He had bought all the groceries, and stopped by the florist to pick up a bunch of flowers for her. The plan was for her to chill out at his house while he cooked dinner. She could bring her laptop so she could do some work, or she could just watch TV, read a magazine, a book, anything. But she wasn't allowed to step into the kitchen. He would be her personal chef today.
Troy strode up to the front door, bearing the vibrant, fresh flowers. After buzzing the doorbell repeatedly and receiving no answer, he pounded on the door and called out, “Dot! It's me.”
Her car was parked in front of her house and he knew she was home. He could hear movement inside the house. He heard a door slam and footsteps scurrying across the floor.
He was about to knock again when the door flew open. Dot stared at him and pushed a hand through her messy hair.
“Hi, Troy,” she said stiffly. “I...I'm sorry. This is a bad time. I'm busy...”
He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “These are for you.”
Dot winced and bit her lip as she took the flowers from him. “Thank you,” she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes.
She tried to turn away so he wouldn't see her tears but Troy held her shoulders firmly.
“Hey, what's wrong?”
She shook her head and tried to back away. “Please...please leave me alone.”
But Troy refused to release her. He ignored her pleas and protests and stepped into the house, closing the door behind him.
“What happened, Dot?”
She jerked away from him and snapped, “Dot—isn't my real name.”
“I don't care what your name is. I know who you are,” he said.
Her eyes widened.
“You are my forever,” Troy said simply, taking both her cold, shaking fists in his hands.
Dot squeezed her eyes shut as if in pain and whispered, “No...please Troy, please don't make it harder for me. This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do...”
He looked away from her and noticed her bulging duffel bag on the floor just outside her bedroom. She was packed and ready to go.
“You're leaving?”
She swallowed a sob. “I'm sorry...”
“No. You are not leaving,” Troy said through gritted teeth. “You are not running away. Not this time.”
“You don't understand, Troy. I...”
“Then make me understand,” he snarled. “I told you everything about myself. I hide nothing from you. But you hide yourself from me, from your friends and neighbors, from the town. There are people who care about you in Bear Cove, Dot! And you are just going to drive away from Bear Cove and disappear without saying a word? How…!” He took a sharp breath to compose himself. A muscle was working violently in his jaw as he glared at her. He was beyond furious. He was mad, hurt and bitterly disappointed. He had never thought of her as a coward.
“Just how long do you intend to keep hiding?” he asked in a deceptively calm voice but the rage and pain flashed in his eyes. “For the rest of your life? What kind of a life is that!”
Dot didn't flinch and she didn't back away. They stood inches apart but it seemed like a chasm separated them.
“What or who are you running from?” Troy said tightly.
Silently, Dot pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. She handed it shakily to him and whispered, “This. This is what I'm running from.”
Troy stared at the tattered piece of paper in his hand.
“I found it under my door this morning,” she said in a dead voice. “I thought I'd finally found a safe place, but...nowhere is safe,” she whispered angrily.
Troy looked at the drawing again in rage and revulsion. Whoever had drawn the picture was a talented artist with a sick, sadistic, twisted mind. The artist had sketched Dot's likeness perfectly. And he had also drawn her bedroom with uncanny, eerie accuracy. He had captured the pattern on her pillows and bedsheets, and had even drawn the view outside her bedroom window with stark clarity.
Troy forced a difficult, painful breath into his lungs.
The sick bastard had been in Dot's bedroom.
And he had sketched Dot kneeling naked on the bed, collared and chained to the wall.
Troy resisted the urge to crush the piece of paper and hurl it against the wall. This was evidence. The bastard's fingerprints might be on it.
“We should hand this over to the Sheriff,” he said, lowering his hand. “We'll catch this sick fuck.”
Dot turned and walked to the kitchen. She gulped down a tall glass of cold water and gripped the edges of the sink.
Then she straightened up and pulled a can of beer from the fridge. She tossed it to him and said, “You could use a drink.”
Troy sat down on the couch and placed the sweating can of beer on the coffee table. He laced his fingers loosely between his knees and waited.
Finally, Dot walked over and sat down beside him.
“He calls himself The Artist,” she said. “He's a rapist and a killer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Artist zipped up his pants and put on his shoes. He made a satisfied sound as he pinned a new pencil drawing on the wall.
“My Daniella.”
She pretended to be asleep when he left.
She listened to his departing footsteps. In the distance, she heard the faint sound of a motor vehicle. Her eyes were opened but she didn't push herself up from the floor.
Holding her breath, she lay in the dark and listened to the rustling of the leaves and the assuring calls of birds and insects. She wasn't afraid of the wild animals or venomous insects in the woods. No creature was more dangerous and brutal than man.
She kept listening until she was sure that none of the sounds were made by a human.
He had tested her once.
The Artist had pretended to leave the cabin. He had even said goodbye to her and told her that he would miss her.
When she heard him walk away from the cabin, she'd sat up and tried to crawl towards the table to reach the paring knife he had left on the dish.
