“Bravo! Bravissimo!”
The sound of his voice turned her insides to ice. Whitney had to fight an urge to scurry to the corner, cower there, shaking, arms wrapped around herself protectively. She hated that her brain couldn’t control the reactions of her body. She should slouch right now, cross her arms, and give him the “whatever” attitude that always drove her dad nuts. She should do something, anything, to prove that he hadn’t broken her. To show she wasn’t afraid.
But she merely straightened slowly, returned to demi-pointe, hands at rest. Because her body was still afraid. And as much as she despised herself for it, Whitney couldn’t overcome that.
“You mastered the first film in the series in record time.” The freak’s voice was almost jovial. “That’s quite an accomplishment. How long did you take lessons?”
“Ten years. I quit in May.” Her voice sounded meeker than she would have liked, but in her head, where she was stronger, she was filing away details. He knew she’d taken lessons. That meant he was from around her town, right? Or maybe he’d been at her recital last spring. Seen the picture of her group in the paper.
Another thought intruded, and her stomach plummeted. Because he wouldn’t have had to learn that by stalking her. She’d told him. At least, she’d told someone she’d thought was Patrick Allen.
“Yes, you quit.” The pleasant tone had vanished. Now it held an edge that had her inching closer to the wall. “And that disappoints me, Whitney. It really does. Children need to be taught to follow through on whatever they undertake. I’m not a fan of this modern permissive parenting.”
Who gives a rat’s ass what you’re a fan of? The mutinous thought hovered on the tip of her tongue, remained unuttered. It wasn’t brave to just invite another beating for no reason. If it happened again, it was going to be for something that mattered. Like being punished for trying to find a way out of here.
“As a reward for your swift progress, you’ve earned a privilege.”
She remained silent. Unless it was a key out of her dark, shadowy prison, she wasn’t interested.
“You’ll now be allowed a half hour of television before bedtime.”
A ribbon of hope unfurled within her, only to wither at his next words. “Nick at Nite will be programmed to show on the back wall, just as your practice films are.”
A laugh almost escaped her. She’d hoped at first that she’d be allowed out of this room. Maybe through that door—there had to be a door—behind him and allowed somewhere she’d have a better chance of escape. But . . . Nick at Nite? Really? Did he think she was eight?
His expectant pause had the flesh on her arms raising. “That would be . . . nice,” she said. Enthusiasm was impossible to muster, especially in light of her disappointment.
“You’ve earned it, dear. Good behavior should be recognized, just as certainly as bad behavior is punished.”
His voice sounding in the near darkness had the barely healed wounds on her back and shoulders throbbing as if in response.
“Now, please sit down.”
Ignoring an inner urge to bolt at the command, she sank to the wooden floor. Pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them.
“I’m afraid I have some troubling news, and it’s understandable that you’ll be upset. Your family was killed yesterday morning. It was a plane crash. There were no survivors. I’m so sorry, Whitney, for your loss.”
Her first reaction was shock. Then bewilderment. “No, they weren’t. You’re wrong. They wouldn’t have been on a plane. They’re looking for me.”
“They aren’t looking for you, Whitney. No one is. I told you that before. Everyone thinks you ran away. Ungrateful children often do, you know. There was a family vacation scheduled, was there not? You were all going to California and planned to leave yesterday.”
Her heart started thudding in her ears. A greasy tangle of nerves knotted in her stomach. How could he know that? How could he? Unless . . . Aunt Julie was in the hospital, but they wouldn’t have gone without Whitney. They wouldn’t! Had she told Patrick about the trip? Her thoughts were scattered. She couldn’t remember. But she must have. And now the freak was using his knowledge to mess with her. She didn’t care now what reaction her words would bring. The denial was surging through her, demanding release. “You’re lying. Just to be mean and cruel and . . . and an asshole! You’re lying!”
“We’ll suspend the rules, just for now, because of your terrible loss.” How could he spew those lies, those vicious untruths, and sound so fucking reasonable? “I know you don’t want to believe it. Both your parents and Ryan, poor boy, so very young. I realize it’s a shock. But you aren’t alone, Whitney, dear. You still have me.”
Those words highlighted the horror of it all. She didn’t believe him. She didn’t! Her family would never believe she ran away. They wouldn’t go to California with her missing. No matter how worried they were about her aunt or how much Ryan may have begged because he was looking forward to seeing Disneyland.
“I don’t believe you.” The tears streaming down her face made it difficult to see, but there was nothing to look at, anyway, beyond the stage except for the glow of the computer screen and projector. It was like staring into an inky pit. Horrible words were being tossed from the shadows like poisonous pebbles. Did he think she was a child? That he could say anything and make her believe it? “I’m not stupid. You’re trying to manipulate me.” That’s what monsters did, didn’t they? Break you down, body, spirit, and mind? That’s all he was trying to do. Because it wasn’t true. It wasn’t. It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t!
Logic ruled one part of her, emotion the other. Because even as the denials came, an overwhelming flood of loneliness swept over her, snatching the sobs from her breath, worming deep inside her and radiating from within, icy tendrils of fear. “I’ll never believe you.”
She could hear him moving closer, and for once, it didn’t matter. There was something she feared far more than him, after all. Like discovering that maybe, just maybe, he was telling the truth.
“Look at the wall.”
Whitney wiped her face on the sleeve of her leotard as she turned. Saw nothingness on the white brick. Then a blank Internet search page with a URL to the Columbus Dispatch. A story filled the screen, zoomed in on the headline.
Fiery Plane Crash Kills 120
The screen changed to a story for the Cincinnati Daily News.
California-Bound Plane Crashes
It was dated November 4.
“No.” But the word was a sob now. A plea. “Please, God, no.”
Now there were just headlines on the page. All of them blurred together.
Crash of New Plane Baffles Airline