“I said, get up!” Sydney grabbed her arm and dragged her, blanket and all, off the bed onto the floor.
Zandra struggled to stand, her knees like rubber.
“Move.” Sydney dragged her out of the room, where she nearly tripped over a dog.
A dog? Zandra squinted down, not sure she’d seen right. But it was a dog. Its tongue was out, its tail wagging.
Sydney kicked at the dog. “Get out of my way,” she ordered and hauled Zandra up a flight of stairs. Tangled in the blanket, Zandra stumbled and fell to her knees, barely able to breathe.
Move, she screamed at herself. Run. Get away while you can.
But her limbs didn’t move. Everything was blurry and the room spun. She retched, but there was nothing to come up.
Sydney snarled. “I said move.” Renewing her grip on Zandra’s arm, she half dragged, half carried her until they’d cleared the top of the stairs and crossed a small, neat living room. Sydney was breathing hard as she pushed Zandra out the front door.
Zandra crumpled to a heap on the front porch, hitting her head on the concrete. A few seconds later the door opened again and the dog was thrust onto the porch with her.
“Take that sorry excuse for an animal with you.”
The door slammed hard.
Zandra lay there, panting.
Get away. Get away.
And then she felt something rough on her cheek. Rough and wet. Heard a whimper. Felt a nudge against her shoulder. Mindlessly she pushed to her knees. The dog leapt off the front porch and spun three times before giving a short bark.
She pushed to her feet and new tears fell. It hurt. Her feet. Her head. All over.
The dog barked once again and walked a few feet, turning to her expectantly.
Move, Zandra. Just a few steps. She forced her feet to move and she shuffled across the porch, holding on to the post for balance.
Bellamy, Anna. Pennsylvania. Fiddler, Janice. Washington.
The dog ran ahead another ten feet, then looked back. Zandra forced her feet to shuffle forward. Orlov, Nadia. Illinois. Stevenson, Rayanna. Texas. DeVeen, Rosamond. Minnesota.
She made it to the street and looked both ways. Houses. Lots of houses.
A car stopped in a driveway a few houses up. Go. Get help. She lurched forward and tripped on the blanket again.
A woman was getting groceries from her car. She looked at Zandra with disgust and fear. Hurriedly, she took the bags and ran up her sidewalk. “Go away,” she called over her shoulder. “Or I’ll call the police. Go sober up.”
“Please,” Zandra cried. Or tried to. The woman slammed her front door.
Zandra pushed back to her knees. And came face to face with the dog. He licked her nose, yipped, then ran ten feet before turning to look at her.
Gritting her teeth, she used a lamppost to pull herself to her feet. She forced herself to move, shuffling down the street, looking for someone who’d help her. Anyone. All she needed was a phone. She could call 911. Get help.
Go to the next door. Beg if you have to. She turned into the next yard with a light on in the front window. She took a step. Borge, Delfina. California. Another step. Oliver, Makayla. New York. Another step, ignoring the burning of her feet on the cold concrete. Danton, Eileen. Oregon.
She got to the door and knocked. And waited. She could hear people inside, but no one came to the door. “Help,” she whispered. “Please.”
But no one answered and she turned from the door, ready to give up, but felt a brush against her hand. The dog had come back.
Too tired to think anymore, she mindlessly followed him, one foot in front of the other. Martell, Kaley. California. Hart, Trisha. California.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 10:35 P.M.
His good mood evaporated when he pulled into his driveway. He’d been making plans for Zandra all the way from Granite Bay to the grocery store lot where he dropped off the van. He’d walked to his Jeep, parked in front of a coffee shop, whistling. He’d even left a tip in the jar on the counter when he’d gotten himself a caramel macchiato to go.
But now . . . Dread mixed with fury as he drove past the all-too-familiar Mercedes parked in his driveway. He opened his garage door and rolled in, trying to come up with a way to explain why he’d been out when he’d claimed to be sick and feverish.
And, more importantly, a way to get rid of Sydney.
He sat for a moment, reviewing what he’d already told her so he wouldn’t tell a lie that made things worse. After a minute, he nodded, his story fixed in his mind.
