CHAPTER 73 The Kidnapper
The Kidnapper
Outside the house again, the next morning, and it was the right one. I knew it was. Found through chance or, actually, through hard work and stone-cold obsession. I didn’t know if it was, for so long, but now I do. Because here I am, holding a piece of paper containing confirmation it is her.
I have the rope and the tape, and am standing here, the daughter out, even though it’s the morning. I missed her again, even though I got up in the middle of the night to come.
I walk to the front door, cold in a skirt, the heat having left the day, and I think I’m going to have to break in, but there’s a spare key on the ledge above the door.
It’s easy. It’s so easy to sneak in, to feel my way into the still dark morning hallway, which smells of coffee and girls’ shampoo, and wait.
I cast about, looking for a good place. Dark-wood stairs with a striped runner on them.
A hall table collecting post. Kitchen at the back, two bedrooms off to the side.
And, next to one of them, a storage cupboard, warm from a boiler.
I get in there, next to the towels and the bedding, and I wait for her to come home.