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I sit her at the kitchen island. Daphne drops her paintbrush onto the marble and looks blankly at the splotches of red haphazard on the veins of the rock. “Oops.”
“You can paint the island when you’re finished eating.” I wipe the red away in the meantime.
No answer.
She’s dressed herself in leggings and a sweater. I want to push it up to her waist. Up to her neck. Run my hands over her skin until she protests and pretends to hate me.
That would be better.
Perhaps it’s time she needs, but then captivity isn’t necessarily like that. The longer it goes on, the less predictable it becomes. There is no telling what will happen when the light around the doorframe gets stronger. Gets blinding.
Guilt scrapes along the insides of my ribs. The way to buy time is with food. Keeping her alive is my first priority. That will give way to all the rest.
I have a pot of water on to boil and a box of noodles in my hand when I get the text from Sin.
Sin: It’s a live broadcast. Watch now
This, along with a link.
Daphne stands up from her spot at the island and wanders out. I follow her to the living room, where she drops into a chair and stares out the window.
Back to the boiling water. I tip the noodles in and click on the link.
The anchor’s voice bursts from the speakers. “—his home outside New York City. This is the first time the press has been invited to—I’m sorry. We’ll return with more after the event.”
The event is that Daphne’s brother is holding a press conference. They’ve set up a podium outside his house, which is an honest-to-Christ castle. He wears a black winter coat and an expression that I can only describe as haunted fury. It’s coming through the video feed like static. I would hate having press on my property this way.
I would only do it if there were no other options.
Camera lights, competing with the fading sun, pick up shadows under his eyes. His jaw is tense, set, and I don’t have to know him to know that he is barely holding it together.
The chyron scrolls at the bottom of the video. Morelli family pleads for safe return of daughter Daphne. A toll-free number flashes next. News reporters from every station are covering this. They crowd in at the edge of the frame.
This is a fucking nationwide broadcast.
“My sister Daphne is missing,” he says. “It’s been about thirty-six hours since she was last seen entering her apartment.” He goes on to describe the area without giving away her address, and I scan the background out of habit. There’s a blonde woman there, watching him with a stoic, stricken expression. His wife, I think. She stands next to two of Daphne’s sisters. Even her parents have come out for this. The camera focuses tight on the podium, but I would bet they’re all there.
“She was last seen wearing a gray peacoat over dark leggings and a light-colored sweater. I know—” He looks up from the notes on the podium and at all those cameras. His eyes are very like Daphne’s. Perhaps that’s why I get a jolt to see despair fighting with hope in them. “I know that the first forty-eight hours of a person’s disappearance are crucial, and Daphne’s window is closing. Please relay as widely as possible that I will personally guarantee payment for her safe return.”
The chyron on the screen shifts abruptly to a general description of Leo Morelli’s net worth, which is more substantial than I thought.
Leo clears his throat, glances at his notes, and looks back into the camera.
“Give her back to us.” It’s an order, but it comes across like a plea. “Our family would never recover from Daphne’s loss. I would never recover.”
A stream of camera shutters and flashes. He doesn’t react to them, nor to the whispers that rise in the background. A Morelli, admitting weakness. That might be the most newsworthy aspect. That Daphne is worth enough to him—and the family—for a public display. It wouldn’t be so well-attended if it wasn’t novel.
“Can you tell us about her?” One reporter’s voice cuts through the murmured conversation.
“Daphne has dark hair. Dark eyes. Like my siblings. Like me.” A photo of Daphne appears on the screen. It’s her college yearbook photo. Her smile is wide and genuine, a sparkle in her eyes as if the photographer has said something particularly amusing. “She’s five feet, two inches tall.” Leo pauses and an emotion I can’t begin to name runs across his eyes and disappears. “And she loves to paint. She’s always painting.”
The blonde woman behind him takes a tiny step forward. I didn’t see what made her react that way, but Leo doesn’t turn. “If you have any information, please call the number at the bottom of your screen. Any verifiable tips will be compensated.”
“Do you believe she was taken against her will?”
Rage is a split-second cloud over his face, there and gone again. “Yes.”
“Is there anything you want to say to your sister?”
