He remained silent but didn’t leave. What was he up to?
Before long, her head began to spin, and the Rózsa standing before her became twins. He’d put something in the water, she realized with alarm. She tried to focus, but the twins became triplets, then she passed out.
The next thing Cassady knew, Rózsa was hauling her up the stairs, one arm around her waist, her arm over his shoulder. Everything was fuzzy. She tried to keep her feet under her, but he was moving so fast and she was so weak it was impossible.
He half-carried her through a small kitchen and into a bathroom, and laid her on the cold tile floor. “Knock when you’re finished,” he said before departing. She heard the click of the lock, then silence.
Cassady hazily took in her surroundings as she struggled to her knees. A toilet, sink, and shower. A pile of clean clothes he’d left her to change into. And a window, big enough to fit through.
Her only chance of escape.
She mustered every ounce of strength she had and crawled toward it. The sink was just to the left of it, so she used it to pull herself up. When she did, she came face to face with herself in the mirror mounted above it and gasped. Though her vision was still fuzzy and she saw herself in triplicate, she wouldn’t have recognized herself. Her once-blond hair was gray and disheveled, her cheeks were hollow, and enormous dark circles around her eyes made her seem more skeletal than human.
Shrugging off the image, she continued to the window. She saw three latches and had to fumble to find the one that was real. She twisted it and pulled at the window with all her might, but it didn’t budge. She blinked several times and felt around the frame until she discovered why. It was nailed shut.
She collapsed back onto the floor, breathing hard from the exertion, and looked around again. Nothing she could use as a weapon jumped out at her. The toilet didn’t have the heavy tank lid that many American ones did. The only other items in the room were toilet paper, soap, a towel, toilet brush, and shower curtain.
A shower curtain, she realized, that hung from a heavy iron bar. She crawled toward it and struggled back to her feet. The bar rested in brackets on either side, but it wasn’t bolted in. She was able to lift it, though in her weakened state it seemed much heavier than it should have.
Cassady wasn’t sure she had enough left in her to wield it effectively and escape, especially with her vision so compromised. But it was certainly worth a try. She might never get another chance. First, though, she’d clean herself up, just in case she didn’t succeed.
She was so weak it took nearly five minutes to strip and get into the shower. Rózsa hadn’t provided any shampoo, only the bar of soap, so she used it to wash her hair and her body, and as she scrubbed herself, she opened her mouth under the spray and drank until her stomach ached. She was even more emaciated than she’d thought; as she looked down at herself she wondered how she could even remain standing.
When she finished cleaning her body, she changed into the sweatpants, T-shirt, and clean socks he’d left for her. They were obviously his own clothes because they were much too large, but at least they were clean. Once she was dressed, she rested for a few minutes to catch her breath before reaching for the iron bar.
“Are you finished?” Rózsa called through the door. He’d apparently been near enough to hear her shut off the shower.
“Almost,” she replied. “Please. Just another couple of minutes. I’ll knock when I’m ready.”
Cassady struggled unsteadily toward the door with the bar and pressed herself against the wall beside it. She took a few deep breaths and tried to focus. Now or never. You can do this. She reached out and knocked, then gripped the bar like a baseball bat and got ready to swing it at him.
Rózsa came in so fast he’d evidently been waiting just on the other side of the door. And he obviously suspected she’d try something or her sense of timing was off considerably in her drugged state, because when she swung the bar, he was able to dodge the blow enough that it caught him on the shoulder instead of aside his head. It staggered him, at least, putting him off balance enough that she thought she could try again. But three of him rushed toward her, and she wasn’t sure which was the real one, so she swung wildly at the triplets and prayed she connected.
She heard him groan and felt the impact of the blow in her arms as she fought to remain standing, but she’d only hit him on the arm, and he was able to tackle her before she could try again. The iron bar went flying and clattered across the tile as Rózsa got to his knees, straddling her body. He hit her, hard, across the face, and pain exploded in her jaw. Still, she fought back, trying to throw him off with her hands and legs, renewed by a burst of adrenaline. But his fist came at her face again, and then everything went black.
When Cassady came to, she was back in her shackle in the basement. Her head was pounding, and when she put her hand to her aching jaw, she could tell it was badly bruised and her lip was split and bleeding. At least her vision was clearer. She rolled over and looked toward the door.
He’d taken away her oatmeal and water as punishment.
Chapter Twenty-One
New York
When Heather got home she practically tore off the emerald cocktail dress and heels and jumped straight into the shower, to rid herself of Dario. Soon, she was in a worn-out pair of jeans and T-shirt but still didn’t feel free of him. His words kept running through her head. How dare he try to buy her? Who did he think he was?
But what power he had to find out so much: her name, her job, even about Adam. He knew everything about her. The revelation made her skin crawl and frightened her.
Not only was she not going to join him on his business trip, she would cut him off completely, and if that meant giving up the agency, then so be it. Maybe the universe was telling her it was time to stop. If she had to give up her dreams and take another three jobs to support her brother’s needs, she’d do it. Having to sell her body was one thing, but having someone own her was a whole different matter. Moving on to another Dario wasn’t an option, either. Who knew what the next guy would be capable of?
