The way this person speaks makes something very clear; he is pissed. Seriously pissed. It’s the quiet, careful way he parts with his words that gives me that impression. I’ve had a severe case of mouth sweats ever since I threw up back in the van, but now my throat is miraculously dry.
“She’s been blindfolded the whole time. She doesn’t know anything,” Raphael says.
A cracking sound, and then the dull, slow thudding of feet against wood. One step. Two. Three. The voice is closer now.
“Has she seen your face?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know your name?”
There’s a brief pause. And then, “Yes.”
“Does she know…my name?” The malice in this question makes my palms break out in a sweat. I’m beginning to get the feeling Raphael’s fucked up in kidnapping me, and I’m going to be the one paying the price.
“Yes,” Raphael answers. “She does. But she’s never gonna be out of my sight, Padre. She won’t be a problem.”
“The girl isn’t the problem here, Raphi. You are currently the problem. You do shit without thinking, and that is a really fucking big problem for me, you understand?”
So I know this guy’s name? That must make him Hector, surely? He is Raphael’s boss. Raphael doesn’t say anything to him in return, though his hand tightens around my arm, fingernails digging into my skin. I squirm, trying to free myself, but it’s a complete waste of energy.
“Take the blindfold off her,” Hector commands.
A piercing light stabs into my head, making me gasp. Daylight? Daylight? It was eight thirty in the evening when I first came across the unfortunate Judge Conahue. I blink up at the sky, horrified when I see the sun’s position directly overhead. That would make it almost midday, or around that time anyway. How the hell is that possible? I was dazed after being hit on the head, but I thought I’d been mostly conscious. Obviously I was wrong, otherwise I wouldn’t be surprised by the fact that at least eighteen hours have passed since I was taken.
Eighteen hours. That means I could literally be anywhere. Definitely out of Washington State. Any hope of rescue I might have been harboring plummets.
“I see why you risked pissing me off, Raphi,” Hector says. I lower my gaze and I see him—a tall, dark-haired man with startling green eyes. He’s clearly of some Latin descent, though his skin is more golden than olive. Maybe in his mid forties, he reminds me of the pediatrician I used to see when I was a kid. Except there’s an air of something not-quite-right about this man that Dr. Hereford didn’t have. Something that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.
He holds out a hand to me, his cool mint-green irises locked firmly on my face. I don’t know what the hell he expects me to do. My hands are still firmly tied behind my back. Hector doesn’t even turn his head; his eyes simply travel from me to Raphael, and then my captor is moving quickly, hands fumbling to pull a small knife from his belt so he can free me. I’m in instant pain. It’s like my hands are on fire. Blood rushes back into my fingers so quickly and intensely, the piercing sensation takes my breath away. Hector reaches down and takes my right hand in his, and massages his fingers over mine, making a clucking sound at the back of his throat.
“You’ll have to excuse my friend here. He can be very uncivilized when the mood takes him.”
Raphael’s getting antsy in my peripheral vision—he clearly doesn’t like anyone else playing with a toy he considers his—but something primal within me is warning not to look away from Hector. He’s beautiful in an odd way.
And terrifying in every other.
Despite his consideration for my screaming wrists and his apparently sincere apology over my treatment, I haven’t forgotten what I heard back in that alleyway. This man is suspected of murder. The murder of a woman. And I am currently at his mercy.
“What’s your name, sweet girl?” he asks, smiling, head tipped to one side, as though I’m a delightful mystery he’s looking forward to unraveling.
I clench my jaw, torn for a moment. I shouldn’t tell him my name. I shouldn’t tell him who I am. I don’t know why, but I know it with a certainty that makes my heart race in my chest. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not say,” I inform him. Hector’s smile fades. A flicker of disappointment flashes across his face—I have been a bad girl. Hector’s focus flits to Raphael again, this time accompanied with a single arched eyebrow.
“Sophia Letitia Marne,” Raphael reels off. “Twenty-one years old. Student at the Cornish College of the Arts in Seattle.”
I can’t avoid my reaction now; my head whips around so I can look Raphael full in the face. He’s lying to his boss. Sophia isn’t my name. I sure as hell don’t study at Cornish. I recognize the information, though. Raphael’s almost black eyes are glinting with a barely suppressed fury that confirms my suspicions: he hates having to answer to someone else. Hates it with a vengeance. Hector holds out a hand to Raphael; he seems to know what his employer is requesting from him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an intimately familiar object —my wallet.
He snaps the clasp open and fishes out a card, which he hands over to Hector. I’m hardly a party girl, but last year a group of my friends wanted to hit a club to see a DJ play, and I was the only one underage at the time. Luke, the boyfriend of one of the other girls, made up a fake driving license for me. I’d memorized the card’s details before going in, chanting my borrowed name and date of birth over and over again in case any of the doormen asked me, only to be let in without even having to produce the damn thing. I then proceeded to forget my fake persona altogether.
My real driving license is sitting on my bedside table at home, snapped in two. I broke it at least a month ago, and since I’m living on campus and don’t have a car at the moment, replacing it has been very low on my list of priorities. There are no credit cards in my wallet, either. Nothing else to give away my real identity. A cold sweat of relief breaks out across my face. Hector studies the license, studies me, studies the license again. He grunts, handing it back to Raphael.
“Well, Sophia,” he says, giving me a small smile. “It would appear you’ve gotten yourself into a bit of a situation. Are you content with Raphael as your new master?”
Am I content with Raphael as my…? I’m at a loss for words. I’m pretty sure I’m covered in my own blood from where I was hit over the head. I reek of vomit, and my wrists are banded with a deep purple ribbon of bruising. I hardly look like the sort of person who came willingly to their newfound servitude. My mouth opens, but I struggle to find the right response to the question.
“Let me put it this way,” Hector says. “Are you going to make trouble inside my home, Sophia? Because I have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to trouble within in my home.”
I haven’t given much thought to the building Hector is standing in front of, but now I take a closer look at the place. The two-story Colonial, white weatherboard with green shutters, looks like something out of Little House On The Prairie. It’s quaint, with its wrap-around porch, swing bench, and multitude of potted flowers balancing on the windowsills. I’d expect this place to belong to some frail, little old Southern lady. I can picture her rocking slowly on the swing, drinking her endless glasses of sweet tea. There are no bars on the windows, and no security gates or armed guards. But…there is also nothing else out here. Not a single building for as far as the eye can see. Just desert. A burnt, alien landscape with no roadways, no stores, or any way of making contact with civilization.
“Well?” Hector asks.