Why (Stalker Series Book 2)

by Megan Mitcham

  Drawing a steadying breath, Gen confronted the fact that she’d either unhook the taillight, she wouldn’t, or she’d electrocute herself. She pulled. The wires gave in a whoosh.

  Her elation lasted only a second before attempting the slog of pivoting her bound ass from one side of the trunk to the other. One dead taillight was nothing. Two just might draw someone’s attention.

  It was a long shot, but it was all she had.

  Sabotage of the second light took far less pain and time than the first.

  Gen rested on her belly for a few seconds before the car shifted from the consistent, rather straight path it’d been on for so long. It veered, then rolled to a stop. After several starts and stops, turns and revs, it slowed once more.

  Then the engine died, and every cell in Gen’s body went cold.

  The hum of a garage door added to the chill.

  Footsteps whispered across the smooth concrete. The classic tap of wing tips drew closer with every heartbeat. Oxygen turned from gas to a solid in her lungs.

  Without any more warning, the latch she’d been trying to unfasten for the past hour gave way. Perry stared down at her with eyes she’d never before seen. Any trace of warmth and familiarity might have never existed. They were dark, dead.

  Gen didn’t bother with words. They would do nothing but end her then and there.

  He leaned over, revealing long latex gloves that covered the rolled sleeves of his navy dress shirt. The top button of his collar was unfastened, and there was no tie to be seen.

  Her body shivered in small, betraying jerks.

  Perry rolled her to her stomach, grabbed the rope at her wrists and the one at her ankles, and lifted. Her shoulders wrenched. Her back bowed. Without a word, he pulled her from the trunk and carried her through a bare garage and into an open door of a house she’d never seen.

  The house in which she’d die.

  He heaved her through vacant marbled hallways, into a far bedroom, toward an open closet lined with black plastic.

  Gen kicked and screamed. She pulled and twisted. The reaction wasn’t logical. It was an involuntary and futile fight for life … because his steps didn’t falter.

  Twenty-Eight

  A trill sounded outside the closet. The tap of his gentlemen's shoes echoed in the hallway once more, drawing closer. Gen curled into a ball in the darkness. The rage that kept her going while locked in the trunk was gone. Black plastic and unfailing bindings had fleeced her to the bone. She gritted her teeth and waited.

  As it had once before, the closet door opened wide, and light seeped in. Perry stood there, obliterating the sunshine. A clump of rags hung from his right hand. Beads of sweat gleamed on his brow and neck. Wet hair clung to his forehead. His navy shirt had turned darker still with wide rings around his armpits. The color matched his empty eyes. He tossed the rags at her feet, just as he’d tossed parts of the trunk liner next to her an hour or so ago.

  She was the largest scrap in his trash pile.

  The realization stole her breath, just as the impact of the floor had done when he’d thrown her inside like a piece of trash. Every nerve in her body vibrated with horror.

  Perry’s hands rose to his shirt and unfastened the top button, and then the next, and then another.

  The horror had just begun.

  “No!” Gen struggled to shimmy herself anywhere, much less to the back of the closet. Once she got there, where would she go? Still, she had to try something. “No, Perry! No!”

  A coy grin curved his lips. His gaze sparked the barest hint of life and narrowed. His hands continued working, unfastening the buttons at his cuffs. He pulled the shirt from his pants, slipped it off his body, and threw it at her face. The thin material blinded her. She threw her head back and flopped. Dread grew long talons and slashed wildly, releasing her greatest fear … that she would learn of her sister’s heaviest burden firsthand.

  The shirt fell to the side, clumping beneath her chin.

  His zipper whined open.

  “No! No!”

  Perry toed off his shoes and kicked them at her. One hit her hip, while the other lobbed over her. He shucked his pants and silk boxers in one motion, standing before her naked and glaring.

  She screamed and strained with everything she had left.

  The pants flew through the air and landed atop her. His laughter was barely human. A jackal’s pitched call.

  “I wouldn’t rape you, Genevieve. You’re a slut, which is worse than a whore. At least they do it for money.”

