Using her fingernails, she dug into the opening around the pipe, loosening the old, flaking caulk to reach the lower part of the PVC. It was too dark to see. Returning to the bedroom in fits and starts as she pulled the cord along the track, she retrieved the bedside lamp and retraced her steps into the kitchen. There, she plugged the light into an outlet by the sink and let it hang upside down over the counter.
Winded, she dropped again to her knees, the collar choking her. Eyeing the ceiling, she saw the clip had caught above the table. She scrambled to get hold of the counter and pull herself up, her breathing tight and panicked, and she spent a few moments calming herself. Then, careful to create slack in the cord, she lowered herself again. With the added light, she peered down into the narrow opening around the pipe.
There, at the back, maybe two inches below the surface of the flooring, a thin tube fed into the main pipe. That had to be the drug. If she could push that tube off the pipe, then the drug wouldn’t reach the water.
She wedged her fingers into the space between the flooring and the pipe, stretching them toward the tube. But it was too far. Retrieving a plastic spoon, she held the rounded side and tried to maneuver the handle to pry the tube away. With the handle wedged under the spot where the tube entered, she pushed slowly, trying to break it free. Instead, the spoon snapped at the base of the rounded end, and the handle vanished under the floorboard.
She broke two more spoons in the same way. Fighting frustration, she yanked the lamp off the counter and held it above her head. Panting and exhausted, she considered slamming it into the floor, imagining the wonderful crash it would make. But the base was smooth, rounded metal not porcelain. Other than the thin slivers of glass from the bulb, there would be no useful tool from the breakage.
And she might need the lamp.
Calming herself, she lowered it to the floor and leaned against the cupboard.
Breathing through her nose, she tried to ignore her parched tongue, the way it stuck to the roof of her mouth. She could not lose her temper. Now she was thirstier than ever.
She crossed to the refrigerator and opened the freezer. She pulled an ice tray out, staring at the cubes. Maybe they had filled the trays before the water was drugged. Using one finger, she pushed on a cube. It wasn’t frozen solid. The drug had decreased the temperature at which the water would freeze.
Which confirmed that the tap water was drugged. So were the ice cubes.
She returned the tray to the freezer, shut the door, and leaned her forehead against the cool surface.
She would have to drink. The milk and orange juice were drugged, as was the kitchen tap water. Did that mean that the water in the bathroom was safe?
You have no choice. To stay alive, you need hydration.
Filled with dread, she tugged the cord along the track to the bathroom. There, leaning over the small grungy sink, she drank until her belly was full.
10
Monday, 2:41 p.m. EST
In the bathroom mirror, Georgia Schwartzman made another adjustment to her hair. There was nothing to do about how tired she looked. She’d checked her phone a half dozen times over the course of the night, hoping for a message from Spencer. It seemed an unfair irony that by the time life had slowed down enough that she could sleep in, her body no longer had the ability to shut down completely. Last night had been particularly bad. And she’d found herself fretting around the house all morning, getting in the way of the household staff.
She’d tried to make herself useful. Twice, she had called Bella and left messages—the first short, the second longer. She felt remiss that they hadn’t spoken on Christmas, though she still wasn’t certain they hadn’t. Phoning her daughter always stirred an uncomfortable sadness, made her feel testy and defensive. By the end of the conversation, she usually wished she hadn’t called. As though every time she reached out to Bella, it was a reminder of what she hadn’t done right.
She couldn’t imagine her own mother ever feeling that way. Guilty? Never. She certainly hadn’t been coddled the way kids were today. But Bella didn’t want coddling. Did she?
How was it possible to create a child and raise her to adulthood and still know so little about her?
As she had puttered through her morning routine, Georgia found herself checking her phone every ten or fifteen minutes, staring at it as though the device itself were at fault. Finally, she forced herself to leave the house.
It was early afternoon when she got in the car and thought about running to the market to pick up a few things. Maybe she’d make a side trip down to the boutiques along Augusta Road. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Spencer. The dots had appeared after she’d texted him . . . Didn’t that mean he was on his phone? Then why not answer? She wasn’t a slave to her phone the way some of her friends were—and certainly not the way the young people at the club were, barely looking up to avoid running into people poolside. But to expect a return text after more than twelve hours didn’t seem unreasonable. And it wasn’t like Spencer. He was always so prompt. Unless something was wrong.
That was ludicrous.
They were hardly close friends. He owed her nothing. But he was her financial adviser. They spoke quarterly or so . . . or they had. She tried to remember the last time he’d called.
She couldn’t remember.
She stopped at the left turn toward Augusta Road and changed her mind. She would go by Spencer’s office. Then, if there was still time before the 4:00 p.m. garden club meeting, she’d go shopping. In fact, it might not be a bad time to ask him about these new tax laws. She tried to follow the changes in the news, but she had no idea how they would impact her. Sam had made sure she would always be taken care of, but it was never a bad idea to check in.
At his office building, she found a parking spot shaded by the tall building and rode the elevator to the top floor. As she stepped into the foyer, a young woman greeted her from behind a desk. “Hello. How can I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to Spencer MacDonald, please,” she said, noticing that his door at the end of the hall was closed.
