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Then I was on the other side, and I couldn't see either of them anymore. My breath had frozen in my chest, and now it seemed my heart beat impossibly fast. I expected Remington to yell.
The house was eerily silent.
Then there was the sound of leather meeting flesh–a loud crack of a sound, more dramatic than Cain’s belt. By a lot.
What the hell? Were all the rich people beating each other behind the walls of their fancy mansions? Did money re-wire people’s brains so they all went a little bit Caligula?
Shaking my head, I kept moving to try to rescue the kid. I searched the house as quickly as I could, ignoring the jolt and shiver that went up my spine every time the lash landed. The vacuum cleaner shut off on the second floor, and I hid behind a doorway as a woman left the house. She went out the backdoor and drove away in a battered little Honda. Could that possibly be his mom? Or was it a housekeeper?
What the fuck was going on here?
At least she’d given me the chance to search the house. Even upstairs, I could hear it; the vacuum cleaner was abandoned in one of the bedrooms upstairs. Had she left the house because even over the vacuum cleaner, she could hear–or just because she knew what was happening? A disquieting thought wiggled into my brain…did she love Remington? Was it all hard for her to bear?
I’d thought Remington was here for a business matter. But maybe it was a family matter instead.
I quickly searched the bedrooms, and the closets too, but all I saw were a lot of fancy brands I’d never owned and no sign of criminal misdeeds. The house was eerily clean and quiet.
Then I reached the master bedroom, and walked into a room where a woman was lying on the bed. I froze, afraid she’d seen me, but she was staring in my direction with glazed eyes. I thought at first she was dead, then realized she was just drugged.
What the hell was happening in this house?
I stopped and stared at the painting that hung at the top of the grand stairs down to the first floor.
A man, a woman, a young ruddy-cheeked version of Remington…and two dark-haired younger children.
One of them was the boy in the photo, the one in Remington’s email.
Fuck.
The feeling I’d fucked this up burnt in my gut. I hurried down the stairs, replaying that flash when Remington saw me. He’d looked…relieved.
As if I were going to rescue him.
His hands hadn’t been bound. He’d come here willingly.
So the only way to help him was to help his siblings.
I headed for the basement stairs. There’d been a lock on the door that led down. It was just a little suspicious.
It took me a long minute to unlock the door. Every time that jolt cracked through the house, I bit my lower lip. It took me right back to the Demon’s earlier tortures. By the time Remington let out a broken gasp of a cry, my lower lip had started to bleed.
I hustled down the basement stairs, turning on lights. Most of the basement seemed fun, a lot more fun than the basements I was used to. The basement was divided into several rooms with light gray floors and bright white walls that made it feel inviting; there was a full-sized wet bar, a round poker table, and Foozball. I could picture Remington with his friends, hanging out.
Then I turned the corner and found the cages.
Suddenly, I could picture Remington spending his childhood years here.
They were both in dog cages, the dark-haired little boy from the photo and his twin sister. I hurried to unlock the cages, but then they refused to come out.
“Remington is waiting for you. He just sent me to help,” I said, hoping like hell that actually made them feel more comfortable. I didn’t want to think Remington was that kind of monster.
The little girl looked at me skeptically. “Are you Remington’s girlfriend?”
If that would get her out of the cage… “Yes.”
“He says you’re crazy,” she said.
“Probably true,” I admitted, but also, holy shit, what was Remington saying about me? “But I’m also a good friend, and Remington wanted me to bring you out to the car.”