  “The man who slaughtered his family wants to get high and mighty? Right.” Her laughter was manic and shrill. “Did you know she was sleeping around, or did you kill her to make room for your own side piece?”

  “You knew she was fucking someone else?” Perry’s body didn’t shift in the slightest, but the emptiness of his eyes filled to bursting with pure fury.

  “Not until you got rid of her things. I went through them and found pictures.” She grinned, happy to have one on him even if it was insignificant.

  His eyes sparked, and his jaw worked. Whatever his thoughts, they remained locked inside.

  He closed the door, leaving her once more in the dark. Moments later, the whoosh of a running shower grazed her brain. The fog of fear with which he’d left her with was hard to see through.

  Gen’s convulsing eased only when she heard the water turn off. Her ears pricked toward the door, intent on every noise. She tried pairing each sound with an action. Brushing teeth. Combing hair. Dressing. Walking.

  She shivered in the knotted mess of his clothes.

  Steps brought him past the closet and down the hallway. The trill sounded as the door opened and then closed once again. Every muscle locked up.

  Was this the end? Would he come back with a knife?

  Gen held her breath.

  The garage door rumbled up, the car engine growled to life, the growl grew quieter, and then the garage door rumbled closed.

  It was a trap. It had to be a trap.

  Trap or not, this was her only chance. If she could find a phone or get out, she could save herself.

  First things first.

  She rolled onto her belly, wedged her chin into the plastic, and pulled her knees to her chest. Everything hurt, but none of that mattered. She levered her weight back and stretched upright for the first time in three or more hours. It took all of her balance and will to push to her feet, but push she did. The tops of her legs quivered. Sweat dripped from her chin. Knots in her back tightened, but she hopped toward the small bulge in the plastic sheeting.

  Gen dragged her shoulder along the wall until she found the lump and shoved it up. Light filled the small walk-in. Her lids rebelled against the brightness. She used every second to survey the interior, making her eyes burn and water.

  Black hugged the walls from the ceiling where it was taped to the door. No gaps. No hangers hanging from the rods affixed to the parameter of the wall. The plastic even extended under the door on the floor. The door. There was a small nubby catch at the top of the frame, but nothing else to secure the door from her side. She hadn’t heard him slide any locking mechanisms into place when he’d slammed it shut.

  Try it already!

  Using her shoulder once more, she tipped her weight against the pristine white wood. When gravity took hold, the door swung wide, and she tipped forward out of the closet toward the ground. Several frantic hops kept her upright.

  Her gaze skittered left and right in a panic. She expected to see him sitting on the end of the perfectly made bed with a ten-inch blade in hand. He was not. There was, however, a landline telephone on the bedside table at the far side of the large room. The old-fashioned phone had a stiff metal cradle, a sharply carved handle, and a rotary dial. A contemporary remake of old technology in a modern house.

  The point of her chin was too blunt to dial the most basic number. 911. Her tongue? She wasn’t willing to chance it.

  Gen hopped toward the bedroom door. I
f she could get out of the house … The flashing light on the alarm system’s pad stopped her cold. She couldn’t open the knob with one pinky, much less reach and deactivate an alarm system for which she didn’t know the code. Besides, she didn’t know where she was. He could have brought her to a remote house in a pine forest. Even if she managed to get out, she might die of exposure trying to find help.

  No. The phone was the quickest way to help. But to use it, she needed hands.

  She looked wildly around the room. Her gaze snagged on the lever handle of the closet. There was no way for her to untie the knot or knots. Hell, she didn’t even know how many there were or how they were connected. All she knew was they were wound tightly and were extremely secure. If she could get the end of the handle hooked around the end of the rope, then she could pull it from her bicep and over her elbow.

  It was worth a try.

  Streaks of red on the floor grabbed her attention with both hands. Blood. It was smeared in a small dotted semicircle on the floor. Her gaze dropped to her feet. The sight of them bound and crimson pooling between her toes elicited a wretched scream that she clamped inside her lips. Silent sobs wracked her already unsteady frame. Tears slid down her cheeks and onto the now chipped polish on her toenails.