“I’m afraid Mr. MacDonald is traveling this week.”
Georgia smoothed her hand along the side seam of her pants. “Traveling?”
The woman nodded but said nothing.
“Perhaps I can speak with Jenny.”
A little shake of her head. “Jenny?”
“Jenny Fontaine,” Georgia said, scanning the hall for a sign of Spencer’s assistant.
A second woman appeared behind the first. A decade or so older, she was probably mid to late thirties. Her dark hair was pinned into an oversize bun that looked too large to be natural. Georgia noted her long fuchsia nails, the strange way they were shaped, almost into points.
“I’m afraid Ms. Fontaine no longer works here,” the second woman said.
Surprised, Georgia looked around the space as though she might know someone else. She’d been a client for thirteen or fourteen years. Jenny had been here that whole time. Longer. She had come to Bella and Spencer’s wedding. “When did she leave?”
“A few months ago.”
“Why?” Georgia asked.
She watched as the younger woman eyed the older one, who slid her a quick look. “I’m afraid I don’t know,” the older woman said. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work, but Crystal can help if there’s something you need.” As she turned, the heavy bun swayed across the back of her head. It made Georgia think of a big fat ass. Women loved those now, too. Another thing she did not understand.
Then the woman was gone.
Georgia looked at the younger woman. “Crystal?”
“That’s me,” she said, smiling to display her teeth. Georgia noticed that two of her front bottom teeth overlapped slightly. “Would you like to leave Mr. MacDonald a message?”
“Do you know when he’ll be back in the office?”
Crystal studied the computer in front of her, frowning as she clicked her mouse. “Hmm,
” she said with a glance over her shoulder. But the woman with the bun was on the phone now, her back to them. “Actually, I don’t. For some reason, his calendar is blocked off.”
“Blocked off?”
“It just means we can’t access it. Usually, it means someone will be out for a few months—like maternity leave,” she added, her eyes momentarily bright.
Georgia gave her a moment to think about what she’d just said, but it didn’t seem to occur to Crystal that she had implied Spencer was out on maternity leave. If he was taking an extended trip, wouldn’t he have told his clients? Did this have anything to do with Bella? But of course not. She thought of how Jenny used to keep her company when she was waiting for her appointments with Spencer. How odd to think she was gone.
She’d probably retired. Georgia seemed to recall Jenny had a couple of children of her own. They were probably grown by now.
“Ma’am?”
Georgia shook her head. “I’ll just get out of your hair.” She leaned in closer to the desk and lowered her voice. “But before I go, do you happen to have a contact number for Jenny Fontaine? I’d love to reach out to her.”
“Oh.”
“I would imagine you have her details in the company contacts. Then I’ll be going.”
“Sure,” Crystal said. “Let me just look here.”
More clicking and frowning, and she seemed to locate something. “I only have her address.”
“That would be fine.”
Crystal lifted a yellow sticky note off a pad and began to write.
A moment later, the bun stepped out of the back room and into the small reception area. As she bent over Crystal’s computer, the room felt suddenly crowded. “What are you doing?”
“I’m just getting Jenny Fontaine’s address.”
The bun reached over and took the mouse from Crystal’s hand. “No,” she said. “No.” She looked suddenly flustered, casting a forced smile up at Georgia. “I’m sorry. We really can’t give out contact information. It’s against company policy.”
“I didn’t mean to get anyone in trouble.” Georgia pressed a hand to her throat.
“No worries,” the bun said, glancing at Crystal, who was also growing red.
Georgia stole a look at the Post-it Note, the big round letters easy to read. Dominic Court, she thought it said. Yes, 128 Dominic Court.
When she looked up, the bun was staring at her.
Georgia forced her own smile. “I just love your ring.” She pointed to a cheap band with a heart bent into the metal that Crystal wore on her pointer finger.
“Thank you,” Crystal said, looking genuinely pleased.
“Sorry to bother you ladies,” Georgia said.
“Did you get what you need then, Ms.—” the fat bun asked.
“It sounds like Mr. MacDonald’s calendar isn’t working, so I’ll drop him an email,” Georgia said, ignoring the question about her name. “Spencer is good with responding to those. Much better than I am,” she added with a little laugh.
The bun said nothing, the smile on her face suspicious. Crystal offered a little wave. “You have a nice day.”
Georgia made her way through the foyer and back into the elevator. When the doors had closed and she felt the little bump of the box beginning to descend, she realized that the encounter had been oddly unsettling. She sent a text to herself with Jenny Fontaine’s address so she’d have it. But what did she plan to do? Show up at her house? Of course not.
Out in the fresh air, she was happy to put the incident behind her. She would send Spencer an email. Maybe something was going on with his mother in Florida. There were lots of reasons why he might take a few weeks off, even if she’d never known him to do it before.
Enough, she thought. The police showing up, the lack of sleep—she was starting to invent things. With her car unlocked, she stopped to check the dashboard clock. She still had plenty of time to go to Augusta Road before the garden club meeting. A little shopping was exactly what she needed.
