Gil had exhausted herself working two extra shifts to help cover Joanna’s absence. Meanwhile, things were gettingincreasingly complicated as her colleagues at the hospital were getting worried and asking questions. Some wanted to visit Jo. One had even organised a whip-round and bought Jo a beautiful bouquet.
Gil had placed the flowers in a vase and set them on her kitchen table.
It was becoming harder to hide how she felt. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold it together. Awful as it was, part of her just wanted them to find Jo, even if she was dead. At least it would be over then. This not knowing was killing her.
***
Nicola spent the weekend weeping for Mrs Neal while struggling to control her anger toward Mr Neal, who she felt should have called the police sooner and not lied to her. She couldn’t even tell her parents about the kidnapping; they’d ask questions when she went for Sunday lunch, and she couldn’t bear the thought of that.
She decided she’d pray hard for Joanna Neal when they went to church. Not that she believed in any of it, but still, it was worth a try. Then she thought of Joel and started crying again.
***
Donald hadn’t slept all night. He knew he’d made enemies on his way to the top; some had even gone bankrupt because of him, but that was business. He was in the game of making money. He hadn’t come this far by being soft.
He thought over the list of people he’d crossed. But surely any offence had to be recent, raw, for someone to go this far. No one came to mind, although he racked his brain until it gave him a headache. Finally, he slipped out of bed and poured himself a whisky.
If it turned out to be someone he knew, he swore he’d kill them.You don’t use family in business matters. That rule is sacred.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Joanna
Idecide to read one of the books. Opening the drawer, I rummage through the paperbacks. There isn’t much to choose from, butOliver Twistby Charles Dickens catches my eye. I grab it and sit on the bed. Reading is the only way to distract me from the horror of my situation.
My mind is a storm of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios. Every hour brings a new imagined fate. In one, he walks in carrying a child.
‘You have to save his life if you want to keep yours,’ he says.
That scene plays on a loop in my head.
He seems in a good mood when he brings breakfast. It’s smoked salmon and scrambled eggs.
‘Thought I’d do something special this morning,’ he says, as if we’re celebrating something I don’t know about.
It’s still the same plastic knife and fork, but now there’s a paper cup of orange juice. So maybe there is a kitchen upstairs.
‘Smells good,’ I say, forcing a smile.
I remember a documentary I once watched, a true story about a kidnapping. I don’t know why I watched it, but one piece of advice stuck with me:make them realise you’re a real person, the officer said.
I found it ridiculous at the time. How do you make small talk with someone who’s keeping you locked in a hellhole? But now, it makes perfect sense. I need him to like me. To trust me.
‘Good,’ he says, stepping backwards toward the door. His voice is low and muffled, like he’s got cotton wool in his mouth. He reminds me of Vito Corleone, except this isn’t the mafia. He’s my kidnapper.
‘A coffee would go down well,’ I say, trying to sound casual. Friendly.
But he’s not stupid. He knows exactly what I’m doing.
‘No hot drinks,’ he says. The door closes with a heavy thud, locking me in this strange prison of luxury.
I feel a lump in my throat, and blink back tears. I won’t let him see me break.
After eating the eggs, I do fifteen minutes of yoga to keep my strength up. Then I stretch out on the bed with the book, desperate to escape into fiction.
But then I hear his footsteps, my heart starts to race, and my throat turns dry.
He never clears the breakfast tray until lunchtime. If he’s back early, it means he wants something else.
