to stay out of sight a while, it was not a terrible hideout.
He threaded a key in the lock. Twisting the door open, he stepped inside, but Liv was right on his heels, just in case he planned to slam the door in her face and lock her out.
They were in a kitchen with a small wooden table and two chairs. “Sit down,” she ordered, holding the length of twine.
He eyed the twine and said disbelievingly, “You plan to tie me to a chair?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, come on. I’m not going to do anything. I don’t really care what you’ve done. Let’s just sit down and talk about it.”
She gestured with the muzzle. “Sit down. Put the keys on the table.”
He eased himself into one of the chairs, set the keys on the table, then slid them away from himself toward her. She picked them up and put them in her pocket.
“This must be a first offense,” he said.
“It’s not,” she lied. “Put your arms behind you.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Just do it,” she snapped.
“So, you’re a hardened criminal? Is that what you’re saying?” He put his arms around the back of the chair, though it was clearly hard for him to comply.
“That’s what I’m saying.”
With his arms behind him, she threaded the twine through the lathed spokes of the chair’s back and around his wrists, tying them tightly, testing the twine’s strength.
“This is gonna get damned uncomfortable real fast,” he muttered.
“Be quiet. Please.”
“First offense,” he said. “You’re way too polite.”
“Shut up.”
She’d set the .38 on the table out of his reach while she tied him up, but if he made a move for it, she was pretty certain she could beat him to it. He might be able to take her down with brute strength, but there was the chance she could get a shot or two off were it loaded, and since he believed it was, he let her truss him to the chair with no resistance though the dark, mutinous look on his face didn’t bode well if he should chance to get free. With that thought in mind, she tested his bonds a second, then a third time until she was satisfied that he was contained.
Finally, she checked his pockets and found a cell phone, which he clearly wanted to protest about but kept his mouth a taut, grim line. She saw that it was turned off, but when she tried to switch it on, nothing happened.
“Out of juice,” he said, stating the obvious.
“Where’s the charger?” she asked.
“Not here. Why? You wanna use my phone? Where’s yours?”
“I don’t own one.” He looked at her as if she were an exotic species, which annoyed her. “Not everyone has to have a cell phone,” she said with a touch of asperity.
He shook his head and changed the subject. “What’s your plan?” She could discern a faintly mocking tone to his voice and decided he wasn’t taking this seriously enough.
“If you try anything, I will shoot you.”
“I’m having serious trouble believing you.”
The image of Aaron Dirkus’s body and the blood—all the blood—crossed the screen of her mind again, and she had to look away, tears welling. She drew a quivering breath and swallowed hard, several times. “I will,” she said with more conviction and her desperation must have penetrated because his expression grew more serious.
Needing to get outside his range of vision, she walked behind him, obsessively testing the twine yet again. When she was convinced it would hold him but wouldn’t cut off his circulation, she backed away until she felt the kitchen counter behind her. Leaning against it, her legs seemed to lose all strength and she sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees, the .38 hanging loosely from her hands. Tears ran down her cheeks and she stared into space, reviewing the scene at Zuma though she’d told herself she wouldn’t.
“What’s your name?” he asked. She could only see the back of his head.
Blinking hard, she cleared her throat. “Livvie,” she said, invoking the name of her younger self.
“Well, Livvie, I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of hungry. I hope you’re not planning to starve me.”
It took her long moments to pull herself together, but finally she got to her feet and wandered to his refrigerator. Inside were some sliced deli ham, a loaf of bread, mayonnaise, mustard and some dicey-looking iceberg lettuce. She put together a sandwich, leaving off the lettuce, put it on a plate, found a steak knife in a drawer—he hardly had any utensils or kitchenware of any kind, she noticed—and cut the sandwich in half.
Sliding the plate in front of him, she asked, “What do you drink?”
“Beer. Coke. Water. Occasionally a semi-nice glass of wine.”
She went to the sink and poured him a glass of water, placing that in front of him, too. They stared at each other and she picked up the sandwich and held it to his mouth.
“Actually, I’d like a drink of water first.”
“Take a bite.” When he pressed his lips together in rebellion, she added, “Please.”
“You’re a very polite kidnapper,” he pointed out again.
“You were right. It’s my first time,” she admitted.
“Wow. I’m shocked.” Then, “The police after you?”
“Probably. By now, anyway.”
“What did you do?”
“Take a bite,” she said again, and he bit into the sandwich with white teeth, his gray-blue gaze never leaving her face. When he was finished chewing, she held the water glass to his lips and he took a long swallow. After that, they sat in silence while she fed him the rest of the sandwich.
After he’d swallowed the last bite, he said, “What about you? Hungry? I don’t have a huge selection, but I think there’s enough for another sandwich.”
“I’m going to go close the garage door.”
She was happy to get out of his presence for a moment. Her head was crammed with thoughts. She needed to see the news. She needed to know what was going on.
God, what have I done?
The realization that she was a kidnapper sent a shockwave through her body. What had she been thinking? Now, it didn’t matter what the situation at Zuma was all about, she was a criminal of the worst kind.
Shutting the garage behind her, she looked around quickly and found the source of the twine in a roll in
