More than she would ever be able to move. She and Tim had done some landscaping when they’d bought the house. They’d moved river rock by the shovelful. They’d barely been able to get out of bed the next morning.
Could she tip the drum over and roll it to the door? She went around to the side near the wall. Bracing her back against the corrugated metal, she put both feet on the barrel and pushed.
Nothing.
On the other side of the door, chains rattled and metal scraped on metal. She jolted at the sound and scrambled to her feet, heart thudding in a dreadful beat. Her gaze went to the barrel. The cap was upside down on the lid of the barrel.
Praying he didn’t notice, she pressed her back to the wall. The door swung inward.
And he stepped inside.
A ski mask covered his face. He was average size. Dressed in jeans, work boots, and a heavy sweatshirt that concealed the shape of his body.
He carried a pile of clothes and a greasy paper bag. The scent of hamburger made Chelsea’s stomach churn and growl. He walked closer and set the bag and clothes on the foot of the cot. He scanned her from head to toe. Then his head turned toward the barrel. His body stiffened.
“What were you trying to do?” He stalked closer. “Were you trying to escape?”
The first blow caught her on the side of the face and sent her spinning into the wall. Her head ricocheted off the corrugated metal. She crawled onto the cot and cringed, pain and fear congealing in her belly like cold grease.
She heard the chain rattle. She turned toward him, afraid to see what he was doing yet unable to hide her eyes.
“This will be your first lesson. It’s a shame you had to learn it the hard way.” He yanked hard on the chain. The manacle bit into the thin skin over her anklebone as he dragged her off the cot.
“No! Please.” She grabbed for the frame, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal bar for a few precious seconds before his strength was too much. Pain bloomed in her ankle as he pulled harder, and the lightweight cot slid across the floor.
“Come here.” The command was quiet, menacing. The icy control of his voice belied the fury in his movements. “You will not speak without my permission.”
Her fingers gave way. She landed on the floor on her hands and one knee, the chained leg pulled straight. He kicked out. The toe of his boot caught her in the thigh. Agony ripped through her leg. A fist crashed into the small of her back, the blow radiating white-hot through her spine.
Falling to her side, she curled into a ball as the blows rained down on her. Pain filled every inch of body. She covered her head with her arms and prayed.
He kicked her in the ribs, cutting off her next breath. “Rule number one: You belong to me. You will do what I say without question. You are my property.”
Chapter Seven
He could make her love him. He knew it with complete certainty.
Smoke rose in a cloud from the barrel of burning leaves. He waved it away and tossed her jeans onto the fire. At first, the bulk of the material smothered some of the flames, but in seconds, the denim began to burn slowly, starting at the edges and creeping inward. Smoke rose, smelling like burned paper.
Patience.
He added more dead leaves and waited for the flames to rise again. After the fire was reestablished, he set her sweater on top of the pile. Flames curled around the fabric, embracing, and then destroying it.
Unlike Chelsea, who needed to be broken down but left intact.
She’d tried to escape. Fury rose inside him. He breathed through it. Letting the air slowly out of his lungs, he tried to force his muscles to relax. But the tension wouldn’t leave him. It built, feeding on his memories like the fire fed on her clothes.
His rage couldn’t get the best of him. It needed to be shut down. Chelsea wasn’t the only one who needed to change her behavior. He hadn’t intended to beat her so badly, but his temper had taken over. He’d barely been able to tear himself away before he’d done permanent damage. He needed another outlet for his rage. He extended his forearm over the fire. The flames licked his skin. The stink of burning hair rose into his nostrils.
But the pain. The pain was a two-headed beast. Ugly as it roared through his arm.
Beautiful as it overran, then released his anger.
He pulled his arm away before the skin blistered. His forearm was red and sore and would be highly sensitive for a few days, a good reminder of the consequences of lack of control. His body would remember the punishment. His brain would learn to avoid it.
Control and reason must rule. He couldn’t let his emotions affect his actions. He needed to think clearly. To be objective. To adjust his plan according to Chelsea’s progress—not his anger.
He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Losing his temper, not being in control, had cost him too much already.
She would not get away. Her chain was secure. As a backup, he’d used a heavy-duty lock on the door. A wireless door alarm served as a third line of defense. If the door opened, he would get a notification on his phone app. He couldn’t be here all the time, but no matter where he was, he’d know if she escaped.
There was nothing to worry about. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Besides, he had expected her to rebel. It was part of his plan. If she didn’t test the boundaries, he’d be disappointed. And every mistake she made was an opportunity to discipline her, to shape her behavior. He needed a strong woman, not a weak, easily dominated one. But Chelsea would have to adjust her decision-making process. When she was presented with options, she should consider his wants instead of her own. Eventually, her instinctive reaction would be what does he want?
When he’d first laid eyes on her, he’d known she was the woman for him. His perfect mate, she would be Eve to his Adam.
For him, it had been love at first sight.
Karma, fate, destiny. The label didn’t matter. She was going to be his woman. It might take her a while to adjust to the idea, but when her conditioning was complete, she would submit to him as a woman should. And after she learned her lessons, he would cherish her forever.
