The Prisoner(8)

I lean my forehead against the door, gulping in air. The light must be on a timer. Another way for them to snatch away any control I might think I have.

I unbolt the door again, push it open, and step quickly into the other room. The darkness might be the same, but the space is not.

I stand for a moment, waiting for my heartbeat to settle. So far, I’ve managed to stay relatively calm. They haven’t hurt me—but they might. The thought cramps my stomach. I need to escape. But I’ll have to be patient, watch for the moment when they make a mistake. Because it will come, and I will be ready. I’m not being trapped again.

I move to the corner where my mattress is, then start walking, my hand on the wall to guide me, counting as I go. I expect to reach the corner at ten steps. But now that I’m more comfortable in the darkness, my strides are longer, and I crash into the wall after seven. Regrouping, I continue along the next wall, past the main door. Seven steps take me to the corner. I turn and walk along the next wall, my fingers bumping over the board covering the window. At seven steps I reach the corner. I turn, move past the bathroom door back to my corner. Seven steps. The room is a perfect square. I begin to walk around the room in circles, my hand trailing the wall, counting my steps. At five hundred, I stop, so dizzy that I have to crouch down and crawl the rest of the way to my mattress.

I’m halfway there when I hear it, the minutest of sounds. A voice. I hold my breath, waiting for it to come again. It doesn’t, so I rotate quickly and crawl across the room toward the main door. I kneel against it, press my ear to the painted wood. But there’s nothing, no sound from the hallway outside. Whoever was speaking must have gone.

I’m crawling back to my corner when I hear it again. It seems to be coming from below. I lie flat on my stomach and press my ear to the floorboards, chasing the sound. An indistinct voice reaches me. I close my eyes in concentration, wriggle forward, listen, move again, searching for the optimum place. It seems to be coming from the left-hand side of the room, near the corner where I sit. Still moving on my stomach, I reach my mattress and push it out of the way. The voice is louder now, coming from the corner. Feeling around, my fingers find a small circular hole where the two walls meet. I place my ear as close to it as possible and hear Ned’s voice, belligerent, arguing.

At first, I can’t make out his words, I don’t know if he’s speaking to himself or if there’s someone with him. And then, a crack—a slap maybe?—and Ned begins speaking, a seeming monologue. I pick out words—name, Ned Hawthorpe, prisoner, negotiate, police, killed. I imagine him holding a copy of today’s newspaper as he stares at a camera, his eyes wide with fear. Ned isn’t the bravest of men.

A door slams below.

“Hey, wait!” I hear Ned shout. But there is only silence.

A wave of sadness flows through me. If we were another couple, I might have put my mouth against the hole and called quietly to him, let him know I was nearby, tell him we would find a way to escape together. But we are not that couple, and when I escape, it will be to get away from him, not just our abductors.





CHAPTER TEN


PAST

“Amelie, I have a surprise for you!”

I smiled, happy that Carolyn was back from work. I’d been working for her for five months now and she’d never once made me feel like a housekeeper, more like a pampered guest. I had a beautiful bedroom, my own bathroom, and if I kept the apartment clean and tidy, and had an evening meal ready for Carolyn when she arrived home from work, my time was my own.

I’d finally admitted to Carolyn that I wasn’t eighteen when we met, but seventeen. By then, my birthday had come and gone, so I was officially an adult. When I also admitted that I’d been sleeping outside and was down to my last ten pounds, she’d been appalled.

“I don’t know what would have become of me if you hadn’t offered me this job,” I’d told her. “You saved my life.”

“I’m glad I did,” she’d said, hugging me. “And actually, you saved my life. I was so depressed after my ex left me that there were days when I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t focus on anything; my work was suffering and I was so close to giving up. But that day I saw you in the café—I couldn’t get you out of my mind. You were so young, and so hungry, and I couldn’t stop wondering what your story was, why you’d followed me home. You’re amazing, Amelie, so resilient. When I think of all that you’ve been through—well, I’m in awe.”

Since then, we’d become really good friends. She was like the sister I’d never had and I would do anything for her.

I dusted the flour from my hands and went into the hall. “Dinner’s nearly ready,” I said, then stopped because she wasn’t alone. Lina Mielkut?—the beautiful Lithuanian woman I’d seen in the café that day with Carolyn and whom I’d met several times since—was with her, and another woman, standing with her back to me. They turned at the sound of my voice and Lina came over, kissing me on both cheeks.

“Amelie, this is Justine Elland. She works with me at Exclusives.”

Justine smiled and I felt an immediate sense of connection.

“Lina told me about you,” I exclaimed, moving toward her. “You’re half-French, like me!”

“Yes, my mother is French,” Justine said, embracing me. “Et maintenant, nous allons pouvoir parler Fran?ais ensemble.”