Expire

by Danielle Girard

  Jane Doe.

  Fight. Look for a way out. Find a weapon.

  Schwartzman stood and staggered forward slowly, hands in front of her in the darkness. The metal cable zipped along the ceiling track as she walked, the pressure uncomfortable against the abrasions on her neck.

  Her fingers found a wall, and she followed it in search of a door.

  She gripped the knob and twisted. The door was locked. She palmed the wall in the darkness. Light. There had to be light.

  She couldn’t breathe; the collar was too tight. Frantic, she palmed the wall, panting and choking.

  Found a light switch. Flipped it on.

  She tensed, prepared for an attack, but the light flickered on with a dull brownish glow. Her eyes burned, and she blinked until the yellow spots vanished. Overhead was a single light fixture, some four or five feet above, the bulb enclosed in a steel cage. She scanned the ceiling for other devices. Surely there would be cameras.

  Zhanna Doe’s prison had been equipped with multiple cameras and alarms, housed inside a building in Seattle where units rented for twenty bucks a square foot. The neighbors had never heard a thing. Had she screamed out? Had her captor insulated the rooms so well that her cries were muffled?

  You are not Zhanna Doe. You will not be her.

  Schwartzman studied the ceiling again and saw nothing other than an ancient smoke alarm, mounted lower on the ceiling, close to the door. Its cover was missing, and the attachment to the battery hung down. Empty.

  Both hands on the knob, she fought to twist it, as though she might somehow break the lock and free herself. When that didn’t work, she pounded on the heavy wood door. “Let me out!”

  She slapped and kicked the door, jerked on the knob, until she was winded and breathless. Her foot throbbed. Her face, her ribs. There was no response from outside. Only a profound silence broken by the sounds of her own gasps.

  She was suddenly exhausted, nauseated. She wavered on her feet, both hands planted on the wall to hold herself upright. On the table beside the door was a glass of water. She lifted the glass to her lips and drained it.

  Then she hurled the glass against the far wall. It struck with a promising crack.

  Tugging the cable along the ceiling track, she reached the cup, still rocking on the dusty floor. No signs of a crack at all. Plastic.

  Even if she had shattered it, what did she think she would do with a piece of broken plastic?

  In the autopsy, Schwartzman had estimated Zhanna Doe had been held prisoner for eighteen months before she died.

  Eighteen months.

  In a space not much bigger than this room.

  The water rose in her throat, and she drew slow, careful breaths. She couldn’t afford to vomit. She didn’t know when there would be more water.

  She rested her hands on her knees, bowed her head, and breathed.

  In her mind, she saw them again—the eyes of her captor. Blue eyes under blond, almost white brows. She knew those eyes, but she could not place them.

  She drew another breath, struggling against panic.

  That man was not Spencer. How she wished it had been him. She’d never considered that the unknown would be so much more terrifying. She had no idea what that man wanted with her. And worse, Hal would be looking at Spencer. Exclusively.

  And if Spencer didn’t abduct her, how would Hal ever find her?

  5

  Sunday, 9:25 p.m. EST

  Georgia Schwartzman sat upright in her bed. Gripping the sheets in both hands, she listened in the darkness. Someone was at the door. She fumbled for her phone on the bedside table. The screen brightened, and she read the time: 9:25 p.m. Downstairs, the doorbell rang in two quick bursts followed by three hard knocks. Who would be calling on her at this hour?

  She pushed her feet into the slippers beside her bed and pulled her robe from the hook, casting it over her shoulders as she headed out of the bedroom.

  Again with the knocking.

  She turned on the hall light and saw the shape of a face in the glass beside the front door downstairs. A woman’s face. Gripping the banister, she hesitated. Why would a woman be at her door now?

  The woman waved at her. A muffled sound bled through the door as she spoke to someone else. A low reply came from a second person.

  Georgia descended the stairs, patting absently at her hair. She should have checked it in the mirror, but good Lord, she hadn’t even had a chance to catch her breath with all the banging and bell ringing. It felt like the middle of the night.

