Feeling the weight of the tattooed man’s stare, I tucked my hair behind my ears. Cameron
’s smile almost reached his eyes. Sticking his chopsticks into the box, he took something out
of his pocket and handed it to me. It was my rubber band. My face flushed while he watched me
put my hair up—but I felt better, less naked, as soon as my carrot locks were pulled back.
With a nod of the head, Cameron directed me to follow him through the small kitchen to the
kitchen table. He pulled a chair out and left to fix me a plate. I had hoped to get away from
the tattooed man’s stare; regretfully, I sat in clear view of the living room. I kept my eyes
down to the table. When I looked up again, the tattooed man had found the edge of his seat again
and turned half his attention to the TV. The spiderweb on the back of his neck was all I had to
contend with.
Cameron placed an overfilled plate of Chinese takeout in front of me; there was no way I would
be able to finish that. But I started loading food into my mouth anyway while Cameron watched
from the kitchen doorway. Every time I looked up from my plate, his eyes were on me. There was
something unsettling about eating—with clumsy chopsticks no less—under someone else’s
scrutiny.
“Do you feel better today?” he asked.
I swallowed.
“Yes. Thank you.”
He paused and read my face. His eyes narrowed—unsatisfied with what he found. “How’s your
head?”
I doubted he knew what a loaded question that was. “My skull is fine.”
“Do you feel dizzy?” he asked quickly.
I brought the chopsticks to my mouth. “Not anymore.”
He waited, and then he continued, “Any throbbing?”
“Just a little bit,” I answered truthfully but quickly before he chose to poke and prod my
head to catch me in a lie again.
He paused and watched.
“Good,” he said finally with satisfaction.
I breathed a sigh of relief; I had passed his assessment. I looked down at my plate with
surprise—one more chopstick-full and it would be polished off.
“More?” Cameron asked with amusement when I took my last bite.
I thought about it, but shook my head. He took the empty plate back into the kitchen. With
Cameron’s easy mood and food in my stomach—a lot of food—my shoulders were starting to
unclench.
It didn’t occur to me why Cameron was so relaxed until he came out of the kitchen and announced
his decision, “Kid’s going to take you for a drive.”
My full stomach dropped to my knees, and Kid’s head snapped up, at last finding interest away
from the TV.
“I am?” he asked, echoing my own thought—though mine was more of a horrified gasp than a
question. The tattooed man also looked surprised by this announcement; apparently Cameron hadn’
t shared his plan with anyone else.
“Yep,” Cameron said with confidence, turning to Kid. “You’re taking Emily to the farm
tonight.”
At this announcement, the big kid let his head fall back in annoyance, like a ten-year-old child
being asked to clean his room. “Tonight? Are you kidding? It’s already getting dark! It’ll
take forever!”
I still had hope: Kid—with the now noticeable strangler-sized hands—was too lazy to kill me
today. But Cameron offered incentive: he grabbed a set of keys from the kitchen counter and
adeptly threw them across the room to Kid, who adeptly caught them with his monster hands, which
were attached to his humongous arms. His eyes lit up.
“Seriously? You’re letting me take your car?” he said, his voice squeaking with joy.
The tattooed man stared at Cameron in disapproval, but kept silent.
Not needing any further encouragement, Kid hastily got up, glanced in my general direction and
headed for the door. “Let’s go, Red.”
My stomach was now down to my toes. Was taking someone “to the farm” some kind of code word
along the same lines as having someone who “sleeps with the fishes”?
Tears sprung to my eyes. I couldn’t breathe.
I turned the full focus of my pleadings to Cameron. “Cameron, please don’t do this. I won’t
talk … I’ll do whatever you want. It doesn’t have to be like this.”
But my beautiful kidnapper’s easy mood turned to ice, and his lips spread thin. “Your shoes
are at the door,” he said sharply.
I looked down, my teeth biting into my quivering bottom lip. I went to the front door and slid
into my still soaked sneakers—not bothering to lace them up.
By the time I made it out of the apartment, Kid was already down the hallway at the elevator,
impatiently pressing the button over and over. I looked back once—Cameron’s back was turned,
and his arms were tight to his side—and I closed the door.