11
Monday, 1:32 p.m. MST
Despite the bright midday sun, Schwartzman felt the lethargy she equated with her days of chemo. The water in the bathroom was also drugged. The aftereffects dulled her senses like a thick fog, and her head ached. Eyes closed, she tried to discern whether there might be another source of the drug. Was it possibly in the air as well? Or in the sheets? In her clothes? She’d read a case where a victim had been drugged through a chemical infused in her mattress. It was possible. She turned her nose to the sheet, but there was no off odor. She couldn’t be certain.
And there was also the fetus. In the early weeks of her first pregnancy years ago, she’d felt profoundly tired, needing rest after only a few tasks. She opened her eyes. The glass of water by the bed was full again. She rose, keeping a hand on the cord as she moved from the bed. Although she hadn’t changed out of her own clothes—yoga pants and a flannel button-down—a new stack waited for her on the small bureau, gently worn but clean and fresh-smelling. Someone had come into the room. Did he watch her? Did he . . . No.
Surely she would know if she’d been touched. The man had been aggressive in the back of the truck. Now that he had her here in this cabin, why leave her alone?
Or maybe it was just a matter of when he would return.
“No.” The word was sharp and hoarse in her ears. She rarely went so long without talking. She said it again. She would not think about what might happen. There was only the mental space to work her way through the problem of finding a way out. Anything else was not relevant.
She had not been raped, which meant right now, she had to focus on escape. Nudging the cord along its track, she went into the bathroom and checked the ceiling. Nothing looked like a camera or an opening or a place where one might be hidden.
Why did he need a camera? He had access to her every time she was drugged and unconscious. She studied the collar in the mirror, realizing she hadn’t taken a close look at it after trying to pry it loose. The locking mechanism was at the back, so she twisted the collar around her neck, the rubber chafing her skin. The cord in her face, she tugged it gently to create slack and tried to get a clear view of the back.
The light in the bathroom shone painfully dim. Located just above the mirror, it cast a long shadow from her chin down onto her neck and chest, making it impossible to see.
She yanked on the collar in an effort to bring it closer to the mirror, the rubber digging into her skin. She coughed and stopped moving, worked to catch her breath and swallow the uncomfortable lump in her throat.
Don’t think about the collar. Just for a few minutes, do something else.
Drawing a deep breath, she turned to the shower and pulled back the curtain. Despite the ugly color, the shower and tub appeared clean. She cranked the water on and tested the temperature until the water felt comfortably hot on her hand.
Using the sleeve of her shirt, she cleared the steam off the bathroom mirror. She checked the door. Certain it was locked, she unbuttoned her shirt and stripped off the yoga pants. In the stream of the water, she let the spray strike her scalp and the water run down her face. The heat felt amazing. Even working around the awkward collar and the cord, she felt calmer.
For a moment, she had the sense that this was just a test and she could beat it. Yes, she was locked up, but at some point, there would be an opportunity to escape.
And she would be ready.
As she wiped the water from her eyes, she caught sight of something on her skin. Thinking it was a bug, she started and shook her arm. It didn’t move. Through the water, she saw a strange block print across her forearm.
Stepping out of the spray, she wiped her eyes again. Looked down and felt another wave of nausea. She froze in horror at the six digits printed on her left arm in black ink—212345. Like a Holocaust tattoo. Tears burned her eyes, and she scrubbed at the skin with her opposite hand. The ink blurred, the numbers fading from black to gray, but they were still visible. Inked on
her skin.
She studied the print, noting that it was thick and bold as though written slowly, with care. And yet the writing was messy, almost childish. She grabbed the bar of soap and worked a lather over the numbers. Using her nails, she rubbed and washed until the skin was red and sore. The numbers were faint but still visible.
The Holocaust.
That was when she remembered the man who had worked in her morgue, the man who had threatened to hurt her and said he would enjoy cutting her. His words played in her head. “It would be fun . . . Because you’re a fucking kike, and I hate kikes.”
The man whose eyes she’d seen, the man who had abducted her. It wasn’t Spencer. It was the morgue attendant. Roy Butler.
Butler had attacked her in the morgue. That was over a year ago. Why had he come for her now?
She shuddered at the thought that followed. Hal would never think of Roy Butler. Fighting her panic, she stepped back into the water to rinse off the soap and found the water had gone cold. Doing her best to rinse, she ducked in and out of the water until her teeth were chattering audibly and her body was quaking. She wrapped herself in a towel and dressed quickly in her own clothes, the thought of someone watching in the front of her mind.
In the bedroom, she removed her shirt and took a gray hoodie from the stack, pulled it on. Traded the yoga pants for a pair of baggy sweats. Zipping up the hoodie, she noticed the sky had darkened. She made her way to the bedroom window and scanned the window frame. Thick white flakes fell from the sky. Snow.
Water.
What she needed now was a way to collect the snow. She studied the side of the house. There—a beam jutted out a foot or so beyond her window.
Taking pains to move carefully across the room on her leash, she retrieved the water glass from the bedside table and carried it to the window. After she worked the small window open and dumped the drugged water outside, she used the sleeve of the sweatshirt to wipe out the glass.
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