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No! I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m a strong independent woman with a condo on the hill.
Melinda giggled again. She held the metal key aloft and aimed it at the lock. Warmth was just inside this door. Safety, not so much, but warmth, yes. She could open a door, no problem. She did it all the time. She’d do it now, in fact.
The key bounced back.
Melinda’s eyes tracked her hand as she aimed again.
It wouldn’t fit. Why wouldn’t it fit? What the hell was wrong with this stupid murderer’s stupid key? She tried again but the bloody thing wouldn’t work.
“I can’t do it.” Her voice cracked. “It won’t freaking work.” Harder and harder, she bashed the key and her useless fingers against the lock.
Nothing. What now? Now she needed the kidnapper’s help, that’s what. She turned and realized he had started away from the trees. Grant reached the car and grabbed a bag that she’d not seen until now. He shut the doors and strode down the walkway. The crunch of his boots danced in her ears and she blinked at him in confusion. Why was he being so loud? Was he always so oafish?
“May I try?” he asked. Centered. Without condemnation.
Too little, too late, Kidnapper. You’re a mean mean meanie and I’m going to make sure everyone knows it.
Melinda hesitated but nodded.
Grant’s hand floated in slow motion toward her and drew the key from her petulant fingers. The key slid effortlessly into the lock and turned in an easy, fluid motion. Melinda blinked at the key. Traitor.
Grant pushed open the door and, running one hand along the interior wall, withdrew another key.
“Gotta put the car in,” he said. “Wait here. Keep your eyes on me.” Grant stepped back and gestured for her to walk inside, out of the storm. The phone charger dangled from his gloved hand alongside his Army-green backpack. Kidnappers wear gloves, Grant. She glared at him. No matter how you spin it, that’s what you are: a big, mean kidnapper.
Melinda stood in the doorway and watched as Grant left his belongings and walked both sets of keys toward the car. Even inside the house, Melinda’s hair blew across her face and caught on her cracked lips and in her eyelashes. She thought distantly about tucking it back but that was too much effort.
Was this a dream? Was she sleepwalking? That made sense. More sense than the present reality. Grant disappeared around the corner of the house. “Eyes on me,” indeed. Typical kidnapper lies.
She imagined him wrestling the garage door open and up. Wait, no, a millionaire mastermind would have a mechanized garage door, wouldn’t he? Masterminds are fancy. The car’s faint purr reached her where she stood frozen and tires crunched over snow. A muffled slam echoed down the walkway. Okay, not mechanized. Too slammy to be automated.
Suddenly the kidnapper was back, whitewashed with ruddy cheeks. He stopped before the house.
“Time to get the gun,” he said, ice crystals woven between his stubble. “Open the closet to your left and search on the shelf above the coat rack. It’s a Smith & Wesson revolver. A Chief’s Special. It’ll be in a shoebox. Take the lid off the box and take the gun out with your right hand. Are you right-handed?” She blinked and nodded. “With your right hand, then.”
Such a bossy kidnapper man. Why was he giving her a gun? Village idiot kidnapper.
Melinda palmed the closet doors but turned to him and cocked her head.
“Why shouldn’t I just shoot you?” It was part threat and part question. She truly wanted to know why she shouldn’t end all her problems by, at the very least, locking him out of the house. Dammit, he had the keys. Okay, fine. By shooting him.
Grant stood his ground.
“You don’t know where the food or water or firewood are. This place is one of those cookie-cutter models with shit insulation. It’s going to feel like it’s made of paper until we turn on the heat. If you shoot me you’ll have to deal with the body and the cops. But I wouldn’t blame you.”
Hmph. At least there’s a reason.Satisfied, she opened the closet door.
“Do you know guns?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then keep your finger along the barrel, never on the trigger unless you’re prepared to shoot. Imagine every place that you point that gun has a bullet hole that you made. Point it away from your feet, legs, anything you want to keep whole.”
Are all kidnappings this ludicrous?Melinda patted the shelf for the shoebox. She found and extracted the gun, angled the weapon toward the floor and away from her feet, and closed the closet door.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay.” He walked inside.
