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

  When she didn’t respond, he gestured to the small refrigerator. “Would you like a beverage with your meal?”

  She moistened her lips, her eyes uncertain. As if she was afraid there would be consequences for her answer and she didn’t want to make a mistake.

  “You seem tense.” He laid a hand on her shoulder.

  She flinched and pulled herself into a protective tuck, as if she expected him to strike her again.

  That wasn’t in his plans—as long as she behaved. But perhaps it would be better to keep his distance until she acclimated to her new life and understood the rules. After all these years of waiting, there was no reason to rush the process.

  He gentled his voice and removed his hand. “I’ll get you some water.”

  Keeping an eye on her, he moved to the small refrigerator, reached down to retrieve a bottle, and took a quick inventory. Two waters were missing. Good. She was staying hydrated. Better yet, she hadn’t succumbed to temptation. The cans of beer, the bottle of wine, and the joint in the ziplock bag were all untouched.

  Then again, it was only the first day.

  He grabbed a bottle of water and stood. Angela hadn’t caved for a week. Denise, on the other hand, had sucked down all the beers in the first hour, then turned to the pot. And neither girl had improved her behavior, despite his repeated efforts to help them see the light. Both had been bitter disappointments.

  Darcy would do better, he was certain of it.

  Rejoining her at the table, he twisted off the cap, set the bottle beside the plate, and took the chair across from her. “Go ahead and eat. You must be hungry.”

  She picked up the plastic knife and fork. They were sturdy, but less dangerous than metal utensils. He’d modified his silverware when Denise went ballistic after downing all those beers.

  “If you have any favorite foods, you’ll have to let me know. Do you like pork chops?”

  “Yes.” Her response was barely audible, and her hands were shaking, making it difficult for her to cut the meat.

  “Here, let me.” He reached toward her to take the utensils.

  As his hand brushed hers, she gasped. Dropping her knife and fork, she shot out of her seat and backed away.

  He frowned at her. That response wasn’t appropriate. He wanted respect and love, not fear—but you couldn’t force people to feel those things. He’d just have to be patient with her, and extra kind, until she accepted the truth that he had only her best interest at heart and came to appreciate all he was doing for her.

  Slowly he stood. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I leave you alone to enjoy your dinner and come back in half an hour to pick up the tray? Would you prefer that?”

  “Yes.” Again her reply was whispered, her eyes uncertain.

  He forced his mouth into a smile. “Done. I’ll bring you an ice pack for that bruise on your cheek too, and some of my special hot chocolate. It will help you sleep. Are those your clothes?” He gestured to a plastic bag with a drawstring top on the bed.

  She nodded.

  “Why don’t you toss them to me? I’ll stay over here.”

  Casting him another guarded look, she complied. Bag in hand, he crossed to the door, let himself out, and locked the dead bolt.

  As he watched through the fish-eye lens, Darcy glanced toward him. So she’d spotted the peephole, knew he might be watching her. But with the door between them, perhaps she’d calm down and eat.

  Sure enough, she returned to the table, took her seat, and picked up the utensils again. She sampled the potato, moved on to the pork chop, poked at the salad.

  Leaving had a been a wise choice—for now.

  Mark turned away from the door and started toward the steps. He’d wait half an hour. Then he’d return with the ice pack and hot chocolate. Given her obvious anxiety, tonight he’d add a splash of vodka to the double dose of cherry-flavored Benadryl.

  Darcy could use the sleep.

  Thirty minutes later, on the dot, Darcy once again heard the key in the lock of her prison.

  Mark was back.

  The small amount of food she’d managed to ingest suddenly threatened to erupt from her stomach, and she pressed a hand to her abdomen, willing her dinner to stay put. If she was going to have any chance of escaping, she needed to fortify both her physical and mental strength—and that wouldn’t happen if she was running on empty.

  The door swung open and Mark entered, a small ice pack under one arm and a cup of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream in the other.

  She remained sitting cross-legged on the bed as he approached the table and surveyed her half-eaten dinner. If there’d been anywhere to dispose of the rest, she’d have done so. The first night the three of them had shared dinner, Mark had been clear that he detested wasting food. But she’d choked down as much as she could of the meal he’d prepared, and there was only one trash can in the room. Somehow she sensed it was better to leave the unfinished portion on her plate than make a futile attempt to hide the remains.

  Mark set the hot chocolate and ice pack on the table. “I’ll be down with your breakfast and lunch tomorrow before I leave for work. Would you like a turkey sandwich or soup for lunch?”

  “A sandwich.”

  “Okay. Sleep well.”

  With that, he picked up the tray and exited.

  Darcy remained where she was. He was probably on the other side of the door, eye glued to the peephole, watching her as if she was an animal in a cage. Was he going to watch her sleep too? How creepy was that?

  And what was with the liquor and joint in the refrigerator? Was it a test of some kind? If she gave into temptation, would she end up in the freezer too? What kind of sick game was he playing? And how could she win if she didn’t know all the rules?

