“I realize that this routine is more difficult. But you’re so accomplished, I skipped a couple of films to provide you with a challenge. Had it proven too much for you, I would have moved you back. But your effort today proved that my first inclination was correct. You have a natural ability that’s rare. Innate talent can make up for a lack of training, although you had that, as well.” A thread of disapproval entered his voice. “I would never have allowed you to squander that by quitting your lessons. But that’s a moot point now.”
Despair filtered through her. She tried to think about her family. About the people who would be looking for her. Her dad was a deputy. The whole sheriff’s office would be helping search. But she had no idea where she was. How long she’d been unconscious before she’d awakened in this place. Had it been hours? Days? She could have been taken across the country. A shuddering breath lodged in her throat at the thought.
“Although film is not as interactive as a live teacher, you can be assured you’re receiving the finest instruction.”
A memory stirred. Maybe learning all about him will get me out. Kelsey had been right. The more details she could find out about the freak, the better. Perhaps she’d be able to figure out where they were from something he shared. “Did your mother make these films while she was still in New York City?” He’d said she’d been a ballerina there. Were they in New York now?
“No. She made them so my sister could practice even when Mother was gone. She worked quite hard to provide for both of us. I helped out by doing all the chores around the house. That sort of work ethic is sorely lacking in children today.”
If kids are so rotten, why do you keep kidnapping them? she thought mutinously. Two of them at least. What had happened to Kelsey Willard? What was his plan after ripping them from their homes? A trickle of fear snaked down her spine.
“Children these days take too much for granted,” he lectured. “Even their families.” She watched his shadowy outline, trying to get an idea of how tall he was. How big. If she wasn’t able to see his face, it would help to at least observe his general height and weight. But his shadow against the backdrop of lighting from the computer screen and projector was elongated. Narrow. It would be hard to get an accurate idea of his appearance from it.
Somehow she thought he knew that, too. “Once children are old enough, they should contribute to the family unit. Love and acceptance must be earned. If you learn your lessons well enough, perhaps in time you will be given that opportunity with our family.”
Our. Her mind seized on the word. Were there others here, then? Perhaps Kelsey wasn’t dead or escaped. Maybe she’d “graduated” to another space in this man’s house. The thought didn’t make Whitney feel any better. It wasn’t just freedom from this dungeon she wanted, but escape from the freak altogether. She wanted to go home.
Kelsey had written that she’d been down here for a year. Whitney thought it might have been two weeks or so since she’d been taken. The thought of being here twelve months—or longer—made her want to weep.
“You haven’t responded, Whitney.” The censure in his voice jolted her from her reverie.
“I’m sorry. I was thinking about what you said earlier.” What had he been saying? Her mind scrambled frantically to recall his words. “About kids contributing to the family. I don’t know how I’m contributing anything.”
“At this point your contribution is your effort. Your cooperation in following the rules I’ve outlined. And your acceptance of your new life. Your gratitude for the privileges I allow you.”
“I am grateful.” For allowing her to watch a kiddie show? For chaining her up like an animal? Not for the first time, she wondered if the monster was insane. Somehow that didn’t make her feel better.
“We’ll see. If you do well tomorrow, you’ll earn back thirty minutes of TV privileges. For this evening, I suggest you spend the hours before bedtime in quiet contemplation of how you can prove your gratitude and acceptance.”
He turned off the projector but left the computer on. She listened carefully. Could hear his sure steps as he retreated. A slight scraping sound, then a door being opened. Closed. The scraping sound was repeated. The sound of a key in a lock? That would mean even if she got loose from the chain around her wrist, she’d have to get through a locked door to get out of here. Her shoulders slumped dejectedly.
She knew better than to go to the mattress. That wasn’t allowed until 9:00 p.m. An alert would beep on the computer, warning her it was time to get ready for bed. Fifteen minutes later, it would switch off. The only hours he couldn’t observe her were at night. In the dark. A thread of desolation snaked through her. There was no way out. No escape.
Blinking back the tears that threatened, she remained motionless as if locked in the contemplation he’d demanded. He’d be checking on her while the computer was on, even though the screen was blank, emitting only a white glow. He’d know whether she’d follow his instructions.
Or whether she gave the appearance of doing so.
A thread of defiance returned. What had she learned from his appearance here today? Nothing that would aid in a description of him. But she knew he carried a key with him to let himself in and out of the area below the stage. What else? She thought hard. His steps toward the door hadn’t been hesitant, although he’d been walking into shadows. Which meant he had the way memorized, or he didn’t have to worry about running into any obstacles, because there weren’t any.
She squinted into the darkness but as usual could see nothing. But wait, that wasn’t true. The projector would have to be elevated in order to beam the film at the stage wall behind her. So it had to be set on a table or stool of some kind. The space directly ahead of it and around it was empty. The glow of the screen showed nothing in its vicinity.
Whitney wasn’t sure how any of that helped. But she tucked away the observations in any case. Because if nothing else, she liked knowing that when he checked on her, he’d see a girl with her head bowed submissively.
He wouldn’t suspect that she was filing away details that just might aid in her escape.
She’d fallen asleep. Whitney bolted upright on the mattress, rubbing at her eyes. How had that happened? She rolled off the edge, wincing a little as the action pulled at the skin surrounding the fresh wound on her back. What time was it? Impossible to tell, but the light hemming the sides of the curtain told her it was no longer night. Early morning, perhaps.
Damn. She hurried to the shower to retrieve the screw. Retraced her steps to pry up the board again. Took out the papers and carried them over to the window. Unrolled them and tried to find her place from the night before. Reading about Kelsey’s experiences might provide ideas for escape.
I try to learn as much about him as I can. His mother was a ballerina. His sister danced, too. And he has a wife somewhere. Is she in this place, as well? Does she know that I’m down here? Because if she does, she has to be as much a monster as he is.