Devil's Lake (Bittersweet Hollow Book 1)

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  He scowled. “You’re messing with my mind. I need time to think.”

  “Go for a drive, then, dear. And don’t forget to come back with groceries. I’m starving. Bring back some eggs, bread, butter, cheese…”

  He stomped to the door and turned. “Just shut the hell up, woman.”

  She smiled. She was getting to him.

  He slammed the door and locked it. In five minutes, she heard a car peeling out.

  She let the sobs out then, but planned to stop them well before he returned.

  Portia. Anderson. Come find me. Please.

  Chapter 56

  Murphy returned with three bags full of groceries. She watched quietly while he put away the perishables, and started cooking eggs and bacon. He looked different to Grace, somehow more humble? More at peace?

  When he turned to finally face her, she flashed him a small smile.

  He flushed, turning beet red.

  “Smells good,” she said. “But I can’t help you tied up over here like a prisoner.”

  He slammed the spatula down on the table. “Damn you.”

  She opened her eyes wide, and almost fluttered her lashes at him. “That’s not very nice.”

  He lowered his eyebrows and stared at her, marched right up to her, and towered over her menacingly. “You need to shut up now. I’m not letting you go.”

  Tucking her legs up beside her on the bed, she pouted. “I’m sure as hell not trying to escape, honey. But you’re making it really hard for us to get to know each other.” She patted a space beside her. “Why don’t you sit for a minute?”

  Looking at her with utter frustration, he tensed, then dropped to the bed beside her. “Why?”

  “Because you haven’t even told me your first name yet. How can I go around calling you Murphy? That’s just not right.”

  He almost growled, and she noticed the conflicting emotions playing over his face. Good. Maybe I’m messing him up some more.

  “It’s Charles. But I’m not stupid, woman. I can’t be tricked. I know you’re trying to trick me.”

  “Charles? I like that. May I call you Charlie?”

  He stiffened. “No. That’s what my mother called me. Only her.”

  Grace pulled back a little. “Oh. Okay. But I really like Charlie.”

  He clamped her free wrist in his big hand. “I said NO.”

  With a Scarlett O’Hara eye roll and sigh, she pretended to give in. “All right, then. Charles it is.”

  He grunted. “Jesus. Let me finish breakfast.”

  She lay back on the bed, stretching her toes out and yawning. “Oh, good. I’m really hungry.”

  He returned to the stove and flipped the eggs.

  “Did you get coffee, Charles?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t have a coffee maker.”

  “Well, you’d best get us one. I need my coffee in the morning, Charles.”

  He shrugged. “They have instant at the market. You drink that?”

  She sighed and pouted again. Waited for him to turn around for her answer. “Oh, honey. That’s the worst. I can’t drink that stuff. We need a good brew. Why don’t you go to a Walmart or something and get us a coffee maker? They’re only like twenty bucks for the cheap ones. And then stop by Dunkin Donuts and get me a pound of their original blend. I would die for a cup of that right about now.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”

  She laughed, letting the notes trill into the sky with a lovely tinkling sound. “Oh, Charles. You know you want to please me.” This time she did flutter her eyelashes. “Don’t you, babe?”

  He scraped the food onto two paper plates and dragged a small card table and one chair over to the bed. Setting it up so they were facing each other, he motioned for her to eat. “Go on.”

  She looked helplessly at her bound wrist. “I can’t eat like this. Please just clip off this awful plastic thing. My God, it’s barbaric, Charles.”

  With a huge sigh, he drew his knife from his boot and sliced at the plastic. “Fine. Just for a while. But no funny business.”

  She sat up and rubbed her red wrist. “Ah. Much better. Thank you, dear.”

  He began to shovel the food into his mouth.

  “Wait,” she said, with a disapproving frown. “Let’s say a little prayer first, okay?”

  “I don’t believe in God.”

  “Well, I do. And I like to bless my meals. After all, my name is Grace. It’s fitting, don’t you think?”

  Fuming, he put down his fork. “Fine. Just do it.”

  She made a show of preparing, folding her hands, bowing her head, waiting a few seconds to start. “Dear Lord. Thank you for this food today. You are so bountiful and generous with your children. And help Charles know that I'm here for him and want to get to know him so we can become closer. And Lord? Please encourage him to buy me that coffee maker.”

  He actually sputtered a laugh.

  She raised her eyes and smiled. “There we go. Now we can eat, Charles.”

  He picked up his fork. “You’ll get your damned coffee maker. Geez.”

  She grinned at him, and inside, felt the first flash of hope.

  Maybe it was working. Maybe she’d get out of this hellhole. She ate everything on her plate and asked for seconds. She’d need her strength in the days to come.

  Chapter 57

  She’d figured out Murphy’s routine by dinnertime.

  Each time he left, he locked the steel door leading into their little apartment. The keys went into his right pants pocket. The high, narrow windows were sealed shut, probably for the past hundred years. She thought perhaps she could squeeze out of the bathroom window, but she’d have to break it and be careful to remove all shards of glass.

  The longer she played with him, the more she wanted revenge for Portia.