  Once more, her stomach threatened to erupt. Once more she swallowed past the nausea. She wasn’t going to get sick again. She’d lost her meager breakfast hours ago, and she couldn’t keep doing that. The important thing was to stay strong and lucid and observant. If she did that, maybe she’d have a fighting chance of outsmarting him.

  Remote as that possibility was, she clung to that hope. It was the only thing keeping her sane.

  She eyed the hot chocolate with its deflating head of whipped cream. Mark had said it would help her sleep, and she didn’t doubt that. There had to be something in it that would knock her out. That would explain why she’d been groggy for the past two mornings—and she wasn’t going down that road again.

  But she didn’t intend to let Mark know she was on to him. For all she knew, he was standing there now, waiting to watch her drink the hot chocolate. If she let it sit, he’d get suspicious.

  There was a way around that, however.

  Rising, she smoothed her damp palms down the fleecy sweatpants, crossed to the table, and fingered the ice pack. How bizarre that the very person who’d inflicted the damage on her throbbing cheek would supply a treatment to make it feel better. And why had he been nice to her on his last couple of visits?

  There was no logic to his behavior.

  But maybe murderers didn’t have to be logical. Maybe tomorrow he’d be an ogre again.

  Her stomach knotted, and she drew in a lungful of air. Don’t panic. Take this one day at a time. Learn from each encounter with him. Find a way to outsmart him.

  Deluding him about the hot chocolate was an obvious first step.

  Darcy picked up the cocoa in one hand and the ice pack in the other, then retreated to the bed. Setting both items on the nightstand, she drew down the comforter, propped the pillows against the wall, and settled back. With one hand, she picked up the ice pack and pressed it to her tender cheek. With the other, she lifted the mug of cocoa and pretended to take a sip.

  She played that charade for a minute before leaning over to flip off the lamp on the bedside table.

  The room didn’t go black.

  She gazed up at the ceiling in dismay, where a low-wattage can light near the door continued to shine, casting
faint illumination in the room. It must be controlled from outside. Meaning even at night she couldn’t hide from that invasive peephole.

  Now what?

  She reassessed. The light was very dim. There was little chance Mark could tell how much liquid was left in the mug. That could work to her advantage.

  She continued to play at sipping.

  After five minutes, she rose and headed for the bathroom, mug in hand. As far as she could tell, there was no surveillance of any kind in there, but just to be safe, she left the door cracked rather than turn on the light.

  Once inside, she dumped the doctored cocoa down the sink, leaving the residue clinging to the inside of the mug as evidence it had been consumed. But she thoroughly rinsed the porcelain bowl to erase all traces of the chocolate.

  She watched the last hint of cocoa disappear down the drain . . . and with it any hope of sleep this night. At least she wouldn’t be in a daze tomorrow, though—and that was important.

  Because while Mark’s plans for her were a mystery, she did know one thing with absolute certainty.

  To survive whatever lay ahead, she had to keep her wits about her.

  Dev took a swig of coffee, scanned the data on the screen of his laptop, and jotted down Mark Hamilton’s phone number and address.

  Information brokers were worth their weight in gold.

  He leaned back and tapped his fingers in the one uncluttered spot on the dinette table in his apartment. Interesting that Hamilton didn’t have a landline, only a cell. More interesting still that he’d ignored the message from the director of the homeless shelter asking that he call him.

  Why would he do that?

  There were several possible explanations. He wasn’t their man. He’d been too busy. It had slipped his mind. Or, as Dev had suggested to Laura earlier in the evening when he’d driven her home, Hamilton was their guy but he didn’t think he had information worth passing on.

  The other possibility—that Hamilton knew something he didn’t want to pass on—was less likely . . . but possible.

  In any case, now that he had the man’s phone number and address, he’d find out for himself. At the very least, Hamilton might have some information about the girl with the guitar who’d befriended Darcy. If he could find her, she could be a font of information.

  He pulled his cell off his belt and tapped in *67 to block caller ID, followed by the man’s number.

  After three rings, it rolled to voice mail.

  Dev hung up.

  Hamilton had already ignored one message; no reason to think he’d respond to another one. So the next contact would be in person. Tomorrow he’d swing by the man’s house during the day, in case he worked an off shift. If no one answered the bell, he’d try again in the evening.

  And if that didn’t pan out . . . he’d regroup with his partners and discuss next steps. There were other avenues they could pursue to track down the missing teen, but the longer she was gone and the colder the trail became, the less chance they’d succeed in locating her. And despite his promise to Laura that he’d persist, he had a feeling she knew the odds lengthened with each day that passed.

  Dev stood, flexed his shoulders, and walked over to the window that looked out on the snow-covered common ground behind his apartment, ticking through all the steps he’d taken to this point. Had he missed anything? No. He was working this case as hard as he could, exploring every possible angle—including one he hadn’t mentioned to Laura.

  Fortunately, his call to Detective Butler had yielded positive news: there’d been no teenage Jane Doe homicides in the area since Friday night.

  Elsewhere . . . that was another story.

  As a cloud drifted over the moon, deadening the luminescent glow on the snow, he propped a shoulder against the windowsill. It was possible Darcy had slipped from their grasp and managed to leave town. Yet he hadn’t lied to Laura; his gut told him she’d holed up in the city to wait out the storm. But the storm was over—and the unused bus ticket bothered him.

