Abandoned in Death (In Death, #54)(97)

She sighed once, said, “Joe,” and finally slept.





NOW


Mary Kate heard the footsteps overhead. He was back.

Very deliberately, she sat in the reading chair, picked up a book. She accepted Anna was gone. He’d moved her, or he’d killed her.

He’d do the same to her eventually, unless she found a way out—and she’d gotten nowhere on that—or held him off long enough for someone to find her.

Holding him off meant placating him, playing him, playing a role. She’d damn well do just that.

If she could find a way, she’d kill or disable him, and pray he had the key to her chains or a ’link she could use to call for help.

She had food, she had water, she even had a decent bathroom.

And she had, she constantly reminded herself, a brain and a spine.

So she sat in the French-cut pink T-shirt and cropped pants. Not her style, a little on the rich-matron side for her, but comfortable. She had white skids—no laces.

If she’d had laces, she might have tied them together and tried to strangle him with them.

He’d probably thought of that.

He had a brain, too, but there was something really wrong with it. He’d grown up in the South—she’d figured that out. The man didn’t have an accent, but when he reverted to the kid, the kid did. A twangy one—whiny and twangy.

Maybe she could use that. Maybe.

What she’d decided she could use, and would, was her own mother. How her mother handled her and her siblings.

Patient, firm, some humor, and a lot of: Don’t push it, kid, or pay the price.

When she heard the locks give, she gripped the book tight, made herself breathe. Made herself smile.

He had a sour look to him, but she kept the smile bright.

“Hi! Welcome home. How was your day?”

He stared at her, and the sour look deepened. “I had a very difficult day.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” She set the book aside as if she wanted nothing more than to talk to him. “Tell me all about it.”

“Why would you care?”

“Of course I care, baby darling. You know what you need? You need a snack. Let me fix you…”

She started to get up, trailed off, then settled again. Added a self-deprecating laugh.

“Sorry. Tell you what. Why don’t you fix us both a snack, and you can tell me what happened to make you unhappy?” She lifted her free hand, waved a finger. “No sweets now, not this close to dinner.”

He continued to stare at her, but she saw what she thought was interest—and a touch of slyness come into his eyes. “I want a cookie.”

She let out a big sigh. “Was it really that bad a day?”

“Yes.”

She held up the finger again. “One cookie.”

The sour look vanished.

He went into the kitchen, opened one of the cabinets. From her angle, she could see he’d loaded it with snack food—kid food.

Bags of cookies, chips, candy bars. He took a bag of cookies out.

“How about a nice cold glass of milk to go with it?”

At her suggestion, his face went fierce—and the accent crept in. “I want a soda pop!”

Fear clawed in her belly, but she channeled her mother, sent him a cold stare. “I understand you had a bad day, but you’ll watch your tone with me, young man.”

When he goggled at her, she inclined her head as her mother might have done. “Now apologize, and ask properly.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“Then we have nothing more to say.” With her heart pounding against her ribs, she picked up the book and pretended to read while the words blurred.

In the silence, she heard his rapid breathing, and forced herself not to look up when it dragged on.

“I’m sorry, Mommy.”

She looked over to see his head hanging. Chastised.

“Can I have a soda pop? Please, please?”

It took her a moment because her throat didn’t want to work.

“Just this once because you had a bad day.”

“Yay!”

He went to the mini-friggie. Some juice, she noted, a container of soy milk, and heavy on the soft drinks.

“Aren’t you going to get me one?”

He bounced on his toes like a child. “What kind do you want, Mommy? We got all kinds!”

“Hmm.” Tilting her head, she tapped a finger on her chin. Watching him, watching his every move and expression. “Well, since we’re going to have ourselves a little predinner party, I should have my favorite.”

“Cherry Coca-Cola! You like that best.”

Despised it. “I sure do.” She got up, moved to the bed. And patted the space beside her. “Now, you fix us a nice snack, then come on over here and tell me all about the bad day.”

“’Kay. It was bad, and they keep asking questions. I did everything right.”

“Of course you did.”

The man came back, and she found herself much more frightened of the man.

“I did it all perfectly. Why do they care about a fingernail? Why did they even notice when I did it all perfectly? It had to be perfect, had to be right. I take pride in my work.”

“Of course you do.” What did it mean? Keep him talking. “You’re so good at it. You’re the best.”