince!” I yell again, bile rising in my throat. I tug at the chain, following it to the bolt in the floor. “No, no, no.” Using all my strength, I pull and pull until I cry out in frustration. Lifting the long chain, I stand and survey my surroundings. The bedding. The picture frames. The wall décor. I grip my belly in fear of being sick.
I’m in a bedroom.Mybedroom. “It can’t be,” I whisper, raw panic in my voice. There’s a sliver of hope that maybe I am. The walls are thin. If I can reach over and start pounding on something, someone will hear me. A neighbor will complain. “Oh, God.” I rush over to the wall, but the chain stops me. I climb back onto the bed, banging my fist against the wall above the headboard. “Help! Someone help me!” I catch my breath to start again when I see it. The wallpaper. My stomach drops. I pick at the wallpaper and watch as it peels off the wall, revealing the dark paint underneath. Color drains from my face as I rip a large piece away. I take a longer look around. The room is decorated exactly like mine. But it’s not mine at all. “No…” The window is wrong. The floor is wrong. The light— “No!”
The room begins to spin. The overwhelming scent of roses starts to suffocate me. So many roses. And then I stop. The roses. The bouquets at work… the messages…I can’t wait to make you cry.The attack…
“Oh, god.” I cover my mouth, about to be sick.
“Vince! Please! Let me out of here!” I scream. Beg. Cry. When my throat becomes raw, I give up. My shoulders slump, and I crawl back into the bed, sobbing into the pillow. When I’ve spent all my energy, I slip into unconsciousness.
***
Chapter twenty-two
Tate
That’s my son, Paul.
That’s my son, Paul.
That’s my son, Paul.
His words play on repeat like a horror movie as dread gnaws at my insides.
“Goddammit,” Rochel hisses. Stabbing a number into his phone, he places it to his ear. “He’s been using the father’s alias,” he rushes out. “We’re looking for Paul Tillman. Update the APB. I want the arrest warrant in my hands when I get back to the station. Suspect is considered armed and dangerous.”
“What did Paul do now?”
I’m on the attack, grabbing him by the lapels of his fancy suit coat. “Your son stalked, then abducted a woman.” His lips part in a sharp gasp.
“Mr. Tillman, do you know where your son is?” Rochel inquires.
He shakes his head. “No, I haven’t spoken to him in days. A week, maybe. He’s been—”