Chelsea was smart. She was strong. She wasn’t going to be easy to break. But that’s exactly what he needed to do. He would take her to the root of who she was, and then he would cultivate the characteristics he chose. Like a well-tended hedge, her new personality would grow. And as it bloomed, he would shape it, trimming off her ugly traits and encouraging her desirable attributes until her character was amenable and pleasing to him.
It was simply a matter of working with nature rather than against it.
When a woman’s survival was threatened, she tapped into the base instinct that would keep her alive. All humans were programmed for survival. The key would be to find the right combination of discipline and love.
Pain and pleasure.
Stick and carrot.
Stick first, though. Always.
Consequences were the key to any training. They should be severe enough that the subject took no action without careful consideration of the teacher’s reaction. At first, she would do it to avoid punishment. She would learn to adapt her behavior to please him. As a reward, she’d be praised, fed, and kept warm. Eventually, she would associate his encouragement with comfort and his criticism with pain.
She would crave his approval like a drug.
He considered how quickly her shock, horror, and disbelief had shifted to acceptance. At first, she’d tried to shield herself from his blows, but then she’d realized it was pointless. He was in control. After she’d stopped defending herself, he’d come to his senses and stopped beating her.
Stick. Carrot.
How long would it take her to make the connection?
Would she remember all the rules he’d given her? Though the severity of the lesson was unintended, her progress pleased him.
He glanced back at the locked door. He’d left her naked, shivering, and cringing in pain. The cot and blanket sat just outside the door,
waiting. At the first sign of acquiescence, the simple comforts would be returned, and step one in her transformation would be complete.
He tossed her socks onto the fire and added more dead leaves and dry sticks. The flames reached higher. The fire crackled.
She needed to be completely devoted to him. She must completely let go of the life she’d left behind. She was already beautiful and intelligent—when he was finished with her, she would be perfect.
Next, he’d push her even further.
He rubbed his hands together over the fire. He couldn’t wait to continue. But he must be patient. She’d need some time to recover. To reflect on her behavior.
To realize the fruitlessness of any efforts to defy him.
To give up and give herself fully to him.
Chapter Eight
Lance skimmed through the remaining documents in Chelsea’s file. Nothing jumped out at him. He closed the file on the card table in his office and sat back, letting the information sink into his head.
Sharp walked into the room. “I made you a shake.” He handed Lance a nasty-looking green concoction.
“I will never get used to the way these look.” Lance held up the glass and stared at the thick green liquid.
After he’d been shot in the thigh and almost died last year, his recovery had been long, painful, and frustrating. He’d gone back to the police force only to quit when his leg didn’t hold up. He’d wallowed in pity at home, seeing little progress with his rehabilitation, until Sharp had convinced him to join his PI firm—and to try his organic-crunchy lifestyle. Several months after Lance had embraced his boss’s way of life, his leg was mostly healed.
He doubted it would ever be 100 percent, but he could do most of the things he enjoyed. He’d even returned to coaching the hockey team for at-risk youths he’d volunteered with when he’d been on the police force.
Now instead of heading to the bar when he was stressed, Lance downed a green protein shake and went to bed early.
He was quite the party animal.
“Luckily, these drinks taste better than they look.” Lance no longer questioned the ingredients. He’d learned his lesson and simply drank whatever his boss handed him.
To be fair, Sharp was more than his boss. After he’d been unable to find Lance’s father, he’d taken ten-year-old Lance under his wing. Over the years, Sharp had driven him to hockey practice, given him the sex talk, and taught him to drive. He was the closest thing to a father Lance had.
Sharp took the empty glass back. “Ready to head over to Tim’s house?”
Lance stood and reached for the flannel shirt he’d draped over his chair. “Yes. Want to ride along? We should get a good look at the wife’s personal space.”
“Let’s go.” Sharp fetched a jacket from his office.
Lance went to the closet and grabbed a high-capacity USB drive, then met Sharp and Morgan in the foyer.
“I’m off to see the sheriff.” She slung her giant purse over one shoulder. She’d changed into what Lance called her lawyer uniform: a fitted navy-blue suit, white silk blouse, heels, and pearls. They all went outside together, and Sharp locked up the office.
Lance thought about kissing her goodbye, but the gesture felt awkward. Their relationship felt awkward, especially in front of Sharp. Instead, Lance said, “Good luck.”
They parted on the sidewalk. Lance watched her walk away. The skirt and heels did magical things to her legs. She was all at once ladylike, professional, and unbelievably hot.
At least she was to him.
Morgan got into her minivan and drove off. Lance and Sharp settled in Lance’s Jeep.
“What’s going on between you two?” Sharp said before he’d even fastened his seat belt.
“It’s hard to quantify.” Lance started the engine and pulled away from the curb. “Her grandfather has been sick. She has her hands full, and we both know my mom is a lot to manage.”
Sharp stared over the console. “Stop overthinking. You are not going to find another woman like that one. Make time for her. Do not fuck this up.”
“That isn’t my goal.”
“You can’t possibly manage every single piece of your mother’s life forever. You’re entitled to some happiness.”
