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Dear God. He knows my name. I pinch my eyes shut, my chest heaving with every breath. How does he know my name?
He speaks softly, pressing the words to my ear. “I asked you a question.”
I give a tight nod. What choice do I have?
He removes his hand slowly. “That’s better.”
The minute he releases me, I spin around and back up to the couch. “I don’t have money. I have nothing valuable.”
He smiles. “Do I look like I need to steal money?”
I take him in. His face is square with sharp lines, his nose slightly askew as if it has been broken many times. Thick, black hair is styled with fashionable sideburns. The tone of his skin is warm, but his eyes are cold, their color the gray of an overcast sky. He’s not a handsome man, and the broken skin of his knuckles tells its own story.
Swallowing, I drop my gaze to his body. He’s taller and broader than anyone I’ve seen. His chest and legs fill out every inch of his suit. It’s a gray pinstripe—pure wool, judging by the thread—but it’s the perfect cut that differentiates him. He screams money and power. No, he wouldn’t have broken in for money. The alternative makes me break out in a cold sweat.
He advances on me, his gaze slipping to my chest. “However, you do have something of value I need.”
I look down. My blouse is flaring where the button tore off, exposing my bra. Clutching the ends together, I ask through trembling lips, “What?”
When he nods at the two men, I look over at them. The blond one has a model-pretty face. He’s lean and tall. The one with the beard is stockier with eyes so black the pupils bleed into the irises. Both are dressed in dark suits and carry guns.
The bearded man goes through my tote, unpacking the overall I use for work on the table with my purse and hairbrush. The bag with my banana lies next to it. He picked up my tomatoes, the split skins visible through the transparent plastic. When he finds my phone, he hands it to the man who grabbed me. The man pockets it. Then, like my captor promised, his men leave. The key sounds in the lock. I’m locked in with the stranger.
Fear heats me from the inside, making me feel nauseous. Even my hunger disappears. “What do you want from me?”
The man doesn’t answer. As soon as his accomplices are gone, he turns his attention from me to inspecting my living space. His gaze moves from the ratty couch with the broken springs to the framed photos on the wall and finally to the daisy in the vase on the table. His evaluation is invasive. I know what he sees, but I refuse to be ashamed of my poverty, especially in front of a man with an expensive suit who snatched me off the street.
He walks to the daisy and touches the stem. “Nice touch.”
“What?”
“The flower.” Meticulously, he strokes every petal. “Where did you get it?”
What the heck does that matter? “From the pavement.”
He gives me a doubtful smile. “You didn’t take it from someone’s garden.”
Despite my fear, my anger blooms. “No, I didn’t steal it. It grows wild.”
He doesn’t react to the silent accusation. He only continues to watch me intently. After a moment, he asks, “A boyfriend didn’t give it to you?”
“No.” Where is he going with his line of questioning? Why doesn’t he tell me what he wants?
“No boyfriend, then.”
“No.” I watch him as he moves to the wall to study the photos, my heart pounding like a pendulum against my ribs.
“Your family?”
“Yes.”
He points at the tallest boy on the yellowed Polaroid picture. “Who’s this?”
“Why do you care?”
He looks back at me with a quiet warning in his eyes. He doesn’t need his foreign-sounding words to instill fear.
“That’s Ian,” I say reluctantly, “my oldest brother.”
“The others?”
“Next to him is Leon, then Damian, and me.”
Leaning closer, he studies the girl with the pigtails and too short dress. “You were cute. How old were you?”
I grip my blouse tighter. “Ten.”
He motions at Mom and Dad. “These are your parents?”
“Late parents.”
“My condolences.”
He picks up the book about Venice from the couch and turns the cover. I don’t want him to touch it. I don’t want this man who stole into my privacy to also invade my dreams. My dreams are mine. They’re private, but I’m helpless from stopping him as his gaze skims over the table of contents and the library stamp before he drops it back onto the couch and opens the book on the coffee table. It’s on loan from the library, too, about the same topic, just like the book next to the bath and the one on my nightstand. When he’s done inspecting that one, he goes to the bookshelf and tilts his head to read the titles. Shelf by shelf, he goes through them.