  If she made it through this, she’d never let Owen Graham out of her sight. In the deepest darkness of her misery, he was all she wanted. Action was the only thing to get her to him.

  Gen hobbled to the door. Her back screamed. Her legs quaked. Her torn foot throbbed. Still, she squatted to reach the handle. Each time she attempted to wedge the rectangular edge of the grip between the rope and her skin, the door shifted, her muscles gave out, or the unforgiving metal stabbed into her tender skin. Each time she missed, a sob hiccupped from deep inside her chest. But each time, she straightened, drew a breath, changed her angle, and tried again.

  Finally, after what felt like a hundred attempts, the rope caught, wedging the metal handle between her elbow and middle finger. She shimmied to the left, shifting the rope ever so slightly toward the apex of her elbow. That tiny taste of success drove her to yank harder, to shift more. She shifted so much her feet slipped on the slick floor, and she toppled forward, face first.

  At the last possible moment, she turned. The floor met her shoulder, sending a shot of electricity to her brain stem. It radiated down her arms in sizzling waves. She flopped onto her belly and heaved in breaths, praying the nausea that assaulted her belly would soon pass. The rope gave, not a lot, but enough that she wiggled her uninjured shoulder.

  Freedom!

  She jerked and flailed with all her strength. The unforgiving loops grew slack. Her useless arms flopped to her sides. A million tiny ninjas stabbed her with a million swords. And it didn’t matter. She was free.

  The rumble of the garage door sliced her hope open wide.

  “No.”

  Gen flopped onto her back and snapped her gaze toward the hallway door Perry had carried her through. It was so close.

  She pushed up with numb arms onto her bottom. A knot dug into her ass cheek. There was a bedroom door, but it wouldn’t hold up to Perry’s size and strength. Her gaze found the phone. With her feet still bound, it was so far away.

  Whether she went left or right, she had to move. Gen grabbed the rope and launched herself toward the closet. She pressed near useless arms onto the ground and army crawled onto the black, crinkling plastic. Nausea returned. Full force. Her heartbeat thundered like a summer storm in her ears. Faster and mightier, it boomed. Just inside the relative safety of the closet, she remembered.

  The blood.

  Gen grabbed his navy shirt and scrambled on her belly to the center of the semicircle. In frantic waves, she wiped, but the dried blood remained, highly visible on the light floor. She spat. She spat and wiped, so near to madness, they’d embroider a straitjacket with her name on it. Or a headstone.

  The beep, beep, beep of an alarm code being entered blasted inside her head like the detonation of several A-bombs.

  Whether she’d gotten it all or not, Gen scrambled back inside the closet and closed the door behind her. She pressed the soiled shirt to her mouth to muffle her breathing. Her ears strained to hear Perry’s entrance.

  Again, the trill announced the devil’s arrival. His shoes tapped and … was that … the unmistakable rustle of grocery bags. Not just one. It seemed that there were several. They banged into themselves or the wall or Perry, crackling like crazy. The door slammed into the frame. Her prison rattled.

  The closet light!

  Gen launched herself at the light switch and caught it on the first try, setting the tomb back into darkness. She scrambled to the back of the closet, gathered the trash around her, and listened. There wasn’t a whisper of sound.

  The rope might as well have been around her chest, cinched as tightly as it could be.

  She grabbed the large loop of rope in her right hand and placed both arms behind her back. Tears fell from her eyes. Her shoulders shook as well. One turn after another, she wound the binding around her forearms and laid in a ball with her fake trappings hidden behind her.

  Tears took hold, and she cried. For how long, she didn’t know.

  Outside the closet, all was quiet, but she didn’t dare move.

  Minutes later, hollow metal clacks of what sounded like pots rang in the distance. The whoosh of water accompanied it for a short time. Then the unmistakable sound of a knife being filed on steel echoed. It shot dread to her raw and broken heart.

