Binds (4 page)

My palms are sweaty and my hands are red from gripping them so hard, Reece clearing his throat interrupts my outrage. I turn to him and notice that his brows are furled. He is angry with me—maybe for the words we exchanged earlier, maybe for something else—and I am embarrassed suddenly to think that he may have witnessed the scene with my husband a few minutes ago. How long have I been standing outside? I don’t know. I guess it really doesn’t matter. I go to climb into the car and Reece grabs my hand, softly for someone who is angry. I squeeze his hand, trying to silently make peace with him. The events of the night are not his fault; he is just a regular guy, trying to do his job.

I look up to catch his eye and offer an apology and for a moment, I am staring at James, with the same kind expression on his face and crinkles at his eyes as he gives me a sympathetic smile. Then I blink and it is Reece again. As if this night couldn’t get any weirder, my eyes are playing tricks on me, too. Reece, however, seems to have decided to be friendly again, and he smirks as he helps me into the car and we set off back towards the Donovan Brand estate. Yay.

Only…no, we’re not. “Umm, this way will take you deeper into the city. You needed to take a left at the last light and get back on the freeway towards the suburbs. If you take the next left, you can circle around and get back on the right road.”

“I’m going the right way,” Reece responds, carelessly. “Don’t worry; I’m taking you exactly where you need to go.” He looks at me through the rear-view mirror and winks. I want to reach over the seat, grab him by the back of the head and knock some sense into him. I’m not one for violence, but I’d rather he learn from my fists than Donovan’s hired thugs. He can’t mess around with things like this. I need to get home now. I am practically on the clock as I am sure the eyes in Donovan’s staff will be reporting what time I returned and what condition I was in when I did.

Instead, I take a deep breath and try to calm myself. I need to get the point across in a way that will scare Reece because he obviously doesn’t have the healthy amount of fear for his employer that he should. “Listen, you’re new and so you probably don’t understand the kind of danger you’re in. I don’t know if you witnessed my husband’s little episode outside of the hotel, but that is nothing. He’s not afraid of employing torture on his staff, he is not afraid of reprisal from the authorities, and most importantly, he is not afraid of making an example of you to any and every one he may decide to hire in the future. He will kill you or worse, and believe me, with him there is a level much worse than death. So please, just turn around and take me home. I can’t control what he does to you, for goodness’ sake, I can’t control what he does to anyone, including myself.”

“I’m touched that you are worried for my wellbeing, Ophelia Fay, but I am not taking you back to that house. Not now, not ever. Nope, you and I are going somewhere else to see someone else. If I were you, I would be more worried about the monster you will deal with there than the one you have at home. I’ve already told you too much and we don’t want you to know where we are going, so, I’m sorry to do this to you, but you’re going to take a little catnap now.
Repose
.”

He had barely gotten the words out of his mouth, and I was still stuck on why he called me by my maiden name when I felt the deep pull of slumber come upon me. Everything went black.

It’s the last week of finals and in a couple of days, I’ll be eighteen. My mind is so full of that end-of-the-year buzz that it radiates down to my chest, causing a mixture of rattling nervous and excited emotions to swirl around inside. Even though my head is wrapped around the enormous changes my life will be going through in the near future, when I walk through the front door of our shop, I immediately know that something is not right. I had to use my key to gain access and the sign has been flipped around alerting patrons that Whimsy is closed, even though it is only two-thirty in the afternoon; we normally remain open until six. Mom never closes early, especially not without giving me the heads-up first, and I am scheduled to work the counter this afternoon while she finishes up her bi-yearly inventory check. Something is definitely not right.

There is a sulfuric smell in the air. It’s thick and makes my eyes water as I head through the beaded curtain towards Mom’s tiny office. My alarm blooms into full-blown panic as I enter the room and see the mess everywhere. There are loose papers strewn about, Mom’s desk chair has been knocked on its back, and one of the wooden filing cabinets has fallen over, its contents spilled out. On the floor, I notice the blue and yellow picture frame with butterflies that I gave her for Mother’s Day a couple of years ago. I pick it up. The glass has been broken out and the picture of the two of us hiking at Joshua Tree National Park from our vacation in California last year is missing.

I hurry out of the office and start towards the entrance to our house. I go up the stairs, walk through the living room, dining area, and kitchen calling for Mom as I go, but something tells me it’s in vain. I just know for certain that she is not here. I can’t feel her at all and as strange as it seems, I have always been able to feel my mother’s presence.

Our living areas look as they did when I left them this morning. I remember grabbing a slice of toast from my mom’s plate and stuffing it into my mouth as I ran out the door. She had called after me that she loved me. I couldn’t form a proper reply with my mouth full, so I just mumbled out a couple of grunts.

No, whatever happened in the store wasn’t carried up here. I know that for sure. I grab my phone out of my back pocket and call 911. I probably should have done that from the get-go, but seeing something that is so obviously wrong is kind of messing with my mind. I feel jumbled in my thoughts, like something is missing, something big that I can’t put my finger on.

The operator, a woman with a thick southern accent, picks up and I report that I think there has been a robbery at the shop and that my mother is missing. She tries to calm me down with her motherly soft drawl, however it’s peculiar that I am in no need of her words. I should be going bananas right now, but already composure has settled over me. I feel a deep ache in my heart, like a part of it is now missing, but I’m still in control of myself. It’s like I know something terrible has happened to my mother, but I already accept it. My mother, who is my best friend in the world, has obviously been harmed and I am at peace. What is wrong with me?

