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I’m engulfed by a warm, heavy wave, as if molten afternoon sunshine is washing over me. The fear, the panic, the dread…it fades away like a bad dream. My head lolls, my lips touching the marble as every muscle in my body relaxes and sinks into the floor.
I’m vaguely aware of Red touching me, his hands smoothing back my hair, trailing down my face, but it might as well have been happening to someone else, because I don’t care anymore. I’m flooded with a numbing wave of nothingness, and it’s fucking glorious.
Nothing hurts anymore.
Nothing frightens me anymore.
I can’tfeelanymore.
I could be…a doll.
9
FYRE
The building is too well insulated for me to hear sounds from inside. I have no idea if he’s moving around inside, if he’s talking, threatening,hurting.I thought she was dead, that unmoving silhouette stark in my mind. But I have to believe she’s still alive.
He’s feeding her. Maybe giving her something to drink. Peter would do that—letting her out of the Toy Box to stretch her legs, to use the bathroom, sometimes to vacuum the carpet while he stood guard. Every act intended to exert more control over his captive, to fulfill his own distorted self-image, his own depraved needs.
He’d give her hope, and then smash it to pieces moments later by punching her, whipping her, raping her.
My stomach grows harder. My lungs tighter. Prickles of pain spring up from my fingertips from how I’m digging them into the wall behind me.
I crawl along the side of the building, heading for the kitchen door. It’s on the same side of the house as the living room’s expansive windows, and as soon as I turn the corner, I’m met with a blank wall I can rush past. Seconds later, I’m creeping around the corner, trying to peer into the kitchen from the glass doors leading out onto a concrete patio. But I have several steps in the way, and a metal railing I need to climb under, all with the distinct possibility of being spotted by Red inside the kitchen.
And if the door’s locked, all I can do is look inside. Glancing around, my eyes land on a large, smooth stone a few feet away. Through some twist of fate, the snow that had been piling on top of it shifted just enough to reveal it to me.
Luck.
I’m about to lunge away from the wall and grab it when I hear the click of a lock disengaging. I barely have enough time to flatten myself against the wall before Red emerges from the kitchen, a big metal bucket dangling from one hand.
My heart feels like it’s going to explode as I watch him saunter down the gravel path leading toward the lake. There’s no cover—if he looks around, he’ll see me. I have to retreat…but this might be the only chance I’ll have to get inside. If he comes back and locks the door behind him, I’m fucked.
I have no idea where he’s headed or how long he’ll be there, but I’m wasting precious seconds waiting to find out.
My mind flies back to the figure, sitting so still by the kitchen island. Charlotte is only a few yards away from me, and I can’t wait anymore. She’s terrified, alone, hurting.
I realize I’m staring at that large, round stone. I could sneak up behind him, bash his fucking skull in until there’s nothing left but a smear of blood and brains on the white snow. But what if he hears me coming? I saw a bullet casing alongside the road where he kidnapped Charlotte, and the scrape in Arrow’s shoulder could be a gunshot wound. Red’s most likely armed, even now. If he’s a good shot, he’d be able to take me out before I got close enough to surprise him.
If he’s a good shot? Of course he’s a good shot. A man like him wouldn’t accept anything less of himself.
Inhaling an icy breath, I duck under the metal railing. My skin crawls as I turn my back to Red, still only a few yards away, so I can pull open the glass door and slip inside the kitchen. I spin around, my eyes latched onto Red’s back as I carefully slide the door closed behind me.
There’s no key in the lock, but I latch it from the inside anyway.
Red is still walking away, and I have to force myself to turn my back on him again.
There’s a mix of smells in the air. Something meaty and gamey, like kidney pie, overlaid with a hint of something cheesy and comforting. I scan the sleek furnishings and fittings of the cupboards and countertops lining the walls. Everything is in stark white or blinding chrome. The few decor items—dark greenhouse plants, a vase filled with white lilies, an amorphous statue that could be a lithe woman dancing—they all seem as ingenuous as the warm glow that’s trying to turn this sanitized space into something charming and homely.
My gaze stops at the kitchen island.
More precisely, on the…doll?
I blink furiously, my mind scrambling to make sense of what I’m seeing. Three white leather and chrome bar stools with high backs block most of the surface of the island from me, but even so I realize there’s something wrong with the perspective in this scene. I thought Charlotte had been seated at the island, but thank God, it’s not her.
Not unless Red chopped her in half.
Positioned carefully in the center of the kitchen island like a sacrificial specter is a full-sized mannequin, its back to the door where I’m standing. Dark, glossy hair falls to its shoulders, and I swear there’s a hint of shampoo in the air alongside that incongruous scent of baked cheese.
