Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel Read online

  Mark set the scissors on the table. “I think we have a little issue with understanding who’s in control here.”

  Before she fathomed his intent, he lunged toward her, lifted his hand, and slapped her hard enough to bring tears to her eyes and leave her gasping.

  While she was still reeling from the unexpected blow, he grabbed her arm, dragged her over to the table, and shoved her into the seat. The next thing she knew, he’d pulled her arms behind the back of the chair and slapped handcuffs on her wrists. That task finished, he bent down and got right in her face.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Darcy—but I will if you don’t cooperate . . . because everything I’m doing is for your benefit. Are we clear on that?”

  Hard as she tried, she couldn’t get a word past her tight throat. A brief dip of her head was all she could manage.

  “That’s better.”

  He stood, picked up the scissors, and began to cut her hair.

  As long lengths fluttered down around her, she closed her eyes and tried to keep breathing. It’s okay. Losing your hair isn’t the end of the world; what matters is staying alive. Hair will grow back. You just have to do everything you can to survive long enough for someone to find you—and someone will.

  She clung to that belief as the snip-snip of the scissors broke the silence in her prison.

  Mark finished in less than three minutes. After stepping back to view his handiwork, he drew her to her feet and led her to the easy chair, the handcuffs still in place.

  “Sit while I clean up.”

  She sat.

  He gathered up the plastic, folding it in on itself, until no trace of her long, shorn locks was visible. Then he stuffed the remnants of their haircutting session in a garbage bag and pulled the drawstring top taut.

  “There’s a vacuum in your closest. Use it after I leave. I expect you to keep the room as clean as when you arrived.” He pulled a small box out of the plastic bag he’d deposited on the table earlier and held it up for her to see.

  Hair dye.

  “I’m going to leave this. Apply it. I’ll be back in an hour. If you’ve followed my instructions, I’ll give you dinner. If you haven’t, I’ll do it for you. Am I clear?”

  She nodded.

  For a moment he studied her, as if assessing her sincerity. At last he crossed to her, pulled her shoulder forward, and unlocked the handcuffs. He let them dangle in front of her face from red, chapped fingers as he straightened up. “I hope I won’t have to use these again.”

  He let a few beats of silence pass, then retrieved the trash bag, unlocked the door, and paused on the threshold. “Change out of those clothes too. There are plenty of outfits to pick from in the closet. Put your things in one of the plastic bags in the dresser.” With that he exited, clicking the door shut behind him without a backward glance.

  For several minutes Darcy was too numb to move. This whole thing was surreal—an alternate universe, like the ones in some of the fantasy books she read.

  But the tingling on her cheek was all too real.

  Slowly she rose and lurched toward the bathroom, which boasted the only mirror in the room. She flipped on the light—and cringed. All of her long blonde tresses were gone. Her hair was now an uneven chin length.

  And the angry red imprint of Mark’s hand remained on her cheek.

  She touched it gingerly. Heat radiated from the puffy, crimson skin.

  But it was better than the cold of a deep freeze.

  How many girls were on the other side of the basement? How long had he kept them locked up before they’d displeased him and he’d disposed of them?

  Star hadn’t lasted one night.

  Intuitively, though, Darcy knew that wasn’t the norm. She had a sickening feeling the teen who’d served as her guide in the runaway world was what the military called collateral damage—she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and she’d befriended the wrong person.

  Once again, someone had suffered because of her.

  Darcy squeezed her eyes shut and choked back a sob.

  God, I’m so sorry! Please . . . I know I haven’t talked to you a whole lot lately, but I need you now. Help me to survive—and to deal with the guilt. I promise I’ll be better if you give me another chance!

  Fingers gripping the edges of the porcelain sink, she gave in to a torrent of long, choking sobs that left her spent and empty.

  But when they subsided, there was a new clarity to her thinking.

  Survival was her priority.

  Whatever it took.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she exited the bathroom, crossed the room, and picked up the package of hair dye.

  12

  Is it warm enough for you?”

  At Dev’s question, Laura transferred her gaze from the passing, moonlight-bathed winter landscape to the driver beside her. “Yes, thanks. Sorry I’ve been so quiet.”

  “The roads are clear tonight. I wouldn’t have asked you to come with me, otherwise.”

  She twisted her hands together in her lap, letting his mellow voice soothe her. And she needed a lot of soothing on this frigid night, after beating herself up all day about Darcy’s disappearance. Being at work hadn’t been as distracting as she’d hoped.

  “It’s not the roads.”

  “I didn’t think so.” He eased out of the one clear lane on the highway, toward the downtown exit ramp. “You’ve taken all the appropriate steps to find Darcy, you know.”

  So he’d tapped into her worry and guilt. Why was she not surprised? The man had razor-sharp insights.

  The ghost of a smile whispered at her lips. “You must have been a stellar undercover agent. You read people well.”

  Silence greeted that comment. It was too dark to make out his features, but his profile was serious and his jaw looked hard.

  Just when she decided he wasn’t going to respond, he spoke. “I did some things right.”

  But not all.