She hadn’t realized the real danger of this work until tonight. Sure, she’d heard gruesome stories from other women, but they were all street girls like Gigi. No one she knew from her elite agency had ever been in danger. Goes to show you there’s never enough protection from obsessive freaks.
Heather paced the room, trying to think of something to get her mind off Dario. She resorted to turning on the TV again, but it didn’t help any more than it had the night before. Maybe talking to her brother would distract her. She glanced at the clock. Nearly ten, too late to call him. Normally, she would have phoned Gigi, but that wasn’t an option. As far as she knew, Gigi was still missing. Though she checked the paper every day for some news about Francine Shelhorn, she hadn’t seen any mention of her.
She had no one else to call, certainly not this late. Brett sprang to mind. When would she be back in town? Would she look her up again or were they just words? She’d never met a woman quite like her. Although she always appeared calm and measured, Brett seemed rather ominous and mysterious. Heather couldn’t pinpoint why, but the way she’d scared off those guys in Chinatown was unusual, to say the least. Not exactly how your average woman approaches danger. Brett not only intervened without a second thought, she did it like it was the most natural thing in the world, without even breaking a sweat. She was either very capable or very stupid. Either way, Heather realized she’d never felt safer than when in her company.
Her daydreams of Brett finally enabled her to relax, and she was just drifting off on the couch when the doorbell rang, startling her back to full awareness. The clock on the DVD player read ten fifteen. No one ever came to her door unexpected, certainly not at this time of night. Could it be Gigi?
Creeped out by her earlier meeting with Dario, she went to the intercom with an uneasy feeling. “Gi, is that you?” Heather asked cautiously.
“Hi, Heather. It’s Brett.”
Absolutely the last person she expected to hear from. It was almost like she’d sensed that Heather had been thinking about her and wishing for some company. “Brett? Are you okay?”
“Yes, fine. I…uhm…was wondering if I could talk with you.”
“Sure…yes. Now?”
“If that’s all right.”
God, I look like a mess. “I’ll buzz you in.” She ran to the bathroom to fix her hair and was headed for the bedroom to change when the doorbell rang. “That was fast,” she muttered nervously, just before opening the door.
Brett looked tired and almost reluctant to step in. “I’m not alone, I brought a friend.”
Another woman stepped into view beside her. A dark-haired version of Brett, only this one had a scar down the length of her cheek and brilliant green eyes. Both were dressed in black and roughly the same age.
“Can we come in?” Brett asked.
“Yes, of course.” Heather stepped aside. “Forgive my rudeness. I’ve had a…strange day.”
“I’m Jack.” The brunette extended her hand.
All of a sudden her apartment felt tiny with both women standing in it. They had a very imposing aura, and after the incident with Dario, Heather wasn’t sure she liked it.
She shook Jack’s hand. “Heather Snyder.”
“I know.” Jack smiled like she knew her.
“Do I know you?”
“I hope not.”
Brett moved farther into the living room. “Heather, why don’t you take a seat?”
“What’s going on, Brett?” Heather felt as though she was about to hyperventilate. Nothing about this day made sense.
Jack gestured toward the couch as Brett sat down on one end of it.
“Why do I have to sit?” Heather asked. “I’m not comfortable with this at all.”
Brett stood up again when Heather didn’t move. Her expression was serious. “Fine. We can do this standing up.”
Her alarm rising, Heather asked, “Do what?” She backed slowly toward the door but froze when she felt Jack behind her.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Jack said.
“Why are you here?”
“To talk to you about Dario,” Brett replied.
Heather couldn’t have been more shocked. This felt like a bad dream. She stared at Brett. “How…how do you know Dario?”
“We know you…entertain him…privately,” Jack replied from behind her.
Heather’s stomach dropped and her head began to spin.
“Catch her,” Brett said, and ran to the kitchen sink.
Heather felt strong arms around her waist. Jack helped her to the couch and then sat in the armchair opposite. Brett sat next to her and placed a glass of water in her hand, but she was shaking so much she had trouble holding it.
Brett helped her take a drink and then set the glass on the table. “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to upset you.”
After a minute or two, once she’d recovered enough to speak again, she asked, “How…how do you know?”
“Let’s start from the beginning,” Brett said, looking at her friend. “Jack and I work for a private organization.”
Jack lifted her hand. “Correction, I’m on loan. One-time deal.”
Heather turned to Brett. “What organization?”
“Private contractors,” Jack said.
“The government?” Heather asked. “Are you here to arrest me for—”
“No, nothing like that. It’s an international company. We get hired to help any country indiscriminately, and this has nothing to do with…with…” Brett suddenly looked uncomfortable and wouldn’t meet Heather’s eyes.
“Prostitution,” Jack filled in.
Heather felt her face burn and looked away.
