The forest held an air of mystery and neglect in almost equal parts. It covered nearly forty square kilometres, dividing the countryside. The oldest trees were massive. Lichen crusted the crevices in their bark. The weary branches seemed to droop with age, and organic litter had built up across the ground in banks almost as deep as the fallen snow.
Clare could still hear the storm raging. But entering the forest was like driving into an untouched world. Snow made it through the treetops, but with no wind to whip at it, the flakes fell gently. The temperature seemed a few degrees warmer, and the car’s heater worked a little better. Instead of looking at a screen of white, Clare could see far along the path, as if she were staring into a tunnel. The forest was deeply shaded, and she kept her high beams on but turned the windshield wipers off. She breathed a sigh of relief as the rhythmic thd thd thd noise fell quiet.
The government maintained the road that ran through Banksy Forest. It was a simple two-lane highway that connected Winthrop, near Clare’s cottage, and West Aberdeen, where Bethany lived. The drive through the forest took twenty minutes, and shortly after it ended, a side road would lead Clare to Marnie’s house.
I can do this. The path was clear, so she allowed the car some more speed. As long as the storm lets up before the roads are too choked. As long as there are no accidents blocking the streets. I can do this.
She reached for the phone to try Beth’s number again, but before she could touch it, a strange noise made her look up.
Chapter Two
Clare tried to move. She felt heavy and sluggish, like weights had been attached to all of her limbs. Her head throbbed. A slow, deep ache pulsed in her right arm.
She cracked her eyes open and flinched against the light. It wasn’t bright. In fact, the room she was in was deeply shadowed, but even the soft glow sent spears of pain through her skull.
Where is this? Directly above her was a plain cream ceiling. It seemed a long way away, though—higher than her roof at home. She forced her neck to tilt so that she could see to the side.
To her right was a large, dark wooden door and strange wallpaper. Marnie had cheerful fruit-themed wallpaper in her kitchen, but she was the only person Clare knew who still decorated with it. The grey pattern was definitely not Marnie’s warm white-and-yellow paper. It was decadent, with flourishes and floral shapes painted over a dark-blue background. The patterns were layered, weaving over and under each other and playing tricks on her eyes.
She spread her fingers to feel the surface she was on. It was soft. A bed. The crisp sheets were smoother than the ones on her bed at home.
Every movement was taxing, but she turned her head to the other side. She finally found the source of the light. Two candles were placed on a dark wood, ornately carved bedside table. Their glow was soft and warm compared to the harsh white light fighting its way through the gauzy curtains across the windows.
She blinked and squinted. Between the drapes, she was fairly sure she could see snow beating at latticed windows. The storm hadn’t abated. She didn’t know how long she’d been out of it, but she was nowhere near her car. Or anywhere else she recognised.
The last thing she remembered was driving. Driving where? To Marnie’s? It wasn’t for a regular visit… was it?
She remembered a feeling of stress. That wasn’t normal. She loved Marnie. She remembered struggling to see through the snowstorm. That was also strange. She knew better than to leave her home when the weather was like that. The risk of becoming stranded was just too great. There had been something about a phone. Did Marnie call me? Is that why I was racing to reach her?
She tried to get a sense of where she was. Three tall, narrow windows were spaced along the wall. Curtains diffused the long strips of cold, white light growing across the carpeted floor and up the opposite wall, where flames crackled in an oversized fireplace. The room was huge. Every piece of furniture was made from wood and held a sense of importance. Gilded cornices. Carvings. Intricate patterns.
Something moved, and Clare’s heart rate kicked up a notch. Throbbing pain pounded through her head, and she had to squint against it. A man stood near the closest window. His dark clothes had let him blend in with the drapes. He faced away from her, staring through the glass as he watched the snow fall. She couldn’t see much of him. He was tall, though, and wore a jacket. His hands were clasped behind his back.
Clare held perfectly still, breathing silently to avoid drawing attention. She didn’t know the house, and she didn’t know the man. The word abduction ran through her mind, and it was hard not to feel sick at the thought of it.
Quickly, Clare. Focus. Assess.
She wriggled her toes. Even that small effort was exhausting, but her toes worked at least. Without moving her head, she glanced down at her arms, which lay on top of the bed’s quilt. The right arm, the one that hurt, was swaddled in bandages from the shoulder down to the fingers. She tried flexing her hand, and the pain intensified.
She could feel more bandages on her throat, her abdomen, and her leg, but none of them hurt like her arm did.
Bandages are a good sign. You didn’t bandage people you intended to kill… unless you’re a sadist and don’t want your victim to die too quickly.
Her throat tightened, and Clare had to force her breaths back to a slow, even state to keep them quiet. Discreetly, and moving slowly, she wormed her left arm under the covers. She felt around the bandages on her midsection. They seemed to have been applied carefully. She was wearing underwear, but the rest of her clothes had been taken off.
The man swayed as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. She couldn’t get a read on him while he was facing away from her. But he was well over six feet, and broad shoulders suggested muscles hidden under his jacket.
Damn it. Clare looked back towards the door. It wasn’t far away, but its size and age made her think it wouldn’t open silently. Maybe if I had a weapon…
She looked for anything that might give her some kind of protection. The lamps fixed to the walls would make good batons, but only if she could break them free, and she didn’t know if she was capable of that. The fireside chairs and small table would be too heavy to lift. But beside the fireplace, leaning against a stack of dry wood, was a set of metal utensils, including a poker. It was on the other side of the room, which was a long way to walk without being noticed. But it was the closest thing she could see that might offer her even a shred of defence.
Moving as slowly and quietly as she could, Clare squirmed towards the edge of the bed, silently cursing every time the sheets rustled. The wind beating against the house created a soft but persistent wail, and the stranger didn’t seem to hear her. She got her legs over the edge of the bed and carefully, warily sat up. A wave of dizziness washed through her, and the headache intensified. She waited. The pain receded after a moment.
The stranger shifted again, tilting his head to look at something outside. Clare held still a moment to ensure he wasn’t about to turn to her, then she fixed her attention on the fire poker. She could try to creep to it, but she had less risk of being intercepted if she ran. She pictured what she needed to do: a dash across the room, use her uninjured left arm to snatch up the poker, swivel to face the stranger, and be prepared to swing if he was coming after her.