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God, I’m so terrified. I’ve begged, pleaded, struggled to break his hold. But it’s futile. When that insanity glitters in his dark stare, he doesn’t hear me. If I keep fighting, he hits me.
I know what’s coming next—the only thing that stops my struggles entirely.
The sting of the hypodermic needle. I feel it pierce my skin. Then the room starts spinning around me. I hate that sense of slipping away, of losing touch with reality. And I hate the sick and disoriented way I come to—groggy, nauseated, and with no clue about how much time has passed.
He visits me soon after I come to. On those visits, he’s different.
The rage in his eyes is gone. He looks almost normal. He’s polite, even considerate. He’ll bring me a meal, sit silently and read while I eat. His reading material is scholarly—classics, philosophy, mythology. I look around while I force down the food. I don’t comprehend anything I see. There’s a fabricated gold shield hanging on the wall, statuettes of an owl and an olive tree flanking it on either side, and a photocopied story of Athena—complete with illustrations, like a chapter out of a children’s book—that he’s placed at the foot of my mattress. I don’t understand any of it, but I don’t dare ask questions.
Once I’ve finished eating, he escorts me to the bathroom. The dichotomy is bizarre. He keeps a combat knife at my throat to assert his domination, yet holds my arm while we walk, since I’m so unsteady on my feet. That’s the only time he touches me. And he never intrudes on my privacy. He waits outside the bathroom until I come out.
Escape is impossible.
Beneath the curtains, there are bars on the window, and he’s fitted it with a heavily tinted glass pane so I can’t see outside my prison.
Earlier, I requested fresh air. He refused. I then requested a bath. He surprised me by agreeing. He’s agreed to pick up some toiletries and have them for me tonight.
It’s a luxury to anticipate.
I so want to meet the other women. I hear their voices, their weeping. Maybe they can explain to me why we’re here.
Or maybe I don’t want to know.
March 26
12:05 P.M.
Richard Stockton College was about a twenty-minute ride from Atlantic City, and a little over two hours from Sloane’s house.
She didn’t have the time to drive there and back. Not today.
She did it anyway.
One thing she’d learned years ago is that you got a lot more out of people when you talked to them in person than you did when you talked to them over the phone.
She arrived on campus around eleven, and was directed to the office of special affairs. She waited at the desk for Doris Hayden, who administered the lecture series. Her instincts told her that she was on the verge of finding the first new and viable lead in this case.
That meant forward motion. It didn’t mean a happy ending.
Sloane was a realist. If her theory was correct, she’d leave with a new venue to explore, and more ammunition to support her belief that Penny’s disappearance involved foul play rather than free will.
Which meant she’d be one step closer to giving Hope Truman the closure she needed. However, it also suggested that that closure would involve facing the loss of her daughter.
On that sober thought, Sloane conducted her business. After seeing Sloane’s credentials and hearing why she was there, Doris had cooperated fully. She’d pulled up the online registration forms of all twenty-five attendees. Only four, including Penny, were from Manhattan—the rest were locals.
Doris had immediately e-mailed everyone on the list with a brief explanation of the situation and an electronic photo of Penny that Sloane provided via her laptop.
Sloane had thanked her profusely. Then, time being of the essence, she began her follow-up on campus, tracking down five Stockton students who’d attended the seminar. All of them had received Doris’s e-mail. None of them recognized Penny’s photo, or remembered seeing anyone who matched her description at the seminar that day.
Not a good sign.
Next, Sloane left urgent voice-mail messages on the cell phones of the other six Stockton undergrads who were on the registration sheet, asking them to check their e-mails and get back to her ASAP—within the hour if possible. Since college students were notorious for having their cell phones glued to their ears, Sloane
crossed her fingers that she’d hear back from them before she had to take off.
She used the waiting time to call the other three New Yorkers. Two were NYU roommates, one of whom answered the phone, and, as soon as Sloane mentioned last April’s lecture at Richard Stockton, said that she and her friend had registered, but ultimately blown off the lecture.
The third New Yorker, Deanna Frost, worked in the communications department of the New York Public Library in midtown Manhattan. Sloane got her voice mail as well, and left an equally urgent message.