“I know.” But it didn’t feel that simple. His mother’s mental health and physical safety required a delicate balance of medication, routine, and vigilance. He’d slacked off during college, and she’d needed inpatient treatment to get back on track. Since then, he’d erred on the side of micromanaging, but that didn’t allow much room for a social life.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
Chelsea and Tim lived in a quiet subdivision. As Lance turned the Jeep onto their street, he slowed to drive around a couple pushing a baby stroller. Ten feet ahead of them, a small child pedaled a tricycle. At three o’clock in the afternoon, grade school-aged kids swarmed a play lot in the center of the cul-de-sac.
Lance parked in front of Tim’s house. It was a nice starter home, small but generally well kept. The lawn needed raking, but Lance supposed Tim had had little time or interest in yard work since his wife had vanished.
Two sedans were parked in the driveway, the Toyota that Tim had driven to Sharp Investigations and a late-model Dodge sedan.
Tim answered the door and let them into the house.
“Has the press been hounding you?” Sharp asked.
“They hung around the first day, then they seemed to lose interest.” Tim ushered Lance and Sharp into the kitchen. Suitcases crowded a corner of the adjoining family room. “My in-laws just arrived. I don’t know how I survived the last few days without them.”
He introduced them to a couple in their late fifties.
Chelsea’s mother, Patricia, was a tall, fit blonde woman who looked as if she could still hike all day. She wore black yoga pants and a sweater that ended midthigh. She had the sleeping baby draped over one cloth-covered shoulder while she rubbed his back in a circular motion.
Chelsea’s dad, Randall, sat at the kitchen table with a little girl of about three perched on his lap. Lance assumed the child was Tim and Chelsea’s oldest. Bella and her grandfather were working on a large-piece puzzle.
“We’d like to ask you both a few questions,” Sharp said.
Dark circles and worry lined Patricia’s eyes as she nodded. She glanced at the little girl on her husband’s knee, clearly concerned about the child overhearing the upcoming conversation. “Tim, maybe you could take Bella and William to the playground.”
“Yay.” The little girl jumped off her grandfather’s lap.
Tim did not appear to share his daughter’s enthusiasm, but he simply said, “Good idea. Bella, get your coat and shoes. I’ll put William in the stroller.”
Bella skipped out of the room. The sounds of Tim getting the children ready floated back from the hallway. Bella chattered. The front door opened and closed.
After Tim and the children left, Patricia sat next to her husband at the kitchen table. The older couple joined hands, their fingers intertwining in a show of solidarity Lance admired. This was the way marriages were supposed to work. Couples should lean on each other.
“We usually stay in a hotel. The house is small. But this time . . .” Patricia said, “Tim needs help.”
“When was the last time you talked to your daughter?” Sharp settled across from Randall.
Lance took the chair opposite Patricia.
A tear leaked from Patricia’s eye. “Chelsea calls us almost every day. I spoke to her Friday morning.” She pressed a clenched fist to her mouth. “She was looking forward to going out that night.”
The poor woman.
“How was her mood? Did anything seem off?” Lance swallowed his pity and pushed aside memories of his own mother’s confusion and grief after his father disappeared. More than two decades later, he could still see her as clear as day in his mind. The tears, the dark circles, the pale skin.
The way she’d seeme
d to fade away over the following months and years.
Patricia sniffed and wiped a fingertip under her eye. “She’s had a rough time since the baby was born.”
“It didn’t have to be that tough. Tim could have been more useful.” Randall scowled.
“So Tim isn’t a good husband?” Lance asked.
“That’s not fair, Rand.” Patricia’s knuckles whitened around her husband’s. “Tim loves Chelsea. He’s a hard worker who’s trying to build a future for his family. And he’s a nice boy.”
“As smart as he is, that’s exactly what he is—a boy.” Randall didn’t look convinced. “He needs to grow the hell up.”
“Anyway, we’re so glad Tim agreed to hire a private firm,” Patricia said. “After speaking to the sheriff over the phone, we didn’t have much confidence in his investigation.”
“You asked Tim to hire us?” Lance asked.
Patricia’s forehead wrinkled. “Not exactly. We were discussing our frustration with the sheriff. No matter how many times I told him Chelsea would never leave her babies, he seemed convinced that she was depressed and left on her own. Tim said he wished he could afford to hire his own investigator, but he didn’t have the cash. So we gave him the money.”
“Does Chelsea have an agenda book, a calendar, a place where she leaves notes for herself?” Lance asked.
Patricia slid a USB drive across the table. “Tim said he copied everything from her computer and phone onto this. As far as I know, she keeps her calendar and address book on her phone.”
Lance pocketed the USB drive.
Of course, having all the information filtered through Tim had its downsides. Tim was skilled with computers. He could have purged any damaging tidbits before he handed the information over. But such was the challenge of working in the private sector. Lance couldn’t go to a judge and get a subpoena for Tim’s records.
“How about friends?” Sharp asked. “Do you know of any besides Fiona? Someone from back home?”
Patricia shook her head. “She lost touch with everyone back home when they moved here. Young children take up so much time. She has her coworkers, though she never mentioned being especially close to any of them. Randall, did she ever mention anyone to you?”
Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2) Page 7
