Abandoned in Death (In Death, #54)(35)

“You need to be who you are.”

She smiled again. “It’s just a name. I’d like to have one.”

“Violet. The first time I walked you outside, you picked some violets. You must like them.”

“Violet. It’s pretty. It’s perfect.” She held out a hand to shake. “Hi, Joe. I’m Violet. It’s nice to meet you.”





NOW


Mary Kate knew he’d come back. The rumbling sound overhead—the first time she’d thought thunder—meant he left or came back. She usually heard footsteps overhead shortly before or shortly after.

She figured he must have a job, so he left in the morning, came back at night. So it must be night. Or evening. Or screw it, the son of a bitch worked the night shift and now it was morning.

Time of day didn’t matter. Getting away meant everything.

She’d tried calling out after the first rumble of the day—or night. She’d banged on the door, called out her name. But she didn’t think anyone remained behind the door across from hers, where she thought she’d heard someone crying and calling before.

She wanted there to be someone. She didn’t care how selfish it was, she just didn’t want to be alone.

When he brought her breakfast, he carried in a lamp. Though he placed it well out of her reach, he showed her—gleefully—that she just had to clap her hands to turn it on and off.

“Try it, Mommy! Try it!”

Terrified, she obediently clapped it on and off, on again while he giggled.

“I made you scrambled eggs and toast and a fruit cup so you’ll eat a balanced breakfast. You should’ve told me it’s important to eat a balanced breakfast.”

“Didn’t I?”

He ticked his finger back and forth. “Uh-uh. Now, after you eat, you can wash in the sink and change clothes. It’s important to be clean. You shouldn’t have let me get so dirty all the time.”

“No, I shouldn’t have. That was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

His eyes glittered in a way that had her heart slamming into her throat. “You made lots of them, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and I’m sorry for all of them. I’m going to do much better.”

He said nothing, just studied her. She wondered who looked at her so deeply. The little boy or the man?

“We’ll see,” the man said. “Now, I made you tea and you have two tubes of water.”

He set the tray on the cot—everything disposable, she noted. Nothing with weight, nothing sharp—and still she wondered if she could somehow overpower him.

But even as she coiled to try, his eyes flashed to hers. The man’s, she thought. The crazy man’s, not the little boy’s.

“I’m giving you a chance. You should make the most of it.”

He stepped back, out of reach. “Eat what I give you or you’ll do without.”

“Are you going? Can’t you stay?” She had to swallow hard, force a smile to her face.

He’d moved to the door, but turned, gave her that hard look again.

“I have to work. I have responsibilities.”

“I … don’t have anything to do. Shouldn’t I have responsibilities? I should be taking care of you. Making your breakfast. A healthy, balanced breakfast.”

She couldn’t be sure if she saw interest light in his eyes or something else.

“That’s not on the schedule yet. You’re number three. Number two comes first.”

“Oh.” Her hands shook, but she managed to lean over, grip the sides of the tray to set it on her lap. “What about number one?”

“She was bad, had to be punished. I had to take her away and leave her like she left me. If number two keeps being bad, you’ll get your turn.”

“Is there a number four?”

He smiled. “Not yet.”

“Please, can’t you—” But he went out, and the door closed. The locks clicked.

She wanted to throw the tray across the room, but understood he’d hurt her if she did. She tried a few bites, waited to see if it made her sick or sleepy. If so, she’d flush it all down the little toilet. When she had no reaction, she ate cautiously, nibbles at a time. She needed to be strong.

She decided against the tea—too easy to drug—flushed it. But the water tube seals were intact.

She heard the footsteps and, not long after that, rumbling.

She tried the calling out, the screaming, the banging on the walls.

As she had before, she looked everywhere for any kind of weapon. To fight the fear, she washed up in the sink, changed into clothes neatly folded on a bench bolted to the floor.

The clothes always had buttons or a zipper down the side of the pants leg so she could fasten them with the shackles.

He wasn’t stupid.

He’d made this place. He had a purpose. He was a sick, crazy old man, but, no, he wasn’t stupid.

She couldn’t be stupid, either.

For a while she tried, and failed, to pry and pull a pipe from the wall. She’d already tried to use the disposable spoon to turn the bolts in her shackles, but broke the spoon almost immediately.

The pipe wouldn’t budge, and, frustrated, she slammed her fist against it. Metal banged on metal. Furious, she beat her shackles against the pipe, until she folded to the ground weeping.