And now I can call for help. But I have to wait for the right moment to do it.
There’s a scratching noise coming from the back door, which looks like it also has a keyhole the same as the front door. Graham walks over to the door and reaches into his pocket for the keys. He unlocks the door and a beautiful golden retriever bounds into the kitchen. The dog makes a beeline for me, and for a second, I’m frightened, until the dog licks my hand.
“What…” I manage. “What’s this?”
Graham smiles at me. Despite the words scribbled on my leg, he doesn’t seem evil. He seems like a nice guy. I mean, he’s making me breakfast. And if he were keeping me hostage, why would he give me a phone? This doesn’t quite make sense. But then again, nothing about this situation makes sense.
“This is Ziggy,” he says. “He’s our dog. Your dog. We got him after your accident last year.”
Ziggy. I freeze at the mention of his name. Does Graham realize that’s the same name as Harry’s pet bird? I’m sure he doesn’t. It seems like another secret message I’ve given to myself.
I run my hand over the dog’s fur. The effect is instantly calming. I once read that petting an animal can be a form of therapy. Ziggy pants up at me, his expression almost like a smile. I love him instantly.
Graham scrapes three slices of bacon onto two plates, then gives me a piece of toast that’s mostly black. I watched him cook our breakfast, but there’s no chance I’m eating it. After all, I have no idea what he put in it before I came into the kitchen. Of course, if he’s making himself a plate, it’s unlikely there’s poison in it. But maybe he’s not going to eat it—he’s just going to pretend to eat it. Or maybe he’s been building up immunity to the poison by gradually ingesting trace doses over time.
A ring tone echoes in the kitchen. At first, I think I’ve got a call, but when I look at my phone, the screen is still black. It’s Graham’s phone that’s ringing.
“Sorry, Tess.” He swipes on the screen. “I’ve got to take this one.”
Graham wanders into the living room with the phone at his ear. His deep voice floats out of the room—it sounds like it’s a call related to business. I wonder what he does. He’s my husband, and I know nothing about him. I don’t even know his last name.
All I know is he’s done something terrible to me.
I look at the two plates of black toast and burnt bacon. They don’t look appealing, but even less so with the knowledge that they could be tainted. Or at least, mine could be tainted. I glance in the direction of the living room to make sure Graham’s back is turned. Then I quickly swap the two plates.
The next thing I do is pick up my cell phone. I’ve never used an iPhone before, but it’s strange the way my fingers somehow know what to do. The phone unlocks under my thumb, and I know exactly which button to press to bring up the screen to make a phone call. And I know exactly who to call.
I dial 911.
“911 Operator. What’s your emergency?”
I lower my voice several notches. “My husband is holding me hostage in our home. Please help me.” In the other room, it sounds like Graham is ending his own call. I don’t have much time. “This is my address.”
I recite my address, and before the operator can say anything, I hang up.
Graham strides back into the room, his phone still gripped in his palm. He adjusts his blue tie that matches the color of his eyes. I wonder how long the police will take to get here. I imagine them bursting into our house, and Graham attempting to charm them… or maybe stammering excuses for what he’s done. But the police won’t buy it. I mean, the lock on the door clearly shows imprisonment. He can’t hide that.
“Everything okay, Tess?” he asks.
“Yes, of course.” I force a smile. I have to pretend everything is fine, or else God knows what he’ll do. What if it becomes a hostage situation?
He looks pointedly at my plate. “You’re not eating.”
I stare down at the toast and bacon. The toast is charred to a crisp, and the bacon is black. I’d have to scrape off most of the toast to make it edible. And I’m nervous to eat it. Until Graham sits down across from me and starts digging into his food. It’s not the plate he thought he’d be eating from, and he obviously thinks it’s safe, so that means my own food must be safe.
But I still have no appetite.
Ziggy whimpers at my side. He licks my hand and looks up at me hopefully. I take a piece of bacon off my plate and offer it to him. He gobbles it up.
Graham’s jaw clenches. “I wish you wouldn’t feed him off the table.”
“Sorry,” I say, even as I’m passing Ziggy a second piece of bacon. “I didn’t know.”
“Right, but… common sense, Tess.”
“Of course, you’re right,” I say. And I pass Ziggy another piece of bacon.
Graham watches me, his eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Just taking my time.” I glanced down at the clock display on my phone. It’s only been a few minutes since I called 911. How long do they take to get here? I assume they would use sirens in a situation like this. Or maybe not. “So, um, how did we meet?”
The right corner of Graham’s lips quirks up. “Actually, I saved your life.”
“Really?”
He nods. “We were in this restaurant, and you were a few tables away from me. And I heard you making a sound like you were choking. I turned around and your entire face was turning blue. So I came over and did the Heimlich.”
I scrape a bit of the black off the toast with my fork. “I thought when people are choking, they don’t make any sound.”
“Well, you did.” He glances at his watch. “Let me get you something to drink.”
I watch as he gets up out of his chair and grabs a container out of the refrigerator. He pulls a glass from the cabinet above the sink and pours a big heaping glass of blood-red liquid. What in the hell is that?
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Pomegranate juice.” He brings the glass over to the kitchen island and drops it down in front of me. “It’s your favorite.”