That was when the door banged open. As she shrank back in shock, she saw the Artist silhouetted in the doorway.
His laughter was the most horrible sound she had ever heard. The back of his hand landed across her cheek, and he whipped her with his belt until she fell unconscious. He starved her for three days after that, repeatedly raping her and abusing her weakened body.
She learned her lesson.
She became obedient, cooperative and submissive. She was pliant and eager to please. She became the muse he wanted, his “perfect Daniella”.
He began to leave his keys in the cabin. He hid the keys under the mattress when he thought that she had fallen asleep. Then he would leave the cabin.
She waited.
She moved soundlessly in the dark, inching her way to the bed. The chain was just long enough for her to reach the edge of the mattress. But she had long limbs. Good for her. She just had to stretch and strain a bit more…
Her finger closed around jagged edges. Biting her lip to keep from crying out with relief, she carefully pulled the keys out.
She was shaking so hard she could hardly fit the key into the padlock behind her collar. Finally, the key turned and the collar fell from her neck.
Swiping away her tears, she crept to the door and pushed another key into the lock. The click sounded like a gunshot in the silence and she had to bite back a scream.
Slipping out of the cabin, she looked around wildly. She was in the middle of a forest, and she had no idea which way to go.
Hiking up that shapeless, white dress he made her wear whenever he was done with her, she ran desperately between the trees, hoping that she would be far, far away by the time the Artist returned.
Please don't let him find me.
She kept running until she saw lights. She didn't stop running, even when she heard the horn blaring at her. She raised her hands to shield
herself from the blinding headlights and tried to run some more.
But her legs wouldn't move. They just collapsed beneath her.
The truck driver drove her to the nearest police station. She told them everything.
But when she led them back to the cabin, the cabin was no longer there. It had been razed to the ground, destroying every shred of evidence.
Beside the blackened remains was a female body. It had been burnt beyond recognition.
The Artist had kidnapped another girl.
And he had written something on the ground beside the body.
He had written her name in the dead girl's blood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Dot is the name I created out of my initials. D. O. T.” She looked at Troy directly and said, “My name is Daniella Olga Taylor.”
“Daniella,” Troy murmured. “It's a beautiful name.”
“No it's not!” she snarled, her eyes shining with fury and hate. “It was a beautiful name, but he made it ugly. That's what he called me. Daniella! And...that's what he wrote on the ground—in her blood. Daniella. I won't...ever use that name again.”
Troy held her trembling hands. “I like Dot.”
She quirked a smile. “Me too. This name kept me safe and allowed me to earn a decent living. People heard of A. Dot but didn't know who she was.”
Troy brushed her cheek gently. “Then I'm real lucky. I got to know the real Dot.”
“Olga,” she said softly. “My mother used to call me by my middle name.”
“Olga,” Troy whispered her name and nodded firmly. “You don't have to hide from anything or anyone, Olga. You have a right to your life.”
She nodded and swallowed repeatedly. Taking a deep breath, she said, “My mother died when I was seven. I had so little time with her, but I had seven happy years. I know there are kids who have much less. They never even had a moment of happiness.”
As Troy placed his hand over hers, she went on, “I bounced from foster home to foster home. I wasn't ill-treated. Neither was I loved. I was just grateful I wasn't sleeping on the streets. I was seventeen when I was kidnapped.”
“I was walking to school and someone called my name. He actually knew my name.” She scowled when she heard the tremor in her voice. “I turned around but I didn't see anyone. Then I felt a sharp blow to the back of my head. The blow knocked me out, and when I regained consciousness, I realized that my hands and feet were bound. I was blindfolded so I couldn't see where I was, but I heard the sound of birds and insects and the rustling of leaves. I guessed I was in the middle of a forest or something.”
Troy tightened his grip on her hand as she went on determinedly, “I was given food and water but he refused to remove my blindfold. Every time I begged him to let me go, he would hit me. Then he would rape me.”
Troy's knuckles gleamed bone white and he jerked. Olga kept her voice impassive and continued, “He told me to call him The Artist. Because that was what he was, he said.”
“When he finally removed my blindfold, I saw that I was in a wooden cabin. The interior was clean and neat, and there was a table and bed at the corner. The walls...” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “The walls were covered with drawings, pencil sketches of me. He sketched himself raping me as I was blindfolded. He...he'd drawn every detail...every horrible, disgusting detail...”
Olga's face twisted but she plowed on, afraid that she wouldn't be able to get the words out if she slowed down. “He kept me for five months. I never saw his face. He always wore a hood. I pretended to submit to him and he stopped binding my hands and legs. But he still kept me collared and chained to the wall.”
She sucked in a shuddering breath and said, “I escaped. And he killed another young girl to make her pay for my sins. She died because of me.”
“No,” Troy growled. “She died because he killed her. You didn't cause her death. Don't do this to yourself, Olga.”
She shook her head mutely.
The furrows between Troy's brows deepened as he tried to recall something. “I remember this case,” he said at last. “The guy was caught. I remember reading about this case in the papers. The guy confessed.”
