The Prisoner(20)

I inch my way down the pitch-black hallway, my breath coming in small panicky gasps, my fingers groping the wall. A sound reaches me, the handle being rattled. I tense, wait for shouting. But it doesn’t come.

I quicken my pace and farther along the wall, my fingers find the ridge of a doorframe. I move to face it, explore the surface with my hands. Two doors, double doors, in my mind they lead to a vast room, a sitting room of some kind. I grope downward, find two doorknobs side by side. I try them both, but the doors are locked, I don’t waste time, I move on. Then, as I advance farther down the hallway, I see a thin sliver of light at floor level. My heart leaps: it must be coming from under a door and behind the door, there’ll be a room, a room where there’s light, where there’ll be a window.

Using the light to guide me, I reach the door, find the handle. It turns, I push the door open. A light—bright, white, artificial—blinds me. I drop my head, screw my eyes shut, I’m wasting precious time. But I can’t open them, the pain is too severe.

I bring my hands to my face, use them as shields, open my eyes, just a little, part my fingers, just a little, and see a table in front of me, behind it a fridge. I’m in a kitchen. I spread my fingers a little wider; to the right of the fridge, I see glass doors and quickly move toward them, my hands still shielding my eyes. I bump a chair, move around it—WHUMP!

Something comes over my head, not a hood, a blanket, not my blanket, a different one, rough, not soft. An arm snakes around me, pinning the blanket down, muffling my protests. My hands are trapped in front of my eyes, I try to move them but there’s no room to maneuver. My weight is shifted to one side, I’m lifted off my feet. Held tight against his body, I feel the rhythm of his stride as he begins to move forward. I kick out and my feet whack against something hard. My mind scrabbles frantically, I try to work out where he’s taking me, we’re going back down the hallway, toward the room where I was kept, toward the door to the basement where Ned is being kept. Please let him take me back to my room, please don’t let him put me in with Ned! Terror takes hold, I struggle under the blanket. But it makes no difference.

The man pauses, stoops, crushing my body within his. A door is unlocked, my feet, dangling uselessly, knock against something a second time. I feel myself being tilted forward and unfurled from the blanket, I hit the floor hard.

Winded, I gasp for breath. Behind me, a door slams shut.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


PAST

My phone rang. I squinted, looked at the time, then frowned. It was 7:10 a.m. Who could be calling me so early on a Saturday morning? There was no caller ID.

I answered the call. “Hello?”

“Amelie, it’s Ned. Sorry to disturb you so early.”

I sat up hurriedly, fully awake now. Questions flooded my brain. Was he phoning to fire me? On a weekend? How did he get my number?

“No, it’s fine, really.”

“Have you ever been to Las Vegas?”

I grabbed my computer, thinking he wanted me to pull some information on the city.

“No, never. I’ve never been anywhere really. I’ve never even been on a plane.” Mentally, I told myself to shut up; Ned Hawthorpe hadn’t called to listen to my life story.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Well, I’m flying out this morning. Paul Martin has agreed to give us an interview. Well, almost agreed,” he added.

“Wow,” I said, flattered that he’d said us. “That’s amazing.”

“As I said, it’s not a definite. But I’m going to try and persuade him.”

“Well, good luck.”

“Would you like to come with me?”

I felt my eyes widen. “To Vegas?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

He laughed. “Seriously. I might need some help persuading Paul Martin. You can tell him what a great magazine Exclusives is.”

“But shouldn’t Justine be going with you?”

“She can’t, she’s leaving for Paris today to interview Ophélie Tessier for the March issue.”

“Oh good, has she finally agreed?”

“Yes, her agent phoned last night. Now, about Vegas. I’m flying at ten, can you be ready by eight o’clock?”

“Um, yes, I think so.”

“Good. Hunter will pick you up. You have a passport, I hope?”

“Yes, I do. How long will we be going for?”

“Three, four days.”

I could hardly contain my excitement as I began to sort through my clothes. I just had time to shower, dress, and pack before Hunter rang on the intercom.

“I’m on my way down!” I called, already rolling my suitcase through the door.

Hunter and I had chatted a few times since the day I was knocked down by the scooter, a month ago now. Well, not really chatted, just exchanged a few pleasantries. He was definitely friendlier than before, but I was trying not to read too much into it.

“We should be at Farnborough in plenty of time,” he said as I climbed into the back of the car. “We’ll pick Mr. Hawthorpe up on the way.”

“Farnborough?” I queried. “What’s at Farnborough?”

“The private jet waiting to take you and Mr. Hawthorpe to Las Vegas.”