She turned the knob and inched the door open. There was no light inside and she brushed her hand against the wall, finding a switch. The room was even more spartan than her small cell, lacking even the comfort of a blanket. Its window had been boarded up.
The next one was different. She knew that even before she found the light switch, because the combined stench of the damp and mold of the house was replaced by the sweetness of roses. This room was large, big enough to be called a master suite. It had a queen-size bed decked out with a raspberry satin duvet and plush white pillows. There was a walnut dresser with carved drawers and brass knobs, and a large wardrobe with delicate flowers painted on the front.
What the hell? Dominique thought, momentarily dazzled. It was nothing like a hotel suite or Gary’s country house, but, compared to the rest of the ramshackle old building, it was a palace. Was this where her kidnapper was planning to seduce her? He’d worked everything out in advance, or at least, he thought he had.
Her next thought was that the wardrobe was big enough to stash a man’s body.
She approached it, listening for any sound behind the pretty, painted doors. Holding her breath, she pulled them open. Swaying slightly in front of her eyes were two men’s dress shirts, all freshly pressed and redolent of starch. They were broad enough in the shoulders to fit the gunman, but for all she knew, they’d been hanging there for some time.
Next, she turned to the dresser. In one of the top drawers, she found a folded bundle of white silk. Touching it gingerly with the tips of her fingers, she lifted it, unfurling a stunning full-length negligee with lace insets. It was made by La Perla, and it was Dominique’s size.
She dropped it, deeply disturbed by thoughts of what the gunman had been planning for her. What he was still planning for her, for all she knew. She had to find a phone. Or a big sweater, or anything that would let her go outside without freezing. Naturally, there was nothing like that, but inside a large drawer at the bottom of the dresser was her purse. She unzipped the top, peering inside. There was her wallet, with cash and credit cards intact. Her makeup. Her jewelry case. The one thing that was missing was her phone. She went through every compartment, but it wasn’t there. She zipped the bag closed and returned it to the drawer, dazed.
Catching her breath, she made her way to the en suite bathroom. There was a bottle of Jo Malone Red Roses Bath Oil—her favorite scent in the world—waiting next to a cracked white claw-foot bathtub. There were fancy bath salts, too, and plush white cotton towels. On the vanity counter was an unfamiliar black toiletry kit. When Dominique unzipped it, she found a new toothbrush and an unused tube of toothpaste, along with hand-sanitizing gel, aspirin, Band-Aids, and condoms.
There was no window in that bathroom, but Dominique felt eyes on her. She looked around, but no one had crept in. The only ghostly presence was a haunted image of herself in the rust-edged mirror over the sink. Returning to the bedroom, she stared outside at the clearing. It felt to her as if the trees were crowding in on the house, moving closer to it in the darkness.
The forbidding forest terrified her, but so did the house itself. There was no safe place around her, and in desperation, she sought the faint pinpricks of light in the sky that were fighting their way through the cloud cover. She wished she could remember Desmond’s saying. It wasn’t running with the stars, but that was close. She re-created the faint echo of his voice in her mind, but she couldn’t recall the precise words. Still, thinking of him was a comfort.
The last thing she wanted was to go to the basement, but she knew she had to. She couldn’t hide out in the bedroom, inhaling the sweet scent of roses, while Gary was trapped. Nana’s voice crept into her head. Every man shall bear his own burden. There was no way around it. She had to find him.
Dominique crept down the stairs to the first floor, then made her way to the back of the house, where the kitchen light still burned. The stench still hung in the air, but it was weaker, and the garbage bags were gone. Standing in front of the cellar door, she reached for the bolt. The house had had a little time to heat up, but that deadbolt was cold as death. She held her breath, pulled it back, and opened the cellar door.
“Gary?” she called into the darkness.
There was no answer.
She stood still, listening. Even if Gary was gagged and couldn’t answer, she expected moaning or crying, or maybe even retching. Instead, there was nothing. Dead air.
“Gary?” Her cry bolder and more desperate this time.
Nothing.
She tried the switch on the wall again, but no light came on. There had to be a flashlight in the kitchen, she reasoned. The gunman was carrying one when he appeared, and no one was fool enough to wander into that darkness. She hunted until she finally found a tiny penlight that went on when she twisted the top. It would have to do.
She pushed a wooden chair in front of the cellar door so it couldn’t close suddenly, trapping her in the basement. Then, shining the thin beam on the rickety wooden steps, she moved down. There was no railing to hold on to, and the steps were in such poor condition, she expected one to give out under her. When she reached the bottom, she shone the penlight across the floor. There were spiders and other multilegged creatures making their way across it.
