My captor sings along about waiting for love. When he looks up and makes eye contact with me, I snort. Once I get the fuck out of here, I never want to see this crazy nut again.
“Are you ready to eat now, baby?” He gestures at the chair by the island. “You let me in your body without a condom. I think it’s safe for you to eat my cooking.”
It probably is, but I won’t do it because it’s what he wants.
“I’d rather cook for myself.” He drops his knife, and I think I see disappointment in his eyes. “Don’t call me baby. I don’t like that.”
“Can you cook for us both?”
“I’m not cooking for you. Are you crazy? What the hell do I look like cooking for a kidnapper?”
“It would look like you’re unselfish. Just make double whatever you’re making for yourself. Damn.”
He leaves the cutting board, opens the fridge, and gestures for me to come closer. He pulls out a bottle of champagne and a can of pineapple juice.
He makes two mimosas, but I ignore mine while I grab things from his fridge to make omelets.
Another love song comes on, and I say, “Can you please turn off the music?” I ask as nicely as possible given the circumstances.
“You don’t like love songs?”
“Not under these circumstances.”
“It’s always the right circumstance for love.” I decide to ignore that last statement. He turns off the music, and I continue my cooking.
I make two vegetable omelets and cook the turkey bacon I found in his fridge. I finally give in and take one of the water bottles. Hopefully, he’ll shut the fuck up long enough for me to eat and think of a way to end his life.
“So, tell me about yourself,” I ask while we eat. He looks up, but his eyes narrow at me.
“What do you think you know about me?” he counters, and I decide not to beat around the bush. The point of my mission to investigate him was to prove that he’s behind the money laundering operation that’s taken over the small town of Shadow Cove. I’ve come this far, so I’m going for it.
“I think you’re really the boss of whatever the criminal element that’s taken over Shadow Cove for almost the past decade.I think Ripley King works for you, and you’ve made him the face of the operation. I think you’ve been living in plain sight.”
His eyebrows shoot up, but he neither denies nor confirms my words.
“What makes you think that?”
“I know the old man pretending to be D.H. is not the real boss.” He stares but says nothing. “Are you D.H.?”
I hold my breath and wait. If he plays some word game, I will give up. I have no interest in playing games.
“My name is Daxton Hunt,” he admits.
“Does Ripley King work for you?”
“He does.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you make him the face?”
“He’s a big, mean motherfucker who scares everyone,” he admits.
“He’s not mean to my best friend,” I counter. Daxton shrugs. “That’s not why you made him the face. You chose the white guy because you thought he’d get less resistance. Not a bad idea.”
He smiles, but I don’t think it quite reaches his eyes.
