No. Right now, she was locked up tight.
And going out of her mind.
Cuffed as she was, Olivia was able to test the strength of the cage, but she couldn’t get out. She’d tried to reach through the bars to grab the spear gun or oars from the wall, but of course, it was impossible. The valuable potential weapons stared at her, taunted her.
No, she had to find another way out. If her abductor returned, which Olivia assumed she would, then Olivia had to lure her into the cage, somehow steal the keys or physically restrain her.
It wouldn’t be easy. The woman who’d abducted her was not only clever, she was tough. Athletic. Stronger than she looked, Olivia knew, by the way the woman had wrestled her into this prison of a boat.
You’ll have to outwit her. It won’t be easy, but you’ll have to feign that your spirit is broken, gain her trust, then ambush her. Do not let it slip that you’re pregnant. She’ll use the baby against you, against Bentz, so not a single word.
Whoever her captor was and whatever she wanted, the bitch had planned her revenge on Bentz, step by step.
She wouldn’t be easily duped.
But Olivia would find a way. She had no other choice.
I can’t sleep. I am too keyed up, too excited.
Now, more than ever, I can’t afford a slipup. One wrong move and everything will be for naught: all the planning, all the waiting, all the salivating at the thought of Bentz’s unraveling. Caution is the word for the day. I must look normal, as if my routine hasn’t been altered.
Just in case anyone is watching.
After staring at the clock all night long, I get up only half an hour early. I make a quick power shake for me and a sandwich for her. I would like to kill her and be done with it, but I can’t, not yet. So I have to go through the motions of keeping her alive.
I even manage to drive to the club for a quick workout, including time on the weight machines and swimming a mile in the pool. The people I swim with recognize me, nod, and chat. It reminds me how important it is to stick to the schedule. Routine is everything.
So far, nothing I’ve done appears suspicious.
I wave and talk to the few type-A early risers I know, then get on the scale and make a loud disgusted sound as I read the results. Of course, my weight is perfect, my body fat lower than most female athletes.
Afterward, though I’m anxious and eager to see how Bentz’s pathetic wife is doing, I shower and change as if I’m not in a hurry, not rushed. But I can barely restrain myself from running to the car. I drive five miles over the limit to the storage unit, where I grab a few essentials. Checking my watch, I return to the car and race as fast as traffic will allow to the dock where the boat is moored.
People are out and about, dockworkers and fishermen predominantly, but no one is really watching me or giving me the least bit of attention. Why would they? It’s not as if I don’t belong on the boat; I’ve boarded a thousand times before.
I am pushing it time-wise, but can’t wait to see how little “Livvie” is doing. I have my taser with me, just in case she somehow gets violent. But really, she doesn’t have a prayer.
Which is perfect.
I love having that power over Bentz’s wife.
With my athletic bag slung over my shoulder, I head inside and check to make certain I’m alone. Then I climb down the staircase, my shoes ringing on the metal stairs.
She, of course, is waiting for me, sitting on the floor, and from the looks of her, I’d say had a worse night’s sleep than I did. Dark smudges underline her eyes. Her hair is a matted mess. The area around her mouth where she’s torn off the tape is still raw and red in one patch. Her clothes are wrinkled and dirty. In a nutshelclass="underline" she looks like crap.
Which warms the cockles of my heart. If only her loyal husband could see her now.
Despite it all she isn’t screaming. She’s not begging or crying, which is more than a little disappointing. I’d like to break her spirit. Would love to see her grovel and plead. In fact, it’s one of my most cherished fantasies. Obviously it isn’t going to happen today.
But her time is running out. It won’t be long before she’ll be pleading for her life. Right now, it is still early. She doesn’t really know what she’s in for.
“Good morning,” I say sweetly.
“Who are you?” Defiance in her tone. Even belligerence.
“I thought you might want breakfast.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“Let’s see, I’ve got a sandwich. Peanut butter. Nontraditional for the morning meal, but it’s all I could scrape together.” As I reach in my bag I feel her rising in the cage.
“Let me out.” She’s on her feet, facing me through the bars, staring me straight in the eyes. She’s calmer than I’d expected or hoped.
I lift my chin. “I don’t think so.” What kind of idiot does she take me for?
“I won’t press charges.”
She’s serious. Desperate. Good. I like that attitude much better.
“Oh, yeah, right. I believe that,” I mock. She’s being stupid. “After all the hard work I went through to get you here, do you really think I’m just going to release you? Give me a break, you’re smarter than that.”
“Why are you doing this? Who are you? Not Sherry Petrocelli.”
“Ding!” I say, pushing an imaginary button. “Score one for the blonde in the cage.”
“What do you want from me?” she pressed. She was single-minded. Just like Bentz.
“Nothing,” I say honestly. “From you.”
“This is about my husband.”
“Bingo. Now you’re up to two right answers. Another one and you’ll be in the bonus round.”
“You think this is a joke? A game?” she asks, glaring at me as if I’m crazy, when she’s the one locked up.
“A joke? No.” I feel the boat sway a little, smell the scent of the beasts who were locked up before her. “A game? Possibly. Only I know the outcome and you, I’m afraid, don’t.”
“Fill me in.”
God, she’s ballsy! What the hell is she doing trying to get information from me? Asking questions when she should be submissive and fearful and begging for her life? I’m the one in charge. Doesn’t she get it? “You don’t need to know anything.”
“Do you know my husband?”
“RJ? Oh, yeah.”
“So you’ve been pretending to be Jennifer?”
I can’t help but laugh. Then I make a low, flat sound. “Meeeep. Sorry, you just lost. No lightning round for you! And not even lovely parting gifts. You just get to stay here. Alone. That’s your prize.” She doesn’t even break a smile, the humorless bitch. “Look I don’t have a lot of time, so I thought I’d show you something, give you something to eat, and get going. Let’s see.” I make a big deal out of looking through my bag, then slide the wrapped sandwich and a can of Dr Pepper through the bars. I’m wearing gloves, just in case something goes wrong. You can’t be too careful. I leave her miserable breakfast in the cage, but she ignores it.
Fine. If she wants to starve herself, it’s no skin off my nose.
But I’m sure her tough facade is about to crack. She’ll have more interest in the family album, I’m certain.
I open the scrapbook carefully and turn to one of my favorite pages, the Christmas section. There’s a photograph with Jennifer sitting in an overstuffed chair, Rick at her side, his hand placed possessively on her shoulder. A lit Christmas tree fills one corner of the shot and Kristi, a toddler with a big smile and a cockeyed red bow in her hair is balanced on Jennifer’s lap. “I know it’s not the holiday season, but I thought I’d share this with you.”
I lay the open album on the floor, just out of reach, on my side of the cage. She glances down disdainfully, but her hard shell cracks a little. Fear and outrage begin to show as she looks at the photos in the open album.