  For her, it was the middle of the night. Well, she had been sound asleep anyway.

  The past few years, Georgia Schwartzman rarely stayed up past 8:00 p.m. Not much to do alone at night. And it was the time of day when the house seemed too big, too empty. She’d never been much of a fan of darkness.

  She unbolted the door and reached to release the chain but hesitated. Instead, she left it fastened and called out. “Who is it?”

  “Mrs. Schwartzman, we’re from the Greenville Police.”

  “I didn’t call the police.”

  “We understand, ma’am. We received a call from the San Francisco Police Department.”

  “San Francisco,” she repeated. Bella. But why would Bella send the police?

  “It’s about your daughter, ma’am.”

  “My daughter,” she repeated. The words sounded strange coming off her tongue. Since her sister-in-law’s funeral, she’d barely spoken to her daughter. Bella’s choice, of course. As though it were Georgia’s fault that Ava had been murdered. Murdered.

  Her breath caught. “What’s happened to Bella? Is she all right?”

  “Can we come in for a moment, Mrs. Schwartzman?” The woman showed her a badge through the narrow side window.

  Georgia scanned her—the sunken eyes, the puffy face. A few too many pounds around the neck and chin. She certainly looked like a detective. Not that Georgia had ever met one in person. Seen them on TV, certainly.

  Georgia unchained the door and opened it.

  The air outside was cool, and the wind cut right through the thin robe. She liked the house at seventy-five degrees—day or night, winter or summer. She waved the officers inside and pointed toward the living room, closing the door firmly and shivering as she followed them.

  The male detective—he’d just given his name, but she couldn’t recall it—was heavyset as well and a little older than his female partner. He was balding heavily on top and had a few side pieces combed over and sprayed down with what looked like lacquer. Her husband had had a full head of hair when he died. Her father, too. The detective would have been better looking if he’d just cut the hair short. Someone ought to tell him.

  The detectives settled into the two large chairs. The woman detective, Marjorie Small or Thrall, held a closed notebook in her lap. She pressed her palms against it as she leaned forward. “We understand your daughter works with the San Francisco Police Department?”

  Georgia nodded. “She’s a—” But she couldn’t get herself to say medical examiner. And the word coroner was worse. “Yes.”

  “Did you talk to your daughter today?”

  “Oh, no. We don’t talk that often.”

  “Your daughter was last seen yesterday morning. Her friends aren’t able to locate her.”

  “What do you mean, locate her? She’s an adult. She’s probably out of town for a few days.”

  The two detectives exchanged a glance.

  “When was the last time you spoke to your daughter?” the woman asked.

  “Over the holidays,” Georgia replied, then wondered if it was true. She’d received a gift from Bella—a lovely cashmere blanket in a soft gray. It lay draped over the corner of the couch on the other side of the living room. And there had been a book, too. But suddenly she couldn’t remember what it was.

  Georgia had sent a gift as well. One of those enamel Hermès bracelets—gold with white. It would be stunning on Bella. She tried to recall the conversation. If B
ella had called, they would have spoken on Christmas or the first day of Hanukkah. When Bella was growing up, they had celebrated Hanukkah and Christmas, but after Sam died, Georgia felt like she hardly celebrated at all.

  They didn’t speak on Hanukkah—she’d never taken that for her own—so it must have been Christmas. Surely. But now Georgia couldn’t remember. She’d gone to church Christmas morning and helped set up for the community dinner. Then she had gone to wrap some of the donated gifts for the children the parish had adopted for the holiday. And then . . . she’d gone to service that evening. Surely she’d talked to Bella at some point in the days around Christmas . . .

  “Mrs. Schwartzman?”

  She looked up, feeling slightly dizzy.

  “Can I get you some water?” Detective Small offered.

  Georgia started to shake her head but then nodded, dabbing the back of her hand against the cool moisture above her lip. “Yes, please. The glasses are just to the right of the sink in the kitchen.”

