Nobody ever thought to feed her family because her dad had a job, even though his salary could not cover their living expenses and they often went without food, electricity, or decent clothing. Cassandra hated the preferential treatment given to textbook cases, while those who did not “qualify” as starving or poor were as famished and cold as those the charities saw as officially needy.
The promotions and adverts for the upcoming charity at the castle pissed her off, so she promptly switched off her television. Such unfairness still stung after all these years, even though she was now married and well cared for. It made her understand better when people who were dressed properly and groomed themselves asked the church for food parcels. She knew all about that and never judged them. Her husband, Patrick, grew up more fortunate than she had, but he always joined her in delivering a bit of nosh or new stockings to acquaintances. Through word of mouth she always determined which middle-class people were in need of help, and then she would jump in with a surprise package.
Tonight was such a night. Even though the rain was a bitch and she would have to later throw away her favorite red lace-up boots (because the water destroyed the joining glue and damaged the leather), she looked forward to braving the hideous weather to make someone’s day. And today was the day of one Leigh Crompton and her family.
Cassandra heard about Leigh through a lady at the office, lamenting the fate of the single mummy who was laid off over a year ago and just could not find new work. With two young children and an ex-husband she could not afford to sue for maintenance, Leigh was in dire circumstances. But since she was still receiving a small check from her unemployment insurance, she was not eligible for official assistance — Cassandra’s favorite kind of charge.
When Cassandra returned two hours later, soaked from her boots to her drenched hat under her not-so-water-resistant coat and hood, she felt amazing. The cold of the Scottish autumn did not perturb her in the slightest, not with the true warmth she felt inside her for watching children munch into chocolate for the first time in months and a desperate parent’s sincere gratitude.
Patrick was away on business, but he would be home soon from the Himalayas. Cassandra hoped he would bring her a trinket from the gift shop at his lodge. She envied her husband for being able to travel the world and see places she would never see, even if his job was very dangerous. He checked in with her every day at noon, just to let her know that “I have not been killed yet,” as he so often glibly stated. It was a statement she did not find half as funny as he and his pal, Sam, did. Maybe she was just paranoid about his safety because she could not do anything if he should be in trouble. The helplessness bothered her. But he was exceptional at what he did and she had enough work at her office to keep her mind occupied from such things most of the time.
When she passed Craigmillar Park she realized she had forgotten to give Leigh her number, but the downpour discouraged her from going back. She decided to call Leigh when she got home to make sure the single mum had her number. It was a relief to be home in Blackford again, after being in Leith for two hours. Cassandra was just a homebody — she did not like other neighborhoods, solely because she was a bit of a timid person. Patrick always teased her about his being the perfect husband for a scaredy-cat wimp like she was, what with his martial arts and weapons training. Mostly it was a lighthearted matter between them, because Edinburgh was not exactly bedlam at the worst of times.
She often wondered how people coped in cities like New York or Beirut, and how such diverse climates still had a relatively high rate of crime and danger. If she ever had to spend one night alone in places like Amsterdam or Johannesburg she would be scared to death. Cassandra chalked up her frail nerves to the loan sharks who used to hammer on the front door and the bedroom windows of her parental home in Glasgow when she was a teenager home alone after school. Even if she knew they could not gain access to the house, their hostile threats and slamming on the house still made her feel violated and unsafe.
Fortunately, for Cassandra, her husband had set her mind at ease by installing top security measures at their new house after he was promoted from DCI to special agent for the British Secret Intelligence Service. He even put a private security company on retainer for her when he went away for work and that set her mind at ease.
Tonight she was going to order food in. There was no way she was going to drive out in the mad wetness to get a pizza. Cassandra opted for horror movies and pizza, as she entered the entryway of the house and kicked off her shoes. She called the local pizza place.
“Just a regular Hawaiian, please,” she smiled, famished, but satisfied by her good deed for the night. “Aye, a large, please.”
After ordering her meal for the night she grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels and poured the amber liquid over ice cubes that just about filled the entire tumbler. So she was not much of a drinker, so what? She liked the taste and the warm sensation, but the daze and headaches, she did not need.
Cassandra shambled into the TV room.
The tumbler of ice and Jack fell to the floor and smashed on impact when she saw the black figure seated in her chair. In the hallway light and the occasional flash of lightning, Cassandra saw the gleam of a gun barrel, pointed straight at her.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she yelped, frozen in her steps where the glass had splattered cold chips of ice and shattered glass all over her feet. The smell of whisky filled the air. “What do you want?” she forced in utter terror.
“What I want is not in your power to give me, but you will help me obtain it, Cassie,” a woman with an accent said from the dark. Cassandra found some solace in the gender of her captor. At least she did not have to fear being raped, she thought in her racing mind.
“And do not think for a minute that the fact that I’m female will exonerate you from grievous bodily harm,” the intruder instantly overturned Cassandra’s momentary respite. “Sit down over there.” The gun waved toward the couch, which was flanked by two glass coffee tables, each sporting a lamp, along with an ashtray that Patrick had fashioned from old pistons he removed from a Mustang he revamped back in 2002. Her knitting crow’s nest was still under the lamp, where she last attempted to knit a scarf. “Move!” the woman shouted.
Cassandra complied and stepped carefully. She cried in pain as the glass shards sank into her soles and stained her socks red. With a limp she fell to the couch, sobbing in fear as the furious rain muffled her gasps.
“Who are you? I don’t have anything you would want! Please don’t hurt me,” she begged the prowler, but she was met with a sobering blow against the head. In the dark she never even saw the vase that was flung at her. Her left eye burned from the unexpected shattering porcelain that buried its slivers in the soft skin of her face and the shock of the cold water splashing all over her.
“Shut your pitiful mouth, Cassandra!” the woman roared angrily. “Don’t ever grovel at my feet. It is unbecoming! I loathe pity and weakness, so you’ll be better off carrying a cogent conversation with me instead of wasting your time and my patience on pointless pleading. Am I clear?”
“Aye. Aye, clear,” Cassandra sniffed, trying to open her injured eye. Her breathing steadied as she aimed to appease her attacker, if only to save herself from being killed.
“Now, my name is Hilda. I am here because your husband failed to keep you as safe as he had promised. But I came here to urge him, not you, to hand over to me something that does not belong to him. Where is Patrick, Cassie?” Hilda asked.