wouldn’t have overlooked such an obvious clue to authorities. From what little she’d seen, he was too smart, too methodical in his approach.
She could certainly appreciate, even as a victim, the elaborate measures he had gone through to make her prison comfortable and soothing. People paid big bucks to have lighting and sound systems like this one installed. The coupe de grace was the food delivery system.
That little nugget had dashed any hopes she had had of overpowering or outsmarting her captor in a one-on-one meeting. It was an ingenious dumbwaiter, computerized, of course, which reminded her of the gizmo used in a drive through bank teller. The ‘server’ would pop out of the wall, and as it did, a metal plate would drop in back, preventing her from even seeing what was behind the wall. When she was finished, she placed her dirty dishes into the server, and it disappeared into the wall. It, like the door she had discovered her first day here, was virtually seamless, and offered no means of escape.
She knew a kind of lethargy was settling over her in general, and knew exactly where it came from. Good as his word, she had never seen her captor, except perhaps in those initial moments of her abduction, and had heard from him only on that first day. She still couldn’t remember anything from that time, and doubted she ever would. So she pretended to read the Wiccan claptrap, because she knew it would make him happy, and therefore maybe, just a little, complacent. She wanted him to be pleased with her when they finally met, so he would have no reason to suspect that she was ready to claw his fucking eyes out at the first opportunity.
I know exactly what she is thinking. Haven’t I made the study of human nature my life’s work? Does she really think she’s fooling me with this transparent show of obedience? This only makes me surer she is the Chosen One. When she ascends with me, the world is ours.
Chapter Seven
The Maple Street Inn was quiet, quaint and hideously expensive. Apparently the reporters had taken every other room in town. Well, at least she got a killer, no pun intended, breakfast in the morning.
So here she sat in her nicely appointed room at ten in the morning, not quite sure of what to do, but knowing that planting her ass on the chair in the sitting room wasn’t going to get her any closer to finding Samantha. If she was really even missing. Arden had tried calling the number in Hollywood that Sheriff Ashton had provided her, but all she got was an answering machine.
Sam’s husky sex-goddess voice rippled over her, reminding her of times past, both good and bad. She left a short message, telling Sam she was looking for her, and how to reach her in Mariposa.
Samantha. When was the last time she had even entered Arden’s mind? It was almost like an anniversary, getting those calls in need of money. It had been her only contact with the one person in the world who should have been closest to her, her sister. It seemed like she was always there for Sam, but the reverse was never true.
Where had Sam been when her life went to shit, when she’d found out Tom had been cheating on her? Where had Sam been when she’d actually survived basic training as an enlisted troop, then five years later when she’d earned her degree and become an officer? Had she been there to revel in Arden’s triumph? No. Instead, she’d called, not six months later, looking for money for an abortion. Arden remembered asking herself even then if she cared enough to delve deeper and came up with a most dissatisfying answer. No. So she sent her a check and went on with her life.
Arden had never really figured out why she sent the checks and the money orders and the wire transfers. She did know that guilt was part of it. Building a nice, steady life where she was liked and respected had always been important to her. Even her marriage had been a concession to that. It had been a pleasant, quiet and safe
She could certainly appreciate, even as a victim, the elaborate measures he had gone through to make her prison comfortable and soothing. People paid big bucks to have lighting and sound systems like this one installed. The coupe de grace was the food delivery system.
That little nugget had dashed any hopes she had had of overpowering or outsmarting her captor in a one-on-one meeting. It was an ingenious dumbwaiter, computerized, of course, which reminded her of the gizmo used in a drive through bank teller. The ‘server’ would pop out of the wall, and as it did, a metal plate would drop in back, preventing her from even seeing what was behind the wall. When she was finished, she placed her dirty dishes into the server, and it disappeared into the wall. It, like the door she had discovered her first day here, was virtually seamless, and offered no means of escape.
She knew a kind of lethargy was settling over her in general, and knew exactly where it came from. Good as his word, she had never seen her captor, except perhaps in those initial moments of her abduction, and had heard from him only on that first day. She still couldn’t remember anything from that time, and doubted she ever would. So she pretended to read the Wiccan claptrap, because she knew it would make him happy, and therefore maybe, just a little, complacent. She wanted him to be pleased with her when they finally met, so he would have no reason to suspect that she was ready to claw his fucking eyes out at the first opportunity.
I know exactly what she is thinking. Haven’t I made the study of human nature my life’s work? Does she really think she’s fooling me with this transparent show of obedience? This only makes me surer she is the Chosen One. When she ascends with me, the world is ours.
Chapter Seven
The Maple Street Inn was quiet, quaint and hideously expensive. Apparently the reporters had taken every other room in town. Well, at least she got a killer, no pun intended, breakfast in the morning.
So here she sat in her nicely appointed room at ten in the morning, not quite sure of what to do, but knowing that planting her ass on the chair in the sitting room wasn’t going to get her any closer to finding Samantha. If she was really even missing. Arden had tried calling the number in Hollywood that Sheriff Ashton had provided her, but all she got was an answering machine.
Sam’s husky sex-goddess voice rippled over her, reminding her of times past, both good and bad. She left a short message, telling Sam she was looking for her, and how to reach her in Mariposa.
Samantha. When was the last time she had even entered Arden’s mind? It was almost like an anniversary, getting those calls in need of money. It had been her only contact with the one person in the world who should have been closest to her, her sister. It seemed like she was always there for Sam, but the reverse was never true.
Where had Sam been when her life went to shit, when she’d found out Tom had been cheating on her? Where had Sam been when she’d actually survived basic training as an enlisted troop, then five years later when she’d earned her degree and become an officer? Had she been there to revel in Arden’s triumph? No. Instead, she’d called, not six months later, looking for money for an abortion. Arden remembered asking herself even then if she cared enough to delve deeper and came up with a most dissatisfying answer. No. So she sent her a check and went on with her life.
Arden had never really figured out why she sent the checks and the money orders and the wire transfers. She did know that guilt was part of it. Building a nice, steady life where she was liked and respected had always been important to her. Even her marriage had been a concession to that. It had been a pleasant, quiet and safe
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