  She heard that caveat in the subtle nuance of regret in his tone—a tone that also told her this was an off-limits subject. Fair enough. Theirs was a professional relationship . . . even if she was beginning to wish it was more than that. And maybe, if she continued to open up to him, he’d get that message. Besides, she could use a sounding board, and Dev seemed willing to fill that role.

  “Can I be honest? In addition to being worried sick about Darcy, I’m also dealing with a boatload of guilt. Wondering if I was too hard on her, if I made the conditions so intolerable she felt her only recourse was to run away.”

  “You don’t strike me as the drill sergeant type.”

  “I don’t think Darcy would agree.”

  He paused at the bottom of the exit ramp to let a city bus rumble by. “Teens need rules, Laura. If her father was in poor health for a while before he died, she probably had the run of the place, as you suspect. Reining in a kid like that isn’t a job for the fainthearted. My guess is you did the best you could with the hand you were dealt.”

  His succinct assessment of the situation she’d inherited and his matter-of-fact compliment left a warm glow in her heart—even if she wasn’t certain the praise was deserved.

  “Thanks. But looking back, I could have cut her some slack on a few things. Like, what difference did it make in the big scheme of things whether she put her soda cans in the recycling bin? And so what if she forgot to hang up her coat now and then? I could have compromised on the length of her skirts or the amount of makeup she wore too, instead of taking an all-or-nothing stand.”

  The knot that had been in her stomach for the past five days tightened another notch, and she found herself fighting back a rush of tears. “If anything happens to her, I’ll always feel . . .” Much to her horror, her voice broke. What in the world? She never revealed emotions in public. Thank goodness it was dark in the car and he couldn’t see her flaming cheeks. “Sorry.”

  “Hey.” He reached over and touched her jeans-clad leg, keeping a firm grip on the wheel with the o
ther hand. “No apologies, okay? I suspect you’re being much too hard on yourself. But if you think you made some mistakes, you can correct them going forward.”

  “Assuming I get another chance.”

  “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you do.” With a quick right/left twist of the wheel, he pulled into a parking spot on the street in front of the homeless shelter and shut off the engine. “You ready for round three?”

  “I guess so. Same routine as before?”

  “For the most part. We’ll do a walk-through, show the pictures. Then I’ll get a last name for Mark and follow up with him later tonight.” He pulled the key out of the ignition.

  “You have a plan for how to ferret out that information?”

  He grinned. “PIs always have a plan. But it would have been easier if he’d just called me.”

  “I wonder why he didn’t?”

  “He might not be our man. Remember, the volunteer we talked with wasn’t certain of the guy’s name. Or it could be he has nothing to tell me. But it’s amazing how often people who think they have no information remember some vital tidbit when asked the right questions. Sit tight. I’ll get your door.”

  With the weather warming slightly, the sidewalk wasn’t as icy as they made their way to the door. Nevertheless, Dev took her arm—and she didn’t complain.

  The shelter wasn’t as full, either. Their walk-through took far less time than on past visits, and no one recognized the photos of Darcy. Laura wasn’t surprised. Her sister hadn’t been here in three nights, and the transient crowd was always in flux.

  “On to the next step.” Dev took her arm, guided her toward the food table, and lowered his voice. “The woman putting out cookies was here on Monday night when we visited—but not on Sunday. She’s a longtime volunteer. Her name’s Nancy.”

  Laura studied her. No bells of recognition went off. So much for her observation skills. “How do you know all that?”

  “I chatted with her for a few minutes while you visited the ladies’ room on Monday. Let’s hope she remembers me.”

  Was he kidding? A woman didn’t forget a man who looked like James Devlin.

  He stopped beside the table and gave the woman a warm smile. “Hi, Nancy. Not quite as busy tonight.”

  She stopped removing the plastic wrap from a tray of cookies and smiled back. “It always slows down after the weather breaks. Are you any closer to finding the girl?”

  “Not much, and I doubt we’ll be back. Too much time has elapsed now. But I was hoping to see Mark here tonight.” He let his glance skim over the room. “I guess he’s not on duty?”

  “Neither Mark is here this evening. Which one did you need?”

  Dev gave her a rueful look. “I didn’t get his last name. He was here on Sunday, though. I had something I wanted to ask him.”

  “Hmm. That was probably Mark Hamilton. He works weekends. Mark Jacobs volunteers on Fridays.” The woman shrugged in apology. “I’m afraid I don’t know his phone number.”

  “That’s okay.” He gestured to the tray of cookies. “Your handiwork?”

  “The peanut butter ones on your right are. Would you like one?”

  “Are you certain you have enough?”

  “Plenty. There are trays full in the kitchen.” As he took one, the woman suddenly seemed to remember Laura was standing there. “You’re welcome to a cookie too.”

  “Thanks.” She followed Dev’s example and picked up one of the peanut butter rounds.

  “So do the volunteers here come from all parts of the city?” Dev munched on the cookie, his tone conversational, as if he was just shooting the breeze.

  But Laura knew there was a point to every question.

  “In normal weather, yes, but during blizzards the director tries to tap into people who live closer. I have a loft on Washington.”

  “Nice area. And this is delicious.” Dev raised the cookie in salute. “I guess Mark Hamilton must live nearby too, then.”

