Read Online Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island by Sandy Frances Duncan, George Szanto - Free Book Online Page A

house’s foundation. Except for outside the bathroom, a wooden panel. She’d removed it. Behind, access to the bathtub drain. Space between the walls, four inches or so. She was slim but no way of squeezing her body in, up and out. The ceiling of the room and bathroom too were solid, holey white acoustic tile over what looked like thick plywood. She’d rapped every inch of it. Unyielding. Same for the floor, solid plywood. Three-quarter inch, she’d guessed. At two points along the baseboard, no obvious heat control, a covered grille each about a foot long, vents for air conditioning or heating or maybe just air. They weren’t planning on suffocating her, anyway.
    An inside wall, hideous faux wood paneling, separated the bathroom from her living area, normally what, office, rec room, guest bedroom? With a light, hollow-core door. She could have smashed through that easily.
    The bathroom had ugly mauve fixtures but at least contained an overhead shower with curtain so she could keep her body clean. A florescent-tube light over the mirror. Two unmatched towels and a washcloth. On the counter, soap, shampoo, comb, new toothbrush, paste, tumbler, sanitary napkins and tampons. Any women in the gang? Was it a gang? Someone had left, but was someone else lurking? Sleeping?
    â€œHello?” she called, tentatively. And louder: “Hello!”
    She had tried the door handle, just in case. It turned, but the bolt held. She took a run at the door and bashed it with her shoulder, yow! She rubbed it. Solid. Wood or steel? Maybe if she—
    â€œCut that out!”
    He’d been right there, outside the door. She’d missed his steps on the stairs.
    â€œGet on the bed!”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œ Get on the bed. ”
    Nothing to gain standing here. She sat on the bed, pulled her feet up, edged to the designated corner.
    The door opened and he came in. The balaclava seemed skewed, as if he’d put it on in a hurry. He stood by the door. “Do that again, I’ll have to tie you up.”
    â€œWho are you? What do you want?” Did she really want to know?
    â€œAll in good time. But believe me, you can’t get out.”
    A few seconds. She slowed her breathing.
    â€œDid you hear me?” His voice was calmer.
    She waited.
    â€œDid you hear me?!”
    Awfuckit. “Yes.”
    â€œGood.” He left and relocked.
    Susanna shuffled off the bed and stood, still rubbing her shoulder. All in good time struck her as an uncommon construction, erudite or old-fashioned. Awfuckit, she repeated. Then, what did all in good time mean, anyway? What would happen all in good time ? Had he been standing out there all the time, watching her through the peephole? A voyeur?
    The books and the television, her distractions. She turned the TV on quietly. Did she expect the door to burst open? Was she waiting for him to yell at her again? She’d studiously been following the local news. No one had reported her kidnapping. Had she missed it? Or was it too soon? Did no one care she was missing? Her father would surely have spoken to the Sheriff. Maybe the kidnappers had told her father not to tell anyone they’d grabbed her. That’s what she’d believe. For now.
    She saw only Balaclava, and that at mealtimes. The first meal after she’d slammed into the door, the tray held a frozen gel pack. She didn’t say thank you, but put it on her shoulder the minute he left.
    The next morning the breakfast tray had contained another gel pack, a wrapped sandwich, and the usual cereal, fruit and toast. Balaclava leaned against the wall and watched her. She ate. She placed the limp gel pack on the tray. She moved the sandwich to the table. All now in silence. She finished her breakfast. He left.
    She continued to sit. She stared at the sandwich. Would he not be around at lunch? Might she be alone in the house? She listened to kitchen sounds, footsteps, water running, more footsteps, then