  Not so much for herself, no. She could handle this. She’d lived in worse places and been treated worse when she was on drugs. But she kept picturing her delicate sister, willow-like and pretty, cowering in front of this man’s blustering, powerful rage. He had a lot of anger pent up inside, and she was pretty sure it had something to do with his mother.

  What had happened to him?

  His mother had called him Charlie, that much she knew. Now she wanted to know if the mother was a nurse. That cabinet was stocked full of nurse costumes that creeped her out. Had they shared an unnatural relationship? Had he slept with her or something gross like that?

  Portia told her she’d had to wear those ridiculous get ups all the time while he’d taken care of his own sick needs beside her. But he’d never had sex with Portia the normal way.

  Thank God.

  She hoped she didn’t have to do anything like that. But if she had to, she could. She’d done it with worse people just to get a fix. She shuddered at the memories, pushed them away.

  She’d kept Murphy busy with her constant prattle and silly little demands so far. But what would happen tonight?

  Grace stilled her shaking hands and pulled into herself. She was a good actress, but there were aspects of this whole show she was putting on that were harder than others. It was starting to wear on her, and she’d have to really use her smarts to get the best of him.

  Will I have to kill him?

  Could I do it?

  There was something else that was starting to bother her, and it was hard for her to face.

  I’m starting to feel a little sorry for him.

  How was that possible? The creep preyed on women, probably murdered them when he was done with them.

  She needed to find out more.

  What if Portia was right? What if there were more women out there, stashed away in different barracks in this old facility? What if they were hungry right now? Tied to beds like her?

  She needed to get him drunk. Make him talk to her.

  Then she’d make her move.

  “Charles?” she said, the min
ute he came in the door with the coffee maker under his arm.

  He locked the door behind him and came toward her. “What? What more do you want? I got your damned machine.”

  “Oh, lovely. Thank you. But I was thinking…”

  He rolled his eyes and made a guttural sound. “What?”

  “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a few bottles of wine with dinner at night?”

  He stared at her. “Are you serious? I just came in the door.”

  She pouted. “Well. I was just thinking it could be romantic. You know?” She let her lower lip tremble a little and pretended to wipe away a tear.

  Would this ploy work on him? Or would he get too much pleasure from the power it gave him?

  “Hey,” she said, when he turned his back. “You didn’t buy that coffee maker. Where’d you get it?”

  “Another building. There’s an office they still use once in a while for the renovations crew. They won’t miss it. They’re not coming in for another week.”

  “Did you get supplies, too? Filter and coffee?”

  He pulled them out of a cardboard box. “Right here.”

  “Good.” She watched him set it up. “And the wine?”

  “I’ll go out later. Now just shut up and give me some peace for a few minutes.”

  She sat quietly for a few minutes, then started in on him again. “My wrist hurts, Charles.”

  He growled, turning on his heels toward her. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You’re enough to drive a man to drink.”

  “Good! I am craving a good Pinot, you know? What kind of wine do you like? And what are we having for dinner? If it’s beef, you should get us a red. If it’s chicken—”

  “I said shut the hell up!” He kicked the chair across the room. “Don’t you ever stop talking, woman?”

  With a steely glance, she let her anger show this time. “My name is Grace. I don’t like being called ‘woman.’ Now you can either be nice, or call me nothing at all. My. Name. Is. Grace.”

  How would he react? Would he hit her? Or would he submit?

  He threw his hands in the air, hissing through his teeth, then walked into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  She smiled.

  She was getting somewhere. Now she could go in for the kill.

  Tonight.

  Tonight she’d make her move on him.

  Chapter 58

  Murphy spent a long time in the bathroom, but when he emerged, he secured her to the bed again and nodded, heading for the door. “Be back soon.”

  “Okay, Charles.” She tried to make her voice sweet and seductive. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  She sorted through her plans carefully while he was gone, analyzing one after the other.

  Which would work on him?

  Could she try to seduce him? Or would that make her a “whore” in his mind?

  How could she tempt him and still seem innocent?

  She thought about it for a while, then decided on her plan.

  When he returned forty minutes later, she flashed him a smile full of gratitude. “Oh, honey. You got the wine!”

  He grunted again, which seemed to be his favorite response, and put the wine in the mini-fridge.

  “Is it white or red?” she asked. “I really like both.”

  “White. We’re having chicken.”

  “Oh, goodie. I love chicken.” She paused, watching him for a minute. “Charles?”

  He turned, glowering at her. “What is it now?”

  “I need to take a shower. Or at least a birdbath. Can you set me up in the bathroom?”

  Rolling his eyes, he muttered under his breath. “You’re a lot of trouble.”

  “Grace,” she said. “Call me by my name, okay?”

  “Grace,” he said, standing straighter and looking into her eyes. “You are a lot of trouble, Grace.”

  “I know,” she said. “But I'm worth it, aren’t I?”

  He bent down to get his knife from his boot, then cut her loose. “Come on. There’s soap and a towel in the bathroom.”

  “Thank you, Charles.” She stood and pretended to lose her balance, falling against him with her breasts pressed to his chest. “Oh, gosh. I’m still a bit dizzy.” She made sure she clung to him for a long minute, then backed off. “Sorry about that.”