  “Yes. Over in Soulard. He’s not a big talker, but I’ve gathered he renovated one of those rundown row houses. It’s nice to see so many of the older areas in the city being rehabbed.”

  Masterful. Dev had gotten exactly what he needed without ever deviating from the truth. Laura wondered if Nancy knew she’d been manipulated . . . or if she’d even care.

  “I agree. The revitalization is encouraging.” Dev finished the cookie and brushed off his hands. “Well, we’re off. Thanks for everything—especially the cookies.”

  The woman beamed at him. Nope, she wouldn’t care. “My pleasure. Good luck with your search.”

  Laura let Dev guide her out into the cold night air before she spoke. “That was very smooth. I was expecting a pretext.”

  He opened her door and helped her in. “I only resort to that if the truth doesn’t work.”

  She waited while he circled the car and climbed behind the wheel. “So Mark Hamilton’s likely our guy—and he lives nearby.”

  “Yes. I’m not sure how many Mark Hamiltons I’ll find in St. Louis, but knowing he lives in Soulard should narrow down the search.”

  “I take it we’re through with the shelter?”

  “Yeah. With the storm letting up and the buses running again, I think there’s very little chance we’ll find Darcy there.”

  “Do you think she’s still in town?”

  His brief hesitation didn’t give her a warm and fuzzy feeling.

  “My hunch is yes. Rachel hasn’t called from Chicago to tell me Darcy’s been in touch and is on her way, and we know she didn’t leave yet by bus. Hitching a ride in this weather would be tough, unless her guitar-toting friend talked her into it. But that girl bought a ticket too, so I’m thinking she might not have been keen on joining up with a stranger for cross-country travel, either.”

  His words were reassuring, but the hint of caution in his inflection suggested he was worried—and set off a flurry of butterflies in her stomach. “This isn’t looking too encouraging, is it?”

  He turned to her, but the darkness hid his expression. “Let’s just say the next twenty-four hours will be critical. If she’s leaving by bus, there’s no reason she should delay much longer, and we’ll catch her at the station. In the meantime, I’ll also track down this Mark and see if he can shed any light on her whereabouts.”

  “What if neither of those pan out?”

  Once again, he paused. “I have a few other tricks up my sleeve, but let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. If we don’t have any new information by tomorrow, we’ll regroup.”

  “You wouldn’t want to tell me what those other tricks are, would you?”

  “Depends on what the situation is in twenty-four hours.”

  That was too vague for her liking—and it played into her biggest worry. She balled her hands into fists and asked the question that had been troubling her all day. “But what if we haven’t found her by then and all the leads have dried up?”

  “We’ll search as long as you keep us on the case. We won’t abandon ship.” His steady, confident voice worked its usual magic, and her fingers relaxed a fraction as he continued. “No one disappears off the face of the earth. She’s out there somewhere.”

  But where?

  Laura hunched in her seat and stared at the bare branches of the trees whizzing by. Any other time, she’d appreciate the stark beauty of the moonlight-silvered, ice-encrusted limbs. But tonight she saw only bleak, barren landscape.

  Was Darcy cold? Hungry? Scared?

  Was she in any kind of danger?

  A shiver rippled through her, and Dev leaned forward to turn up the heat. The man didn’t miss a thing. If there were clues to be found about Darcy’s whereabouts, he’d uncover them.

  But despite the faith she had in the man beside her, she put even more faith in a higher power. And on this icy winter night, she turned to him with a silent, heartfelt plea.

  Lord, please keep Darcy safe.

  Juggling a dinner tray, Mark press
ed his face close to the peephole. A slow smile curved his mouth.

  Darcy was a fast learner.

  She’d exchanged the scandalous, low-rise, fitted jeans and revealing cropped top for a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and an oversized, shapeless sweatshirt. She’d also used the hair dye, transforming the alluring blonde into mousy brown.

  In her present state, no man would take a second look at her. All temptation had been removed—thanks to his intervention.

  If only Lil had let him do the same for her.

  But no. She’d chosen the path of destruction. He’d warned her, begged her, pleaded with her to change her ways, yet she’d paid no heed.

  Mark shifted the tray in his hands and closed his eyes as a wistful pang rippled through him. It could have been so different. Lil had loved him in her own way. There had been days when she’d been kind and happy and deeply affectionate. He’d lived for her smiles, done everything he could to win them. And for a while, all would be well—until she fell back to the vices that had ruined her life and made her hateful and angry and abusive.

  In the end, he hadn’t been able to save her.

  But he could save Darcy. Pull her back from the brink and help her lead a productive life free of vice. That would make up for his failure with Lil—and the others who had followed . . . all his lost chances at redemption.

  Now he had another opportunity.

  And Darcy was showing great promise.

  He extracted the key from his pocket, fitted it in the lock, and pushed through the door. “You look very nice.”

  Darcy watched him from the table in wary silence as he relocked the door.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She regarded the tray as he set it in front of her. He’d gone to extra effort for her first dinner in her new home, and he hoped she liked it—Caesar salad, broiled pork chop, roasted sweet potato, steamed broccoli. As a final touch, he’d even baked some low-fat brownies.