  Had she changed her plans?

  Or had something—or someone—changed them for her?

  Dev hoped it was the former. Because if it was the latter, she’d tangled with the wrong people—and Laura would have a lot more to worry about than whether her half sister was cold or hungry.

  13

  At six-ten on Thursday morning, Darcy heard the key in the lock. She’d dozed on and off through the night, but she’d been wide-awake since five-thirty, waiting for Mark to show up before he went to work. After positioning herself on her side, her back to the door, she’d been surreptitiously checking her watch every couple of minutes.

  As the door opened, she didn’t move a muscle. He expected her to be out cold, and she intended to act accordingly. She didn’t want to talk to him—nor did she want him to realize she was on to his hot chocolate ploy.

  The sound of a tray sliding over the surface of the table broke the stillness. The refrigerator door opened. Closed. The lid of the trash can was lifted off. Replaced.

  Then she felt him move beside the bed.

  Her lungs stalled, but she forced herself to keep breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Steady and slow, replicating sleep as best she could despite her racing heart.

  Please . . . just leave!

  After what felt like an eternity, she sensed he’d walked away. The door to the room opened. Shut. The lock clicked.

  She was safe.

  For now.

  Darcy remained unmoving as the hour hand on her watch inched toward seven—opening time at the daycare. Only then did she roll onto her back and sit up.

  Rotating the kinks out of her neck, she leaned over and turned on the bedside light.

  As promised, Mark had left her food. The covered plate on the tray must hold breakfast, and he’d probably put the sandwich in the refrigerator.

  She rose, padded over to the table—and discovered he’d left her a note as well.

  Gingerly she picked up the eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of paper and unfolded it. The typewritten words were hard to make out in the dim light, so she returned to the bed and sat on the side as she began to read.

  Good morning, Darcy. I hope you slept well. Enjoy your breakfast and lunch. I’ll bring you dinner about six. In the meantime, I want you to become familiar with the house rules:

  Keep your room clean and tidy at all times. Clutter and dirt will not be tolerated.

  Wash your hands often.

  Walk two miles on the treadmill every day.

  Finish all your meals.

  Do not attempt to block the peephole.

  Answer when spoken to.

  Darcy scanned the rest of the items, a dozen in all, including instructions on how to bundle her laundry and package her trash. But it was the last line that tightened the knot in her stomach.

  Never forget: There are consequences for breaking rules.

  And she’d complained about Laura being too strict.

  Slowly Darcy stood and returned to the table, note in hand. She lifted the lid on the covered plate. Scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, sliced melon.

  She didn’t want any of it.

  Her glance swung back to the note, to rule number four . . . and to the bottom of the page.

  She didn’t want the consequences, either. She’d already had a sample of those. Her cheek had been so tender all night she hadn’t been able to sleep on that side.

  Besides, if playing by Mark’s rules would buy her time—and an opportunity to plan an escape—she’d follow them to the letter.

  Setting the note beside the plate, she sat and began to eat.

  “Happy birthday, dear Dev, happy birthday to you.”

  As the off-key chorus from Cal, Connor, and Nikki died away, Dev gave a mock bow from the doorway of the Phoenix kitchen. “Thank you for that early morning serenade. I think.”

  “It’s about time you got here.” Nikki picked up the cake knife. “We’ve been standing around for five minutes. I thought you were a
t the McDonald’s drive-through when I called you.”

  “I was.” He lifted a white bag with the familiar logo. “Long line.”

  “Cal’s chomping at the bit for a piece of that tiramisu cake.” Nikki turned to rummage through the utensil drawer, withdrawing four forks.

  “Didn’t Moira get up to make breakfast for you?” Dev grinned at his more-tanned-than-usual partner.

  “Pulitzer Prize–finalist reporters have more important things to do than cook breakfast—especially when they have a new husband.” Cal returned the grin and waggled his eyebrows.

  “I take it married life is agreeing with you?” Dev strolled across the room to take a gander at his birthday treat.

  Nikki waved the cake knife at him and Connor. “If either of you would ever get serious about a woman, you might find out for yourself.”

  “It’s two against two, now, you know. Even odds.” Connor sent Dev a pointed look as he joined him beside the cake and took a swipe at the icing before Nikki swatted his hand away. “Pre-Moira, only our lovely office manager was on our case about finding a good woman.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to push that agenda. If you guys want to stay single, it’s your loss. Nikki and I will just feel sorry for you.” Cal winked at the office manager.

  “Him, I’ll feel sorry for.” She pointed the cake knife at Connor, then swiveled Dev’s way. “Him . . . not so much.”

  He made a face at her. “Can’t you be nice even on my birthday?”

  “Are you going to nag me about those files today?”

  “No.” He backed away from the knife that was aimed at his heart. “I might have a more interesting project for you to work on soon, anyway.”

  “Yeah?” She lowered the knife and struck a match. “Then I’ll be nice.” After lighting the two numeric candles that displayed his age, she backed off and motioned him closer. “Make a wish.”