  As his partner left the room, the man shifted forward in the chair. “When you last spoke, did your daughter seem afraid in any way?”

  She shook her head. Since the day she’d left her marriage, Bella had acted bulletproof, like nothing from the past mattered.

  Detective Small returned with a glass of water, and Georgia took a long drink.

  “Thank you.” She held the glass between her hands. “What has happened? Do they think Bella’s in trouble?”

  The detectives exchanged another look. “We’re here as a courtesy, really,” Small said.

  “Obviously, your daughter is an adult, and she was seen yesterday morning,” the male added. “Her partner is concerned because she left the house without her purse or keys and hasn’t been home since. Does that sound unusual?”

  “Her partner?” Georgia asked.

  Small opened her notebook. “A detective by the name of Hal Harris.”

  She’d never heard the name. But of course, she wouldn’t have. She and Bella didn’t talk about her work.

  “Does that sound like something your daughter would do?”

  Georgia stared at him. “What?”

  “Leave the house without her keys and purse and be gone overnight.”

  “I don’t know. Surely her colleagues have more information on her whereabouts than I do. She works all the time.”

  “The detective seemed to think that your daughter’s ex-husband might be involved.”

  She pressed her hand to her chest, wishing Spencer was there now. He would be so much better at handling these questions. “Did you speak to Spencer?” she asked.

  “We wanted to eliminate any other possibilities before we bother Mr. MacDonald.”

  Georgia nodded. Greenville’s chief of police was a client of Spencer’s. The DA, too. Or maybe it was the mayor. Spencer knew them all. He always had a knack for handling politicians. Her husband, Sam, had no patience for them and dreaded it when his cases butted up against local politics.

  “Well, I don’t know where she would be,” Georgia said after a moment. “But I’m sure Spencer would be happy to answer your questions. I have his number if you’d like to give him a call.”

  The two detectives shared a look again. The male detective rose from the couch, and Small stood a moment later. “If you hear from your daughter,” the man said, making his way toward the door, “give us a call, please.”

  “Of course.”

  The two detectives left, and Georgia locked the door. Only then did she notice that she held a business card in her hand. Detective Leonard Hardy.

  She checked the door again, set the card on the entry table, and made her way back up to bed. Tucked under the covers, she wondered why they didn’t want to talk to Spencer. Surely he’d been through hell with the trial and all, but he would want to clear up any confusion. He would want to help find Bella if he could.

  Wouldn’t he?

  She sat up in bed and turned on the lamp. Putting her readers on, she unlocked the phone and texted Spencer. Have you heard from Bella? The police were here. She sent the message and then started to type a second one. But what else would she say?

  As she was thinking, she saw the line of three dots. A wave of relief washed over her. He would respond. Of course he would. Spencer was gracious and kind.

  She looked down at the phone, but the dots were gone. She waited for his message to drop in. Usually, they were so fast. She watched the phone for several minutes. Maybe there was something wrong with the connection. His message would probably be there in the morning.

  Her eyes burned. She removed her reading glasses and set them and the phone on the bedside table. Reaching for the lamp, she yawned.

  She really was exhausted. She would talk to Spencer tomorrow. Then she would call the detectives and tell them that he had nothing at all to do with this.

  By then Bella would probably be back.

  Leave it to her daughter to get everyone all worked up in the middle of the night for nothing.

  6

  Monday, 7:15 a.m. MST

  Schwartzman woke to the feeling of light on her face. Her head ached, and her neck was stiff. She blinked into the dull light, remembering. A sob caught in her throat as she touched the collar on her neck. Not a nightmare. Reality.

  She was a prisoner.

  She opened her eyes. Sunlight cut through curtains on a narrow window, centered on the far wall. Daylight.

  Her mouth was cottony, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. How long had she been out? Eyes burning, she closed them again, pressed the heels of her hands against the pain.

