through the driver window and caught her just right. This was my first opportunity to study her profile up close. The view was every bit as impressive as the front view. She had great bone structure, a cute nose, high Scandinavian cheekbones.
She must have felt me staring because she glanced over and gave me a look. Front-on, her face had that perfect symmetry the camera loved. Break it down to a bunch of numbers and it would no doubt follow the Golden Ratio, 1:1.618, a ratio that had fascinated artists and mathematicians for the last two and a half thousand years. Evidence of the Golden Ratio could be found throughout nature, and it could be found in the driver’s seat of the BMW.
I wondered why Templeton had opted for a breadline cop’s salary when she could have earned a fortune trading off her looks. Following in Daddy’s footsteps was a plausible explanation, but my gut feeling was that I was also getting the edited highlights. I cracked open my window and lit the cigarette. A Stones tune came on the radio and Templeton cranked up the volume. She was lost in the song, head bobbing in time with the beat, lips following the lyric word for word. I took another drag on my cigarette then went back to thinking about the case.
12
Rachel’s eyes sprang open but all she saw was a darkness that was so dense it consumed her. There was no light whatsoever, not so much as a single stray shaft sneaking through a window or around a door. Her heart was hammering as though it was about to burst through her chest and her breath came in short, sharp gasps, each one edging her closer to a full-blown panic attack. The dark took each breath and bounced it back, amplifying the sound.
Her mattress was so thin she could feel the cold, hard floor beneath her. The smell of bleach scratched at her nose and the back of her throat. Everything came flooding back at once. She saw herself sat in the front seat of the Porsche, grinning like she’d won the lottery. She saw the shiny steel glint of the needle.
Rachel tried to stand and a wave of nausea washed through her. She vomited, but managed to tip forward at the last second so most of it hit the floor rather than her clothes or the mattress. The smell of last night’s red wine and stomach acid made her throw up again. She kept on gagging and vomiting until all that came up was bile. Rachel wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her head ached, her palms were clammy, and she felt shivery and shaky, like she was suffering from flu.
She slumped back onto the mattress and tried to control her breathing. Panic pulled at her and she forced herself back from the edge. Slowly. Gradually. She took a couple of deep breaths and the acidic stink of vomit stung her nose. She gagged, and would have been sick again if there had been anything left in her stomach. She coughed a couple of times and wiped her mouth, took another deep breath and told herself to get it together. Her breathing steadied.
Rachel waved a hand through the dark until she found a tiled wall. The tiles were smooth and cool beneath her hands, square like bathroom tiles, each side roughly fifteen centimetres long. Rachel used the wall to stand, little by little, moving slowly. Her head spun but her legs seemed to hold up okay.
The floor tiles were larger than the wall tiles, closer to a metre square, cold and glossy beneath her naked feet. She moved around tentatively, trying to get a sense of her surroundings. There was a door in the third wall she came to. It felt solid. Her hands slid over the painted surface until she found the handle. She tried it. Locked. Her heart started racing again and this time the panic got hold. A whooshing sound filled her ears and she had a sense of falling.
Then nothing.
When she opened her eyes everything was still pitch black. The floor was a cold crush against her back, and her limbs felt stiff and awkward. A bruise was growing on the side of her head from where she had hit the ground. She
She must have felt me staring because she glanced over and gave me a look. Front-on, her face had that perfect symmetry the camera loved. Break it down to a bunch of numbers and it would no doubt follow the Golden Ratio, 1:1.618, a ratio that had fascinated artists and mathematicians for the last two and a half thousand years. Evidence of the Golden Ratio could be found throughout nature, and it could be found in the driver’s seat of the BMW.
I wondered why Templeton had opted for a breadline cop’s salary when she could have earned a fortune trading off her looks. Following in Daddy’s footsteps was a plausible explanation, but my gut feeling was that I was also getting the edited highlights. I cracked open my window and lit the cigarette. A Stones tune came on the radio and Templeton cranked up the volume. She was lost in the song, head bobbing in time with the beat, lips following the lyric word for word. I took another drag on my cigarette then went back to thinking about the case.
12
Rachel’s eyes sprang open but all she saw was a darkness that was so dense it consumed her. There was no light whatsoever, not so much as a single stray shaft sneaking through a window or around a door. Her heart was hammering as though it was about to burst through her chest and her breath came in short, sharp gasps, each one edging her closer to a full-blown panic attack. The dark took each breath and bounced it back, amplifying the sound.
Her mattress was so thin she could feel the cold, hard floor beneath her. The smell of bleach scratched at her nose and the back of her throat. Everything came flooding back at once. She saw herself sat in the front seat of the Porsche, grinning like she’d won the lottery. She saw the shiny steel glint of the needle.
Rachel tried to stand and a wave of nausea washed through her. She vomited, but managed to tip forward at the last second so most of it hit the floor rather than her clothes or the mattress. The smell of last night’s red wine and stomach acid made her throw up again. She kept on gagging and vomiting until all that came up was bile. Rachel wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her head ached, her palms were clammy, and she felt shivery and shaky, like she was suffering from flu.
She slumped back onto the mattress and tried to control her breathing. Panic pulled at her and she forced herself back from the edge. Slowly. Gradually. She took a couple of deep breaths and the acidic stink of vomit stung her nose. She gagged, and would have been sick again if there had been anything left in her stomach. She coughed a couple of times and wiped her mouth, took another deep breath and told herself to get it together. Her breathing steadied.
Rachel waved a hand through the dark until she found a tiled wall. The tiles were smooth and cool beneath her hands, square like bathroom tiles, each side roughly fifteen centimetres long. Rachel used the wall to stand, little by little, moving slowly. Her head spun but her legs seemed to hold up okay.
The floor tiles were larger than the wall tiles, closer to a metre square, cold and glossy beneath her naked feet. She moved around tentatively, trying to get a sense of her surroundings. There was a door in the third wall she came to. It felt solid. Her hands slid over the painted surface until she found the handle. She tried it. Locked. Her heart started racing again and this time the panic got hold. A whooshing sound filled her ears and she had a sense of falling.
Then nothing.
When she opened her eyes everything was still pitch black. The floor was a cold crush against her back, and her limbs felt stiff and awkward. A bruise was growing on the side of her head from where she had hit the ground. She
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