But Gillian never thought so, and finally I began to wonder too. And now I don't know. Sometimes I think I didn't do it. But if I didn't do it, who did?"
Who did? His question echoed in her mind. And if Gavin was innocent, that meant someone had gone free while he served time for a crime he didn't commit…
"I have to go," she said, getting to her feet. "Thanks for talking to me."
He stood, nervously rubbing his palms against his jeans. "Will you call me?" He swallowed, fear in his eyes. "When you find her?" No matter how you find her? were the unspoken words neither of them wanted to hear.
"Yes." Mary held out her hand.
He stared, puzzled and suspicious before finally shaking with a surprisingly firm grip. "Don't forget to call."
"I won't."
Outside, Mary was sliding into the car when her phone rang. It was Anthony. "Research just got back to us with a lst of rose propagators," he told her.
"I'll be right there."
Chapter 30
The light above Gillian's head came on. She squinted against the blinding glare.
She'd spent the first three hours of solitary confinement standing with her back to the door. When her legs couldn't hold her up any longer, she'd felt around in the darkness to gingerly settle on the edge of the mattress, where she'd been ever since. She heard the rattle of metal; then the wooden door opened, shimmying against the cement threshold. She got to her feet in preparation for Mason's arrival.
In the short time she'd been with him, her old life had taken on a hazy, unreal quality. She remembered Blythe and Mary and Gavin, but they didn't seem as solid and substantial as Mason and this house.
In the back of her mind, she reasoned that the distance was brought about by drugs, lack of food, and fear, but that knowledge didn't make her other life seem any more real.
She searched Mason's face, looking for signs of his earlier impatience and lack of interest. His expression was blank, unreadable.
"I'm glad you're back," she said cautiously.
"Have you been good?"
"Very good."
"You didn't eat?" He picked up the sandwich from the mattress. "You didn't drink the water?"
"I forgot."
His lips curled. "Don't lie to me. I hate lies."
"Okay, I didn't forget," she said, quickly changing her story. Why had she said something that was so obviously untrue? She had to be more careful. "I was afraid you may have put something in it that would make me go to sleep, and I didn't want to lie down on the mattress. I was afraid to go to sleep here in the dark."
He tossed the sandwich to the floor. Then he took her by the arm and pulled her behind him, out of the room, through the winding basement, and up the stairs to the kitchen. He told her she could use the bathroom, and she hurried down the hall, shutting the door behind her.
In the bathroom by herself, she tried to gauge what his mood had been. Not much better than this morning. She was going to have to do something, come up with something that might impress him. Be somebody he wanted to keep. Because if he didn't want to keep her…
She splashed water on her face and was shocked by her reflection in the mirror above the sink. She looiced like a junkie.
He was waiting for her outside the door. "Come on."
He led her into the kitchen, where he began frying pork chops in a skillet on the stove. "Can I help with something?" she asked, forcing herself to become a part of the surreal domestic scene. She had to act as if nothing odd was going on.
"Cut the potatoes for potato salad." He motioned toward the sink, where she found a pan of boiled potatoes along with a knife.
She picked up a peeled potato. By allowing her to use the knife he demonstrated the control he felt he had over her. It would be foolish to try to stab him. Odds were against her, and an attack would infuriate him-possibly enough to kill her.
"I love potato salad." She began cutting the potato into small squares, trying desperately to come up with harmless conversation. "Potato salad and baked beans. They just go together, don't you think?" Nothing intellectual, but it was all she could produce at the moment.
"I guess so."
Engage him. Make him answer questions. "What about apple pie? Do you like apple pie?"
"Yeah."
"Made with Jonathan apples. Maybe a few Golden Delicious thrown in, but mostly Jonathans."
"My sister used to bake pies." Upon mention of his sister, his voice suddenly became infused with life.
Small talk. Small talk was good. "Really? What kind?"
"Cherry. We have a cherry tree in the backyard. She was always baking cherry pies. And blackberry, when they were in season. She made a lot of apple pies too."
"I'd like to bake an apple pie for you," she ventured. "Would you let me do that?"
"No." The flash of elevated mood drained from him. "It wouldn't be right."
That had been careless of her. He apparently revered his sister. He wouldn't want Gillian trying to take her place. "How about a cake? Is your birthday anytime soon? I could bake you a cake."
He turned and stared. He had the strange eyes that murderers sometimes had-flat, dark, opaque.
Had she said something wrong?
"My sister is coming home soon."
Home? Does home mean what I think it means? Her heart began to hammer. "She's coming here?" Stay calm, she told herself. Don't let him see your interest.
"Tomorrow."
Tomorrow! She could hold out one more day. Of course she could hold out one more day. His sister would make him release her, maybe even make him go to the police. "We should have a party," Gillian said. "With cake and ice cream."
He smiled. He actually smiled.
Relief washed through her, and her muscles relaxed.
"You could put her name on the cake." Before her eyes, he transformed again, suddenly turning timid and shy.
"Yes! Welcome home… What's your sister's name?"
"Jo."
"Welcome home, Jo."
They ate their meal of pork chops and potato salad. Gillian's stomach had shrunk, and she couldn't eat much, but Mason didn't seem to notice. Nor did he seem to notice that she didn't drink any of the wine, only water from the same pitcher he used.
Tomorrow. She would be good. She would be good. She would be so good.
When they were done eating, he led her to the bedroom and dressed her in a low-cut, tight red dress.
I'm like his Barbie doll.
In the living room, he sat her down on the ottoman. He knelt behind her and began touching her hair, brushing it until she closed her eyes and exhaustion washed over her. She felt him putting makeup on her face, her cheeks, her lips. When he was done, he lit candles, turned off the lamp, and pulled out a book, settling on the floor at her feet.
"Shall I read to you?" he asked. "Would you like that?"
"Yes. Very much."
He chose the last paragraph in the overture of Swann's Way. It was perhaps Proust's most beautifully written passage about memory and the madeleine.
The paragraph was long and mesmerizing, wrapping the reader in bittersweet poignancy. Mason made it halfway through before he began to sob. The book dropped to his lap, and he buried his face in his hands.
"Here-" Gillian picked up the heavy volume. It automatically fell open to the page he'd been reading. In a soft voice she finished the paragraph for him, reading about the Japanese paper, the flower gardens, the whole of Combray springing up from a single cup of tea. When she was finished, she quietly closed the book and sat in silence. Out of seven volumes, he'd picked her favorite passage.
His sobs subsided, and he pressed his lips to her bare knee, hesitated, and then kissed her flesh again. "You're so beautiful. I want to take pictures of you," he whispered, looking up at her from his position on the floor. The flatness had left his eyes, as if his tears had momentarily cleansed them. "Would you mind?"
She didn't think she'd been drugged, but she felt strange and floaty and exceedingly calm.