  Her fingers found the cable, and she pulled it down, the whirring of the metal clip running across the track above. She sat up, experiencing a head rush as her blood pressure dropped momentarily. The plastic cup, the one she’d thrown across the room, sat on the bedside table. It had been returned to the table, refilled. She crossed her arms over her chest, chilled. Someone had been there.

  She froze, listening to the silence. Whoever had been there was gone now.

  She lifted the glass and sniffed the water. There was no strange smell, no chalky film along the edges of the glass, no drug residue in the bottom. And yet, she was certain she’d been drugged. She had no memory of falling asleep. She hadn’t woken when someone had entered the room. She wasn’t a heavy sleeper, and she certainly wouldn’t be expected to sleep well here, collared and locked up.

  The water was the most obvious choice—the man in the back of the truck had drugged her that way. She shuddered at the memory of the smell of onions and cologne with his lips pressed to hers. He was keeping her here. He would be back.

  The panic suffocating, she gripped the collar and pulled at it, wincing as it dug into the bruises on her neck. Forcing her fingers to release the collar, she pressed them to her forehead. Drew slow, even breaths. Panic will not help you. An increase in blood pressure, the rush of adrenaline, would only increase her metabolism and make her hungrier, thirstier. She needed to remain calm.

  Examine everything. Then make a plan.

  Nothing was impossible. Not even this.

  First, the drugs. She had to know what he’d given her and where it was coming from.

  With her sleeves pushed up, she stared at the blue veins beneath her pale skin. No needle tracks. But there were a thousand places to inject a human body, and her abductor had injected her with something when she was first taken. Still, the drug now was most likely in the water. Her abductor would know that her thirst would win. Given a choice between dying of thirst or ingesting drugged water, she would drink. Anyone would.

  She considered what drugs he was using. Rohypnol was easy enough to get and caused near-total blackout but not unconsciousness. She winced at the memory of an autopsy she’d performed in her first month in San Francisco.

  A thirty-six-week-old fetus who’d died after his pregnant mother had been drugged with Rohypnol and raped. The bartender had put the drug right into her cranberry juice.
There’d been no underlying cause for the fetal death.

  A side effect of Rohypnol was that it could cause spontaneous abortion.

  Schwartzman pressed her palm to her belly. Squeezed her eyes. No cramping. No signs of trouble with the pregnancy. If you’re pregnant, said a voice at the back of her head.

  No second-guessing. She would go on as though she were pregnant. Rohypnol was also said to cause tremendous headaches. Her head didn’t hurt, not today. Not much anyway.

  So likely not Rohypnol. She tried to believe it. You have to. The reasoning was as close to scientific as she could get. He might have given her some form of benzodiazepine, the easiest sedative to obtain. Most were reasonably safe in the first trimester of pregnancy. Depending on the dosage. First trimester. That gave her, what, four or five weeks?

  God, she couldn’t be here that long.

  Think. Plan. Move.

  Upright in the bed, she scanned the room. The glass of water caught her eye again. Her fingers itched to grab it. Her throat burned for the cold sensation. But she left it. She would drink the water only if she had no choice.

  She struggled to orient herself, wondered how many days had passed since she’d gone running into the neighbor’s driveway to save Mrs. Goldstein. Again she saw those eyes—familiar but not. He’d used her name. He’d known her. She’d been thrown into the white van, felt the piercing stab of a needle. And then?

  She rubbed her hand over her arm where the needle had penetrated when she was in the back of that van. No sign of a scab. Her ribs were less sore today, and the swelling in her face had gone down as well. She guessed it had been a couple of days—three on the outside.

  Find a way out.

  She put her feet on the floor. The sensation of dirt and the smell of dust, the cold air, reminded her of waking in Ava’s garage. Tied up. Spencer. He was not the man in the van, but surely this all came back to him.

  She crossed to the door, moving too quickly. The cleat caught in the track on the ceiling and stuck, yanking her backward. She stumbled, gripping the cord and working it loose before moving again. The collar left an ache in her throat. Swallowing was painful.