Olga made a strangled sound at the back of her throat. “They got the wrong guy.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Troy surged to his feet and paced the room agitatedly. He raked his fingers through his hair, struggling to control his emotions. He would do everything he could to protect Olga, but he had to think clearly.
“How could they have gotten the wrong guy?” he hissed. “I remember reading about this case in the papers. And I remember feeling sick to my stomach when I read about what he did to those girls. He spared no details in his confession.” Troy whirled round to face her. “How could he have known all the details if he was innocent?”
“I never said he was innocent,” Olga replied.
She sat on her hands to keep them from shaking so much. “Steven Quinn gave a full confession, and I believe he is guilty of all the other crimes he confessed to. He did assault all those other girls. But the details he gave regarding my kidnapping weren't accurate. I tried to tell the police, but they pointed out that I had been knocked unconscious and I never saw my kidnapper's face. I only saw his eyes, and Steven Quinn's flinty, greenish-blue eyes matched my description. There was a lot of fear and outrage, and the public was clamoring for a conviction. They tried and convicted Steven Quinn in a hurry.” She stopped and swallowed. “Steven Quinn isn't an innocent man. But he is not the Artist.”
“How do you know that?” Troy asked slowly.
“A few years after Steven Quinn was put away, I received...a drawing.”
Troy jerked his head at the piece of paper on the table. “Like that one.”
“Yes.” Olga closed her eyes. “It was a pencil sketch. And...it showed him...doing things to me in that cabin. I told the police he raped and beat me, but I never described what he did to me in detail. Only the Artist could have known...” Her voice faltered as she began to shiver uncontrollably.
Troy put his arms around her and drew her to him. Her skin was covered with a sheen of cold sweat and her eyes burned with tears. Troy murmured soothingly to her and stroked her arms and back, trying to warm her trembling body with his body heat.
It happened twelve years ago, but she hadn't truly escaped from the terror. The Artist was still out there, watching her, taunting her, trapping her in his nightmarish drawings.
“He's never going to let me go,” she whispered.
“Let me talk to the Sheriff,” Troy began.
“No!” Olga said vehemently. “No.”
“Why?”
“That's what I did.” She gulped. “Three years after Steven Quinn's conviction, I...received a drawing. I was living in another rural town then, and I took the drawing to the local sheriff straight away. The sheriff stationed himself outside my house to try to catch the culprit. The next night, the sheriff was dead. No one could prove it was murder. He died in an accident, but...I knew. I knew who had killed him.” Olga grasped Troy's hands and hiccuped a sob. “The sheriff was a good man. And I caused his death.”
“No, Olga...”
“Don't tell me that it's not my fault! Don't you see? He'll get rid of anyone who tries to help me. That's why I can't stay in one place for long. I have to keep moving so I don't hurt the people around me.” She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. “I'm sorry, Troy. I've endangered you and your family. Megan, Leo, Logan, even Lilly and her parents. I should never have...”
“Stop, Olga. Just stop.” Troy gripped her wrists.
“It's better for everyone that I leave now.”
“For everyone?” Troy sneered, not hiding the disgust and contempt in his voice. “Or for you?”
“People have died, Troy! They're dead because of me! Don't you see that? Even that young girl. My name was beside her body. She died because of me! He killed her because I esc
aped. I caused her death!” Olga screamed.
Troy stood up and yanked her to him. He hugged her hard as she struggled and lashed out like a wounded animal. Each wrenching sob tore through his heart, and he rocked back at the force of the sharp, twisting pain. He didn't know how to make the pain go away, but he would gladly bear this terrible, tormenting agony for the rest of his life if it meant Olga would stop hurting and be free.
Olga's sobs finally subsided. She clung to him and mumbled indistinctly, “I've been running for a long time, Troy,” she whispered. She sounded so tired, and he could hear the defeat and resignation in her voice. “I kept moving from place to place, hoping he wouldn't find me. I kept to myself, but it gets so lonely you know. I've met some nice people, and sometimes...I allowed a nice guy to take me home. It was nice to have someone to hold in the dark.” Her breath caught painfully. “But always, something would happen to the guy. He would be mugged and mutilated, or he would have an accident soon after. And then I would receive another drawing.”
She pounded her fist against his chest. “It's never going to end.”
“It will,” Troy said grimly. “And it ends here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Troy grabbed her duffel bag and strode to the front door. “You're coming home with me,” he growled.
“What?” Olga's eyes went impossibly wide. “No! I c-can't...”
“You can't or you won't?”
She shook her head.
“Olga,” Troy said quietly, holding her gaze. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” There was no hesitation but her smile was small and sad.
“Do you trust Megan?”
“What?” She looked startled. “Of course!”
“Okay. Then let's get you to Megan's. You'll be safe there.” Troy made a show of pulling out his phone. “I'll just give her a call...”
“No! No, don't you dare!” Olga flew to him and grabbed the phone out of his hand. “I will not put Megan and her sons in danger. Never!”
Bear My Heart: A Small Town Paranormal Romance Page 7
