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I almost,almostlaugh. But Jameson’s not smiling at all. His face is blank. The only kindness is in his voice, and it’s fake. He reaches up, my bag dangling from his elbow, and rubs at his eyes.
“I won’t be home tonight. Tell Mason to stop being so obsessed with me.”
A pause.
“No.” A full hand over his eyes now. “I don’t have any advice about your teenage—oh. Like adoption? You or Mason?” His mouth drops open as if the person on the other end of the line has said something unbearably disappointing. “No, I wouldn’t—” Jameson stops, swallowing. Clears his throat. “I wouldn’t have a problem with it.” Another, longer pause. “Why areyouawake? Go to sleep.Love you.”
He hangs up, tosses his phone onto the leather couch, and seems surprised to find that he’s still holding my bag. The corners of his mouth turn down. Jameson None of My Business lets out a sharp laugh. “Yeah, no,” he says. “None of this.”
Jameson strides toward the back door of the cottage.
“What are you doing?”
“Walk around,” he snaps.
He saidinside,but I want to know what he’s doing, so I follow him to the door, then one step outside. There are lights further down the beach. Alotfurther. He’d catch me if I ran.
And he’s purposeful on his walk through the yard. He passes a hammock strung between two trees, leaves waving gently against the sky. There are more stars here than normal.
Jameson goes until he’s at the shore, his shoes in the sand, and drops my bag unceremoniously next to his feet. It’s notfair,the way he moves. He’s soconfidentwhile he bends to pull my laptop out.
I move a few steps away from the cottage.
Wait. I’m naked.
Can’t.
Jameson backs up several steps, then starts forward. One, two, three—
He drop-kicks my laptop.
“Oh my God.” It’s aperfectkick. Like the football players I’ve seen on the TVs in sports bars where we’d hold study groups in college. Nobody would study but me. The laptop arcs through the air, spinning end over end, and plunges into the lake.
His hand goes to his pocket, and he takes out something else.
My phone.
Jameson hurls it with a loudfuck.It’s a pebble compared to the rock of my laptop.
When it’s under, he threads his hands through his hair and stands there, face tipped to the sky, breathing.
What did he mean when he said I was here to make thingsfair? That flash in his eyes was more of a shadow. It reminded me of…
My grandfather, ironically. Sometimes, when my mom comes up, he gets a similar look in his eyes, but all she did was leave. She never drove him to commit any crimes.
He was a lawyer, and a prosecutor, and a judge, like I’m supposed to be.
What pushed Jameson this far?
It’s not something I should spend any time thinking about. Nothing justifies kidnapping. Nothing in the world. Andnothingjustifies curiosity and evenattractionto my kidnapper.
I’m not attracted and curious. It’s shock. Must be.
He drops his hands, scoops up my bag from the sand, and stalks toward the cottage.
I only know that I’m responding to him when my back hits logs.
Jameson doesn’t stop. He advances and advances and advances until he’s six inches away from me, leaning in, towering. One of his hands comes out like he’s going to wrap it around my chin, or my jaw, but he puts it on the log next to my head.