“Real subtle, Jack.” Brett stared at Jack with a piqued expression for a few seconds. “This doesn’t involve Direct Connect. This is about your client, Dario. We have reasons to believe he works with Andor Rózsa.”
“Isn’t he the guy who spread the H1N6 virus?” Heather asked.
“Yup, it’s that son of a bitch,” Jack replied.
The papers and TV news reports had been full of little else for months—first reporting on the millions dead or dying from the virus, and then, just a few weeks ago, relaying word that the man responsible for it all had eluded capture. “Oh, my God. I had no idea. But Rózsa disappeared.”
“Yes, no one can find him,” Brett said. “And it’s very important we do.”
“The bastard has my girlfriend hostage.” Jack clenched her fists.
Heather saw pain as well as fury in the woman’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I still don’t understand what this has to do with me. I mean…I had no idea Dario was involved in any of this.”
“We know,” Brett said.
“How did you find out Dario was seeing me?”
Brett still wouldn’t look at her. She kept staring at the floor. “He made an electronic payment to Rózsa from the brownstone’s IP address.”
“Why would he do that?”
“We don’t know. We assume he panicked for some reason. When we checked out the IP address we discovered that the building belonged to Direct Connect. After that, it was just a matter of finding out who was there during the time of the transaction.” Brett paused, and when she continued her voice was almost apologetic. “Everyone present that night: girls, customers, Massimo, were all suspect. You included.”
“But how did you find my real name?”
“We followed you to your house,” Brett said.
“And checked the registry,” Jack added. “I’ve been shadowing you for a week. We also know about your day job.”
Heather looked at Brett. “And my brother?”
Brett nodded without looking up.
“That night at the Cave, you came looking for me.”
“Yes,” Brett said.
“That’s why you asked for my number. Why you asked me out.”
Brett sighed. “Yes.”
Heather reached for the coffee table and grabbed the graphic novel from under the Cosmo. “But you signed this as the author.”
Brett took it from her. “Because I am. Cooland is my pseudonym,” she said, and looked at Jack.
“Your day job,” Heather said.
“Of sorts.”
“What pseudonym?” Jack asked. “What are you talking about?” She looked from Heather to Brett.
Brett looked uncomfortable as she handed the graphic novel across the table to her.
Jack stared at the cover for several seconds, then opened it to the inscription page. “Well, fuck me.”
“I was going to tell you,” Brett said.
“You’re Cooland?” Jack asked.
Brett nodded. “I have been for eight years.”
“Well, damn.” Jack shook her head in disbelief and glanced down at the novel again. “Why didn’t you let me know?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Brett shrugged. “Maybe because I haven’t exactly been in the mood to share anything with you.”
“You clearly don’t have a problem sharing your opinion about me.”
“Not now, Jack.”
“You started it,” Jack mumbled, and looked back down at the novel. “Hey, this is next month’s issue.”
“It’s a proof,” Brett said.
“It’s for my brother,” Heather said pointedly. Jack was clearly coveting it.
“Why does he get one?” Jack asked Brett.
“Can we do this later?” Brett turned to Heather, but once again avoided eye contact. “We’ve been following you because we thought you were somehow connected to Rózsa.”
“And you don’t think so anymore.”
“Correct,” Brett said.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s obvious you’re clueless as to who Dario is,” Jack replied.
“Obvious how? I mean, I am…but why are you now convinced I’m not involved?”
Brett squirmed
and looked down at her feet. “We had your room at the brownstone bugged and heard tonight’s conversation. It’s clear you—”
“Bugged? When? How?” The humiliation she’d endured in that room flooded back as images of what she’d done for Dario flashed in her mind. Heat rose to her face. “How long have you been listening in?”
“For a week,” Jack said.
“You listened while I—” She couldn’t look at Brett.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I know this must be very uncomfortable for you, but if it’s any consolation, it’s nothing we haven’t heard before.”
“Smooth again, Jack,” Brett said, her tone tinged with reproach.
“Consolation?” Mortification began to quickly give way to anger. “That’s a violation of my privacy. God, this is so embarrassing.” Heather jumped to her feet, her rising fury so immense she felt as though she’d burst. She glared down at Brett. “You asked me out. We…you just stood there and watched me make a fool of myself. Why? It’s not like you confronted me with any of this, so why did you ask me out?”
Brett kept her gaze glued to the floor. “I promised you the novel for your brother.”
“Only to get my number. Besides, you could have mailed it.”
“She asked you out because we needed to get you away from your apartment,” Jack said.
Heather turned toward Jack so fast she heard her neck crack. “What?”
“While she kept you busy,” Jack said, “I was in here looking through your notepad, copying the Dario dates the agency gave you.”
“How do you know about those?” Heather’s head began to pound.
“We tapped your phone,” Jack replied.
They were listening in, even here. In her private sanctuary, the only place she’d felt truly safe. The admission stole the fight from her. Heather dropped onto the couch. “This whole clandestine show has been taking place right under my nose, and I…” She suddenly felt more lost and confused—and violated—than she could ever remember. “First Dario, now you. Christ, who else knows? The local news?”
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