The kids had learned to retreat to their corners and not say a word. On the second day, Malcolm had told him that they were in place, and it’d sent the man into a rage. So now they waited silently.
Squeaking and clanging noises sounded as he unlocked the door. Rowan covered her eyes even though she hadn’t been ordered to yet. She lived in terror of accidentally seeing his face. At first she’d been curious to see the man who’d locked them in his shed. Now she believed he’d whip her if she saw him. She screwed her eyes shut tighter and hid her face in her knees.
A soft sound told her he’d tossed in the blindfolds, and the door slammed again. “Get them on. I’m counting to twenty.”
They both darted to pick up the blindfolds. Her heart racing, Rowan held hers to her eyes and turned her back to Malcolm. She couldn’t tie it herself. His fingers fumbled with the length.
“. . . eight, nine . . .”
It finally tightened around her head, and she touched it around her eyes, making sure there was no place for light to creep in. And then crawled back to her corner, feeling her way across the concrete.
“. . . fifteen, sixteen . . .”
“Did you get yours on?” she whispered, worrying her heart was beating so loud the man would hear it.
“Almost.” Malcolm’s voice was panicked.
“. . . eighteen, nineteen, twenty! Face your corners.”
Rowan was in place and prayed Malcolm was too. The door swung open, and a tiny bit of light crept under her blindfold. She gasped and squeezed her eyes as shut as possible.
“What the hell, boy! I gave you a full twenty seconds!”
Malcolm didn’t get his on in time because he had to help me.
Rowan put her hands over her ears, guilt and fear freezing her in place. She flinched at the slaps sounding across the shed.
“Get it on!” The slaps continued.
She imagined her brother trying to tie the blindfold while being hit in the face.
“Tighter!”
Rowan held her breath.
“There. See? That wasn’t hard.” The man’s voice was suddenly kind. “You’ll do better next time, right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Malcolm.
“You have to be punished now because you failed, you understand?” His tone was encouraging.
No! It wasn’t his fault.
“Yes, sir,” repeated Malcolm.
“Go over to your sister.”
Rowan sat with her legs crossed, facing her corner and hunched over.
Not again.
She heard Malcolm crawl across the floor and felt his presence behind her a split second before his hand touched her back.
“Pinch her,” the man ordered.
Rowan tensed. It’d been the same punishment yesterday.
“She didn’t do anything,” Malcolm said.
Don’t say that!
The slap to the back of her head nearly knocked her over. Rowan’s hands flew out to catch her as pain radiated from her scalp.
“Look what you made me do,” the man said. “I told you what needed to be done. Are you going to make me hit your sister again?”
“No, sir.”
“Then pinch her!”
Little pinches started on her shoulder blades. They didn’t hurt. Yet.
“Harder!”
Rowan gasped as the pinches shot pain through her nerves. She pressed her palms against her mouth to stay silent.
“You enjoy pinching her, don’t you? You secretly hate her. All brothers hate their sisters.”
“Yes, sir.” Malcolm continued to pinch Rowan’s back.
“No food until you say you hate her.”
“I hate her,” said Malcolm, his tone flat.
“Okay,” said the man. “Good job. Back to your corner.”
Rowan sagged in relief.
We made it.
“Turn around, girl,” the man told Rowan.
She slid on her bottom until she faced in his direction, her neck rigid, preparing for more slaps.
“Here.” Something was forced into her hand. “Eat.”
A sandwich. Her fingers recognized the bread and she smelled peanut butter. Starving, she immediately took a bite. No jam. The sandwich stuck to her tongue and the roof of her mouth, but it was delicious.
“Eat faster,” the man ordered her.
She heard the plastic crackle and thunk as a water bottle was set near her knee. She placed her sandwich on her other knee and felt for the bottle. The water was warm and tasted like metal but she drank. She managed to finish the sandwich and drank as much of the water as possible because she had learned he’d take the bottle with him.
“Good.” His footsteps headed to the door. “Set the blindfolds on the ground just inside the door.” He stepped outside and closed the door as the children raced to obey. “Back to your corners.” A moment later the door opened long enough for him to grab the blindfolds, and then the locks sounded again.
Rowan let out a big sigh but didn’t move. The kids always waited a few minutes in case he came back.
“Are you okay?” Malcolm whispered. “I’m sorry he made me do that.”
She turned around and crawled over to join him in his corner, tucking herself in tight next to him and leaning her head against his shoulder. “I know.”
“I hate hurting you,” he said. “But he’ll hit you more if I don’t do it.”
“It’s best if we do what he says,” said Rowan. “Next time I’ll act like it’s really hurting so he won’t tell you to pinch harder. At least the peanut butter sandwich was better than the crackers yesterday.”
Malcolm was silent. She straightened and peered at his face in the poor light. “You got a sandwich, didn’t you?”
“No.”
Rowan wanted to cry. “Did he give you some water?”
“A little. There wasn’t much in the bottle.”
“You said you hated me like he told you to! He said he’d feed you for that. He’s a liar!” Fury rocked through her. “I hate him.”
“I hate him too,” said Malcolm in a low voice. “I don’t understand why we’re here.”
“Do you think Carissa got away?” asked Rowan, fully aware Malcolm didn’t know the answer. They’d discussed their babysitter dozens of times. They hadn’t seen or heard her since the bad man had brought them to this place.
She and Malcolm had been in the back seat of Carissa’s car when the man wearing a mask forced himself into the car at an intersection. He’d pointed a gun at their babysitter and then at Rowan and Malcolm, threatening to shoot them if she didn’t drive where he said.
Neither of them knew where they were. They’d driven for a long time down dirt and gravel roads. He’d made Rowan and Malcolm take off their shirts and tie them over their heads so they couldn’t see where they were going. When they’d finally stopped, he’d told the kids he’d shoot Carissa if either of them tried to get out of the car. He’d gotten out and taken Carissa with him and vanished for a few minutes. Rowan and Malcolm had sat frozen in the car. Both too terrified to move. Malcolm had lifted his shirt and peeked. All he’d seen was big trees.
A few minutes later, the man led them to the shed. Rowan had asked about Carissa and been slapped, making her trip and fall. She’d been quiet after that.
Three nights had passed so far. Rowan wondered how many more there would be.
“I don’t know what happened to Carissa,” said Malcolm. “Maybe she got away and went for help.”
Rowan nestled against her brother. “Someone will find us.”
8
“I’ll wait until you’re done, Detective,” the patrol officer told Evan. “This isn’t the best neighborhood.”
Evan looked around as he slipped booties over his shoes. Ken Steward’s home was in an older subdivision; the homes were a little shabby and sat on large lots. He didn’t see anything that signaled bad neighborhood. “Seems okay.”
“We get calls all the time from this street. Big drug problem, which leads to all sorts of different crimes. Domestics. Break-ins. Car theft.” The young officer scowled as he looked down the street.
“I won’t be long,” Evan promised. “Leave if you need to.” He put on gloves, unlocked the door, and entered the quiet home. He shined his small flashlight at a wall, looking for a light switch, and turned it on.
A bachelor lived here. Evan recognized that fact immediately. Several women he’d dated had pointed out the bachelor-ish elements of his own home, and Ken had the same ones. Large overstuffed sectional. Big flat-screen TV. A coffee table with water rings. No rugs. No decorator pillows. Blank walls. Except for the flat-screen.