  She waited for footfalls that didn’t come. Instead, the measured and consistent chop of vegetables followed.

  Was he cooking?

  It didn’t make sense. Sounds of meal preparation, sounds she’d never made herself but had heard a thousand times in the finest of New York restaurants continued for the better part of an hour.

  A last supper?

  Then the footsteps came. She hunkered back, hiding her rope and his bloody shirt with her body.

  Even though she’d known he was coming, when the closet door burst wide, she jumped. She didn’t have to fake fear. It was as real as any she’d ever known.

  Perry held a water bottle in his left hand. If he was planning to feed her and give her water, then he planned on keeping her alive for a little while. More time meant more chance to escape.

  Then he pulled a pill bottle from his pocket.

  “You will swallow these, one way or another. I personally hope you’ll choose the hard way. It’ll give me a chance to break a few of your ribs. Or there’s always the chance that the water will drown you. Pick your way fast.” He assessed at the Rolex on her wrist. “I’m having company in an hour.”

  Gen levered herself up, using her shoulder and the wall.

  Perry opened the bottle.

  “What are they?”

  He glared at her and took a step inside her prison. If she were brave like Larkin or skilled like Libby or big like Owen, she’d try to fight him. It was her life, after all. Genevieve Holst was none of those things.

  But she was clever.

  “Untie my hands, and I’ll take them for you,” she sniveled.

  Perry grabbed her chin, pinched her mouth, and poured in half the bottle. When he placed the water to her lips, she swallowed like a good little girl, knowing these things would kill her.

  Twenty-Nine

  Tight fabric tore at the corners of her mouth. The knot he’d tied just over her tongue tasted of cologne, chalky residue, and blood. She picked at the large tangle, wishing she had light. It wouldn’t help her see what she needed to, but it’d help erase Perry’s maniacal face from her mind. In the dark, she remembered the dead expression that froze his face forever in her horror as he’d said, “If you throw them up, you’ll suffocate from your own vomit.”

  Her stomach recognized the amalgamation of toxins inside her belly for what they were. It churned and gurgled, ready to eliminate the vile mix. Panic closed in around her like a coffin. She clawed at the gag. Bre
aths came in weighty yet shallow heaves.

  Gen opened her mouth as wide as she could and yanked the fabric down. It caught on her lower teeth. She grabbed at it near the back of her neck and jerked. The binding loosened just enough that she pulled it to her neck and rolled onto her knees. As she had some hundred times as a self-tortured teen, she shoved three fingers into the back of her throat and emptied the contents of her stomach without a sound.

  Never had she thought that terrible habit would prove helpful.

  She shivered head to toe for several minutes, her body revolting against the day’s events. Things like this didn’t happen. Only she knew that wasn’t true. They happened all the time.

  When her body stopped convulsing, she pushed herself to the far side of the closet and shoved onto her bottom. Gen pulled her feet close and started working on the ankle bindings. If she hadn’t fought so wildly to free herself from them in the trunk, the knot wouldn’t be so stubborn. It took too long. She took too long. Panic threatened to consume her whole. Owen’s smug mug showed up in her mind’s eye, erasing Perry. Owen’s gaze was kind, warm, and loving.

  Slowly, the chill fled. She focused on the feel of the rope, the intricate loops, and slowly fed one back through the first knot. Then another. Then another. Then she was finally free … ish.

  Gen rubbed at the bruised skin, ushering blood flow back into her extremities until it returned. She eased to the closet door and pressed her ear to the cold wood. The confusing sounds of dinner prep filtered through the solid material. She pushed up onto her hands and knees and slowly stood for the first time in hours. How many, she didn’t know. Five? Seven?

  She pressed her hand to the door, held her breath, and—

  A chime sounded through the door, coming from deep in the house.

  Her hand jerked from the door, and she clambered back into the corner. The tempo of her heartbeat pitched toward the heavens. It rattled in her chest. Her hands shook. Had he rigged an alarm since he’d been back? It hadn’t gone off the last time she fled the prison.