“Well, if you’re sure, I suppose we can read a little more about those naughty children.”
Knowing he expected it, she managed to murmur, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, dear. I’m glad you like this story. It’s no wonder their parents didn’t want Hansel and Gretel—awful, spoiled brats, weren’t they? Most parents hate their children anyway, but these two were especially bad.”
If it wouldn’t have caused her so much pain, she might have laughed. He hadn’t said anything she didn’t know. Her mama had made that clear every day of her life.
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Prologue
Twelve years ago
“He’s gonna kill you.”
The boy’s voice shook with both sadness and fear. And with those four whispered words, Olivia Wainwright’s faint hope of survival disappeared.
The boy, Jack, was he a victim, too? During the three days she’d been tied up in this barn, his sharp, angular face was the only one she’d seen. She’d caught glimpses of him when he shuffled in to bring her water or sometimes a handful of stale nuts. Once, he’d come close enough to loosen the ropes on her wrists and ankles a bit, so she had some circulation again.
But he hadn’t let her go. No matter how much she’d begged.
“Are you sure?”
He sniffed. “I’m sure.”
He was a couple of years younger than her, twelve or thirteen, maybe. Skinny, pale, with sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes. While he was free to go in and out, she suspected he was a victim, too—of abuse, at the very least. The kid looked beaten down.
Olivia began to shake. She’d eaten almost nothing for days, yet thought she’d be sick.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. She’d tried so hard to be strong, to think positively. Her parents loved her, and they had a lot of money. Of course they’d pay the ransom.
“When?” she finally asked, dread making the word hard to push from her mouth.
“Once he makes sure they paid the ransom money.”
“If they’re paying the money, why is he going to kill me?” she whispered, in shock.
“He don’t want any witnesses.” Jack leaned back against the old plank-board wall and slid down it, as if he couldn’t hold himself up anymore. He sat hunched on the backs of his bent legs, watching her. A shaft of moonlight bursting through a broken slat high up in the barn wall shone a spotlight on his bony face. Tear tracks had cleared a path through the grime on his bruised cheeks, and his lips—swollen, bloodied—quivered. “He’s afraid you can identify him.”
“I can’t! I never even saw his face.”
That was true. Liv had awakened from a sound sleep to find a pillow slapped over her face, a male voice hissing at her not to scream or he’d shoot her and her sister, whose room was right next door. Their parents’ room was on the other side of the huge house, and Liv didn’t doubt that the man would be able to make good on his threat before anyone could get to them.
A minute later, any chance of screaming had been taken from her. He’d hit her hard enough to knock her out. By the time she’d awakened, she was already inside this old abandoned barn, tied up. Jack was the only living soul she’d seen or heard since.
“I’m sorry.”
“Let me go,” she urged.
He shook his head, repeating, “I’m sorry.”
“Please, Jack. You can’t let this happen.”
“There’s nothin’ I can do.”
“Just untie me and give me a chance to run away.”
“He’ll find you,” he said. “Then he’ll kill us both.” His voice was low, his tone sounding almost robotic. Like he’d heard the threat so many times it had become ingrained in his head.
“When did he take you?” she asked, suddenly certain this boy was a captive as well.
“Take me?” Jack stared at her, his brown eyes flat and lifeless. “Whaddya mean?”
“He kidnapped you, too. Didn’t he?”
“Dunno.” Jack slowly shook his head. “Been with him forever, seems like.”
“Is he your father?” she persisted.
Jack didn’t respond.
“Do you have a mother?”
“Don’t remember.”
“Look, whoever he is, you have to get away from him. We have to get away.” She tried to scoot closer, though her legs—numb from being bound—didn’t cooperate. She managed no more than a few inches before falling onto her side, remnants of dry, dirty old hay scratching her cheek. “Come with me. Untie me and we’ll both run.”
If she could run on her barely functional legs.
She thrust that worry away. If it meant saving her life, hell, she’d crawl.
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Cold Memory Page 28