Miss Southern Serenity is telling me that the police have been dispatched and are on their way but I am hardly paying attention to her. I have reentered the office and have just noticed something I had not seen on my first sweep through. Scrawled on the surface of the desk, half covered by files, papers, and the over-turned mason jar that held my mother’s pencils and pens are words which have no meaning for me: Adomonitio, Noli oblivisci, and Potestas.

The words are strange, but stranger still are the drops of blood and strands of hair below them.

I wake to a horrible stiffness in my neck and a throbbing ache in my head. I don’t want to open my eyes because I can tell it is bright in the room and I know that will only add to my agony. Thankfully, wherever I am, it is quiet. I don’t think I could deal with any noise right this minute. My head feels like my brain is bleeding out of my ears, it’s so intense already that I fear I might throw up. Nevertheless, I slowly pry my eyelids apart and survey my surroundings.

I am lying on a twin-size bed with a black iron frame in a room that is smaller than our closet back in Château Brand. The walls are painted an annoyingly glaring yellow and there is a border of birdhouses and blue flowers that complement the quilt that is covering me. The matching pillows lying beside me have the words hope and love hand-stitched in embroidery on them.

I sluggishly sit up, wincing with discomfort as I do and feel the back of my head. I have two ginormous lumps that I don’t think even my thick hair will cover and said hair is wet with seeping blood and pus. Gross. I’m still in my dress from last night and it doesn’t seem as if it has been messed with. That’s one relief; at least I don’t have to worry about what was done to me while I was passed out. Besides the ache in my head, the rest of me feels intact.

Now that I am sitting up, I have a better look around and see a lone window that is small, but big enough for me to wiggle through. I stand up on shaky legs and make my way over to try and open it. Nope, doesn’t even budge. There’s a neon green post-it note stuck to the window ledge. It says
DON’T EVEN TRY —R
, in bold capital letters. Yeah, like I am going to listen to a sticky note from my captor.

Peering out of the window doesn’t give me much information as to where I am. Directly across from it is the brick wall belonging to, I am assuming, another apartment building. At least I know that this is an apartment building now, although I don’t know what good it will do me. It looks as though I am at least four stories up. There are fire escapes along the building but none of them are connected to this window. Even if I got the damn thing open, it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. What the hell would it matter? DON’T EVEN TRY, my ass. It must be Reece’s idea of a joke. Ha ha, so funny. It’s going to be even funnier when I kick him in the balls the next time I see him.

There are two doors in the room. I try the first one and—surprise, surprise—it’s locked. I’m pretty sure the other one is a closet. I try to open it and yep, it’s full of small clothing on pink padded hangers. I grab one of them out, a purple sundress with green and blue ribbon details around the collar. I look around the room again and notice the pile of stuffed animals stacked on the seat of the only other piece of furniture in the room, an elaborately carved white rocking chair. It dawns on me, duh, this is a little girl’s room. What am I doing in a child’s room and if I’m in here with a locked door and window, where is the girl?

I push all of the stuffed animals off the chair and sit down. My head’s still throbbing, so I rest it between my palms, elbows on my knees and I hear a noise. The locked door has a small cat flap on the bottom of it. Someone has just pushed through a bottle of water, a granola bar, and a plastic sandwich bag. I’m on my feet in a flash, down on hands and knees in front of the door. I wrench the cat door up and look around. No one is within eyesight. Outside the door is a carpeted hallway with plain white walls with pictures hung along them, although I can’t make out their details.

“Hello,” I shriek. “Reece, let me out of here!” But, there is no answer to my cry, and I don’t even hear anyone breathing when I listen in silence. I stand up and kick the door for good measure, but that only results in a sore toe, which makes me scream at the top of my lungs with frustration. Now my head hurts even worse, my toe hurts, and my throat feels harsh. Great strategy, Ophelia, I’m really wearing him down now.

I scoop up my “treats” and stomp back over to the chair, plopping down in defeat. Oh, what a mess this is. For a second, I allow my thoughts to flip back over to Donovan and what condition I might be in if I had made it back to the house last night. Really, I should be relieved. I’m probably in a far better situation now, but I can’t help but feel anxious over what Donovan is going to do when he finds me. He will find me. He has told me countless times that there is nowhere I can hide, no hole deep enough in this earth where he wouldn’t be able to seek me out. I worry about Reece and the little girl whom this room belongs to. I shouldn’t. The asshole kidnapped me and I don’t even know the girl. But I was unconscious for hours, he could have harmed me during that time if he had wanted to and he didn’t. Even though he is a dick for what he has done, I don’t want him to die.

Maybe he needed money for his little girl and he took me for ransom. I close my eyes and plead with the universe, please say he didn’t call Donovan with a ransom demand, please. If he already has, he and the girl are as good as dead. If I can talk to him first, maybe I can convince him to let me go for the safety of his child, and he will see reason. Donovan never needs to know that I was here; he can just think that I tried to escape again. It’ll be bad when he gets me back, but at least I will be the only one harmed, not an innocent little girl. I can live with that.