  He flushed, then helped her to the bathroom. “I got those things you asked for.”

  “Really?”

  He handed her a bag of toiletries. “Here.”

  “Oh, perfect!” She dug into the bag and let an expression of joy creep over her face. “Oh, Charles. These are wonderful.” She reached up and pecked his cheek. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll start the supper while you clean up.”

  He’s starting to sound like a real husband.

  She closed the bathroom door and took off her pajamas and underthings. Filling the sink with tepid water, she splashed and washed using the bar of soap and a face towel, sure to make plenty of noise. When her body was clean, she refilled the basin and washed her hair, then filled it one more time to rinse. It wasn’t perfect, but she felt worlds better.

  She took the bath towel and pressed it to her chest, letting it drape over her torso. Then she opened the door a crack and peeked out.

  “Charles?”

  He turned from the stove and stared.

  “Honey, I need something clean to wear. I can’t enjoy a romantic dinner in dirty old pajamas.”

  He stared some more, and she made sure to reveal a bit when the towel accidentally slipped. “Oops. Don’t look, now.” Readjusting it, she asked again. “Do you have some clean clothes I could wear?”

  He set the spatula down. “I have something. Hold on.” He opened the makeshift wardrobe and sorted through the uniforms. “What size are you?”

  She laughed. “I don’t like to tell. But if you have something in a size eight, it’ll probably fit me.” Normally a size ten, she figured tight would be good tonight.

  He carried a white uniform on its hanger to her, his eyes raking over her body. “This’ll do.”

  She accepted it with one hand. “Do you have undergarments? I need to wash mine out.”

  He stopped, went back to the wardrobe, and rummaged for a while. “No. I guess I need to get you some.”

  “Okay. Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going to wash out my little things and hang them on the shower rod. Darn. I wish that shower worked. Can you get it going for me?”

  He returned to her and looked thoughtful. “I guess I could rig up something.”

  “Perfect, Charles. Thank you.” She swiveled to look at the shower, letting him see her backside. “Oops. No peeking now.” She laughed and closed the door softly, leaning on it.

  Her heart beat fast against the wooden panel.

  I can do this.

  She hitched a sob, then forced it down.

  I can do this.

  Chapter 59

  “Are you ready for me?” Grace peeked out the bathroom door and giggled. “I feel a little funny wearing this with no underwear. You sure you won’t think less of me?”

  His big head swiveled in her direction, his eyes full of anticipation. “It’s okay. Just come out. Dinner’s ready.”

  She’d buttoned the uniform up as far as it went, but her breasts still bulged from the low cut bodice. “It’s a little risqué, I think.” Easing herself out of the doorway, she held her hands over her chest. “I don’t want you to think…”

  He approached her, eyes devouring her. “You look good.” He took her hands away from her chest and stared at her cleavage. “You look real good.”

  She noticed a telltale swelling in his pants and smiled.

  “Come on, sit over here.”

  He’d set the little table up again, but this time, he’d arranged two chairs in the middle of the room. The wine sat on the table, and he’d poured some into chipped mugs.

  “Very nice.” She floated toward the table, trying to look impressed.

  “Sorry I don
’t have wine glasses.”

  “That’s okay. You can get some, right? We’ll just have to imagine them.”

  She glanced at the sheet he’d thrown over the card table like a tablecloth, and the tiny bouquet of daisies he’d picked and set in a glass in the center. “Flowers.” She let her eyes mist over and reached for his hand. “Oh, Charles. It’s beautiful.”

  He stopped and stared at her, then dropped his eyes to his feet. “You’re different from the others.”

  She smiled and sat at the table. “Of course I am. I’m me. My own person. I never met anyone like me before, either.”

  He actually chuckled. “Dinner’s ready.” He filled their plates with pan fried chicken breasts, heated baked beans, and canned corn, then slid them onto the table.

  “Mmm. Smells so good.” She took a sip of wine from her mug. “I’m starving.” Widening her eyes, she gazed at him in what she hoped was an innocent, but provocative, expression. “Sit, Charles.”

  He sat and took a long swig of wine.

  She smiled, took a bite of chicken. “You’re a good cook, honey.”

  His cheeks reddened. “Not really.”

  “Oh, yes. You are. Now, tell me all about yourself. I want to know everything.”

  An hour later, Murphy’s eyes had glazed over. He slumped in his seat, still talking. She couldn’t believe she’d gotten him to open up. He told her about his high school football career. About being in the army. About working at the munitions plant. About fishing, and the derbies he’d won.

  But he never mentioned his mother, and she didn’t push it. Yet.

  “Did you have any brothers or sisters, Charles?” She tried to use his name as often as possible. Anything to increase the familiarity, to make him think they were a couple. She fluttered her eyelashes again and looked at him as if she really cared about him and his stupid family.

  “No. It was just me.”

  “You and your parents, right?”

  “Just my mother.”

  “Was she a nurse?”

  He glowered at her, slammed a fist on the table. “No questions about my mother.”

  With a placating touch to his hand, she pouted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”