And the bear.
As if in a trance, Claire sat up on the bed and struggled to stand. Unsteadily she crossed to the rocking chair and picked up the teddy bear. It was brown, a plain, ordinary stuffed bear, but she’d had one just like it growing up. She’d had it for as long as she could remember. It was well-worn, like this one. It was missing an eye. Like this bear.
She turned it over and stared at the embroidery on the paw. At one time, the thread had been bright pink. It was faded now.
She dropped the bear as if he burned her hands. It had been months after her mother had been killed when she realized Bill hadn’t brought the bear when he packed up her old room. She’d asked him to go back and look for it; he did. He said there were no teddy bears in the house. She had cried over it, certain that someone who didn’t like her dad was punishing her. Stupid to cry over a stuffed animal.
The entire room she now stood in had been designed exactly like the room she’d lived in when she was fourteen. One pink and three blue walls. On the back of the door was a corkboard, but instead of the collage of photos she’d kept, there was only one.
It was of her. A snapshot that looked like the pictures she’d had in her old room. Her and her best friend, Amy, who’d been killed by a drunk driver when they were freshmen in college. Amy had been the only one of her childhood friends who’d supported her unconditionally all those hard years.
This wasn’t right. Where was she? Who knew about her old life?
She turned the doorknob. Locked. She was locked in this room. Heart thudding painfully, she pulled and pushed and kicked and couldn’t get out.
There was only one window. She ran to it, pushed open the blinds. The light had changed-it had to be five or six in the evening. How long had she been unconscious? How long had she been held captive? What had happened to her friends and the bodyguard?
The landscape was unfamiliar. She was on the second floor of a house in the country, but there were no other houses she could see, no landmark to tell her anything about her location. It was mostly flat, but with some small hills and large trees. Not the mountains, not quite the foothills.
She tried the window. Nailed shut. She pounded on the glass. She’d have to break it to escape.
She looked around the room for a weapon, for anything she could use to defend herself or break this window. There was nothing. While at first it looked just like her room, it was a fake.
The drawers didn’t open on the dresser. The closet was empty. Could she break the mirror and use the glass as a weapon? It wasn’t thick enough; she wouldn’t be able to wield the shards in her hands with enough force to hurt someone.
The door opened.
She swung around. A wave of relief rushed over her. She ran to Dave’s partner and hugged him.
“Phil! Thank God. What happened? Where am I?”
He hugged her back, but he wasn’t talking. She slowly pulled away.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice cracking. She swallowed and took a step back. Her temporary relief was replaced by fear.
He stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Claire, but it’s over.”
She kept backing up until she was against the wall. He followed.
Phil put his hands on her shoulders, touched the ends of her hair. “Fate brought us together fifteen years ago, but it’s time to move on.”
Claire had no idea what Phil was talking about, what drugs he was on, why he was so creepy-
— but she knew she had to get out of here now.
She kneed him hard in the groin. Her lack of strength from whatever drugs she’d been fed prevented her from causing him debilitating pain, but she had the element of surprise on her side.
Hands clasped, she brought her arms up between them and hit him dead-on in the face as he stumbled back from the blow to his balls. Now she had the room and momentum to kick him in the stomach. She pivoted, kicked him again, and he staggered against the bed.
It all took only seconds, and then she was out the door. Running.
She heard the echo of the gunshot at the same time her calf burned in pain. She fell to her knees and tried to crawl.
Phil pulled her up by her hair. His eyes were narrow, furious. His face full of hate and rage. This couldn’t be the Phil she’d gone to Kings games with, who had taught her to shoot at the police range with Dave and Eric. This couldn’t be. .
“What happened to Bill and Dave? The others? What did you do to them?”
“They’ll be waking up soon enough, but they’ll never find us. At least not until they find your grave.”
She screamed at the top of her lungs. Phil didn’t show any reaction. “No one can hear you, Claire. Not where we are. I’m sorry it has to end like this, but I have no choice.” He pulled handcuffs from his rear pocket and cuffed one of her wrists. “I’ll bandage your leg. I don’t want you to bleed to death.”
“Why not? You plan to kill me, right? Why? What did I ever do to you?” She tried to sound tough, but she was terrified. She didn’t see a way out. She was injured and Phil was insane.
He didn’t answer her question, instead grabbing her under the arms and dragging her into another bedroom. A larger room, all white and too clean. A large-screen television was on the wall. On the screen was a still shot of her from years ago. In her old bedroom at Bill’s house, a shot from above.
A camera in the ceiling.
She whimpered, then swallowed her fear. She couldn’t let him know how scared she was. But she couldn’t stop her body from shaking violently.
Phil secured the handcuff to a post on the bed. She pulled, but it was locked tight.
“Don’t do that, or it’ll get tighter. You should know that.”
“Bastard! Let me go.”
Her eyes went from him to the picture of her on the television screen. It wasn’t a photograph. It was a still shot from a tape.
He leaned over her and whispered in her ear, “I’ve been watching you for a long time.” He pressed a button on a remote on the nightstand and the image moved.
He’d had a video camera on her. He’d taped her. Oh God, how long? He’d been watching her, filming her. . On the screen she was undressing, oblivious that she was being recorded.
“You were so beautiful,” Phil murmured as her bra came off. She tossed it in the laundry and pulled on a T- shirt that barely covered her butt.
Claire’s face reddened; she was hot and embarrassed and angry.
But more than the anger, cold terror froze her body.
“I’ll get the first aid kit.” Phil left her restrained on the bed watching her younger self reading a book on her bed.
He was going to kill her. And Claire had no idea how she was going to stop him.
FORTY-ONE
Dave Kamanski was the first to regain consciousness.
Mitch insinuated himself between two paramedics working on the younger Kamanski. “Dave,” he said. “Dave, come on, Claire needs your help.”
Dave blinked, his eyes squeezing shut at the light. “Wh-what?” he asked, his mouth thick. He looked around at Claire’s house.
“Who took Claire? Dave, come on, man, I’m counting on you. Who has Claire?”
“Claire?”
