A Deadly Influence (Abby Mullen Thrillers #1)(31)

“Can they hear me?” Nathan asked, his voice trembling.

“Not right now. But I’ll send them a recording of what you say so they know you’re fine.”

Nathan gaped at the phone, the words frozen on his lips. He wanted to tell his mom the man had locked him in here and that he’d made him pee in a bucket. But if he said the wrong thing, the man probably wouldn’t send her the recording.

He swallowed. “Hi, Mommy. Hi, Gabi. I’m fine. But I want to go home.” His voice broke.

The man gestured at the paper. Oh right, he wanted him to read this.

Nathan frowned. “I need to read this to you.” Then he read slowly, “‘Jessica Meir and Christina Koch made the first all-female space walk . . .’”

The man patted him on the shoulder. “That’s enough, good job, Nathan, you read really well.” He flipped open the lid of the pizza box. “Green olives, right?”

“Yes.” He glared at the pizza, again wondering how the man knew. Perhaps he could read minds. If he could, then he knew how much Nathan hated him. The very thought made him want to flee.

The door was open. The man had never shut it behind him.

For some reason, Nathan couldn’t move.

“Your sister will be really glad to get your message,” the man said. “Here, hold this.” He handed Nathan the newspaper.

Nathan took the newspaper, not understanding what he was supposed to do with it.

“Hold it next to your head so I can take a picture,” the man said impatiently.

Nathan complied, holding the newspaper up. The man aimed his phone at Nathan and took a few pictures. Then he left the room and shut the door. A second later Nathan heard that click again. The door was locked.

He took a pizza slice and wolfed it down. It was cold but tasted amazing. He ate another one, then drank some water. Then he shut the pizza box lid and lay on the bed.

The man had become so angry before. He’d looked like he was about to hit him.

If he had superpowers, he could kill the man when he opened the door. He could shoot lasers from his eyes, or punch him really hard. And then he could escape. He imagined how it would feel, striking the man down and then running away.

Or if he only had his baseball bat, he could hide and, when the man walked in, hit him with it. If he hit the man’s legs hard enough, they would break. And he could run away, and the man wouldn’t be able to chase him.

But the bat wasn’t here. At home, he kept it in the closet, but here, all the closet had were some clothes.

A sudden thought occurred to him. Back home, he’d discovered he could detach the bed’s headpost by rotating it. He’d used it as an imaginary light saber and almost hit the TV. His mom was furious and told him he wasn’t allowed to do it again. The metal bar was dangerous; he could break something—or accidentally hurt someone.

But now, he wanted to hurt someone. And if this was the same kind of bed . . .

He went to the bed and tried to rotate the headpost. It was stuck. He put both hands on it and gritted his teeth, pushing as hard as he could.

With a sudden jolt, it moved. He kept rotating it and, after a few seconds, managed to pry it free. He gazed with awe at the metal rod in his hand. He swiped it in the air, heard the satisfying whoosh.

What if he hit the man’s legs with that?

They would break for sure.





CHAPTER 21


On her way home, Abby had a very specific fantasy as to the progress of the next few hours. She would get home, take off her sauce-stained blouse and slept-in clothes. She would take a scalding-hot shower followed by a two-hour nap, which she felt she’d earned. Once she woke up, she’d call Steve and get him to postpone his birthday museum trip. Then she’d take the kids to dinner. It sounded like a good plan. A great plan, since the hot shower and the nap came first, and plans that started with hot showers and naps were great plans. In fact, you could call them master plans.

When she opened the door and saw Steve sitting in the living room, it threw a big wrench in her master plan. Steve was supposed to come after the shower and the nap; that was the plan. The plan was now upside down. It was a nalp.

“How did you get in?” she blurted, which perhaps wasn’t the best way to start the conversation.

He raised an eyebrow. “Your mom let me in. She just left; I told her I’d wait for you. I’m here to pick Sam up.”

Abby blinked. “Picking her up? This is my weekend with the kids, not yours.”

Steve’s eyes focused on the sauce stain on her shirt. It shouldn’t have bothered her. If there was one man on the entire planet she didn’t need to impress, it was Steve. But it nevertheless irritated her, as did the fact that her clothes were rumpled, her eyes bloodshot, and her hair frazzled. She desperately searched for something neglected in his appearance, but he was immaculate as always.

“I thought Sam told you,” Steve said. “She said she wants to stay at my place this weekend because of that creature.”

Abby rolled her eyes. “She’s overreacting. I told Ben to keep his pets in his room.”

Steve frowned. “Overreacting? Abby, your mother went too far. That thing’s almost a foot long.”

This was the moment when reality shifted for Abby. Because neither Ben’s tarantula nor his chameleon were a foot long. And there were her mother’s constant attempts to question her about Ben’s birthday present. And . . . oh no, Sam’s weird text message about a snack, which could have easily been an autocorrect mishap . . .