Putting down the garage door, he went into the house and stopped short. A soup tureen sat on his dining room table. It was Sydney’s china pattern.
She’d brought him the fucking soup after all.
He drew a breath, tamping down the rage that threatened to boil over. She was trying to be nice. He wanted no part of her “nice.” He wanted no part of her.
Swallowing hard, he forced himself to call her name in a hoarse, coughing voice. “Sydney? Are you here?”
Of course she was here. Her car was outside.
He began searching for her. The kitchen? No. Bathroom? Empty. He braced himself as he opened the bedroom door. Please don’t let her be in my bed. Please.
But the bedroom was empty as well. The bed was not as he’d left it—neatly made—but was, instead, turned back with rose petals strewn across the pillows. The sight had bile clawing up his throat.
He wanted to vomit.
But he swallowed it back. Like he always did. Like he had since he was twelve years old. Since the first time she’d visited his room in the night.
Breathe, he told himself. Just breathe, dammit. Because he’d gone light-headed. Dizzy. He grabbed on to the door frame with his good hand, hanging on like it was a life preserver. Breathing in and out. Trying not to let the panic take over.
Stand up straight. Be a man, for fuck’s sake. Find her. Get rid of her.
Then show Zandra what a real man does to selfish whores.
He walked back through the house, calling Sydney’s name. Sounding compliant, just the way she liked it. But she didn’t answer. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Something was different. Wrong.
Where was Mutt? “Mutt?” he called. “Here, boy!”
And then he noticed the door to the basement.
It was open.
He never left it open. He was meticulous about that door, always locking it and the one at the bottom of the basement stairs. The one to his . . .
He gasped. Oh God. Oh no. Not the guest room. It wasn’t possible.
He stumbled down the stairs, his heart pounding so hard it was all he could hear.
The door to the guest room was open.
Open. Open. Open. The word echoed in his mind to the beat of his frantic pulse.
He stepped inside and saw her. Sydney. Lying on the guest bed on her side, propped on her elbow, her nightgown all arranged, a pout on her face.
And Zandra . . . was gone.
“Where is she?” he blurted out, shouting the words.
Sydney’s pout became an angry glare. “Sonny,” she warned.
He took a halting step forward. Then another, both of his hands clenching into fists. The pain in his injured hand just made him madder. “I said, where is she?”
Sydney sneered. “Your whore? I tossed her ass out.”
He started to pant, panic consuming his rage. “Out? Out where?”
Sydney fluttered her hand dismissively. “Outside. Wherever whores go.”
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. He dragged air into his lungs, but it wasn’t enough. “When?” he whispered.
She sat up and folded her arms across her breasts. Her expression became haughty and disapproving. “I don’t like your tone, Sonny.”
He didn’t care. “Why would you do this?” he asked, his voice trembling.
“Because you’re mine,” she said as if that made all the sense in the world. And in Sydney’s world, it probably did.
He felt like he would faint. “How did you get in here?”
She scoffed. “I made copies of your house keys years ago. Right after you moved out.”
Because he’d wanted to get away from her. Far away. But she hadn’t let him go.
“How?” he managed.
She lifted one shoulder. “I drugged you and took them. I told you that you couldn’t leave me, Sonny. I’ve known about your little room for years. I just never discovered a woman in here before. I found your toy collection. And your little blue pills.” She smirked. “I wonder why you need those things. Having trouble getting it up for your whores?”
He was hyperventilating and she was laughing at him. “Shut up,” he cried. “Just shut up.”
“Watch your mouth,” she snapped, then, visibly calming herself, came to her feet, all elegance and grace. And rotted, fetid filth. “I told you that there would be no one else but me. I warned you, Sonny. Now, I believe you owe me an apology. Say you’re sorry, Sonny.”
Say you’re sorry. His pulse was thundering in his ears. Zandra had never said the words. Now she was gone.
Gone.
To the police.
Oh my God. They’ll come for me. He looked at the elegant woman who watched him with clear disdain and growing impatience. Her face grew hard and he wanted to throw up.