Chapter 7
AMY
––––––––
I wake up with the nearly overwhelming urge to throw up. My breathing comes in a succession of rapid, shallow pants.
Calm down, calm down.
I’m lying on my back in a single bed, staring at a blurry ceiling, the lights too bright. I blink and roll onto my side.
And I see him.
Fear engulfs me and I let out a hoarse scream.
My kidnapper doesn’t flinch. He’s sitting on a chair, a black ski mask over his head, watching me, not saying a word. He’s as big as I remember.
“Water,” I croak out.
“Right next to you.”
I fumble for the plastic cup on the bedside table and take a big gulp. The man continues to stare at me in unnerving silence. I sit up slowly, hundreds of questions vying for attention in my head.
“What did you inject me with?” I ask.
“Ketamine.”
“What...what is that?”
“An animal tranquilizer.”
“Why do I feel so dizzy?”
“You’re experiencing some of the side effects of the drug—dizziness, impaired coordination. They’ll wear off in time, but there may be a few other effects.”
“Like what?”
“You tell me,” he says, his tone mocking. “Any nightmares or hallucinations?”
The words spill out before I can think to stop them. “Well, I’m looking at a monster, but I don’t believe I’m hallucinating.”
After a pause, he says softly, “That’s a dangerous mouth you’ve got on you.”
I swallow. “So I’ve been told.”
He sits on the edge of the bed. I take in the imposing span of his chest, the muscles stretching the sleeves of his T-shirt. I know already I’m no match for him physically.
Oh, please, please, don’t hurt me.
I will myself to look at him. Slits in the ski mask show an unsmiling mouth and gray eyes the color of a fading winter sky.
“You’re not too good at judging monsters, are you, Amy Hutchinson?”
I stiffen. “What are you saying?”
“That you have dinner with one every week and you haven’t recognized him for what he is.”
I frown. What on earth is he talking about? Who do I have...
My father. I see my father every week.
The blood drains from my face. That means he’s been watching me.
For how long? It’s a thought I can’t bear to explore.
And then it comes to me, the comment he whispered in my ear last night.
Something about my father, about how he’s involved in this.
But that doesn’t make sense. I wish I could think clearly, but my mind is still wrapped in a drugged fog.
“Are you talking about my father?” I ask at last.
His eyes meet mine. “Who else?”
“You’re obviously confusing him with someone else.”
“The only one confused here is you,” is the curt rejoinder.
“You know nothing about him!”
“And you don’t know enough!”
Swept along by anger and adrenaline, I respond instinctively. “He’s only been my father for thirty-three years. Of course a complete stranger would know more about him than me.”
His eyes glint. “I see sarcasm is one of the traits you inherited from him. I wonder what other genetic charms he passed on to you.”
I know I should stop this, somehow curb the barbs my tongue seems intent on hurling at him, but when it comes to defending the only family I have left, reason claims a slippery place on my tongue. “My father is a good, kind, loyal man, a man dedicated to his work and loving to his family.”
His laughter is harsh. “It seems we are talking about two different people—the saint his daughter thinks he is and the monster the rest of us believe him to be.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Whatever issues you have with my father, take them up with him.”
“Oh, I will.”
Wait, no, I take that back. I don’t want this delusional psychopath anywhere near my father.
“You leave him alone,” I whisper.
“Not a chance. I have plans for him.”
Terror tightens my chest. I can’t draw in enough air. “What plans?”
“Graham Hutchinson will be executed.”
At his words, rage and fear flood me so completely I attack him without thinking, pummeling his chest, screaming at him.
Not that I can do any damage. I’m so weak my attack must seem laughable.
He catches my wrists and forces them to my sides.
He waits in silence until my sobs abate, until I calm down sufficiently to draw a breath that doesn’t choke me.
“Relax,” he drawls, “we’re not planning on harming him.”
“Then why did you—” I stop, unable to say the words aloud.
“I wanted to confirm how you feel about him. Which gives us an indication of how he feels about you.”
Stunned, I simply stare at him. There’s no sympathy in his tone. How can he be so cruel? What kind of person says such a thing, purely as a test?
His eyes rake my face. I know my nose is running, my eyes no doubt red and swollen, but for once in my life I don’t care what I look like. All I can think of is how much I hate this man.
He loosens his hold and I jerk out of his grasp. “What do you want with me?”
He stands. “You’ll find out in time.”
“I want to know now.”
“You’re not in a position to make demands.”
“But I have questions.”
“I’ll answer them when I’m ready. If I answer them at all.”
“Wait! You can’t just leave!”
He gives me a disparaging salute. “Use the time to tour your surroundings. It should prove educational.”
The door closes behind him. I hear the click of a lock. Sitting helplessly on the bed, I wonder what I did to deserve this. And what does this man think my father’s done?
I bury my face in my hands. Whatever it is, I have a feeling it doesn’t matter. It appears our fate has already been decided.