Monday, July 1 to Sunday, July 7
That first night, while she slept, he opened the back door and sat at the kitchen table. The warm July breeze wafted in, carrying the scent of honeysuckle from the bush outside his window. In the distance, the faint sound of fireworks, people getting ready for the holiday.
Something about this night reminded him of other nights on the farm in Kansas. His twin brother George and him sitting on the porch swing, shelling peanuts. In the mornings, they’d go fishing in the river that ran behind their farmhouse. George’s eyes crinkling from under that floppy white hat he always wore. Some of the happiest moments of his life.
Catch and release. The words came to him, in George’s voice. His brother insisting that they release the fish they caught. He had never understood the logic, why it was better to give back to the river what the river had yielded. But he had done as George asked.
He wondered what made him think this now. And then he knew. This was George making him promise that he wouldn’t kill the girl. He frowned, hurt by his brother’s lack of faith in him. “Of course, I won’t, George,” he said out loud. “Why do you think I’m blindfolding her?”
He had killed at least eighteen people in Afghanistan, but the last kill had been a young boy. It wasn’t his fault—they had received faulty information, and he’d opened fire on the wrong house. But the boy’s death had stayed with him. These days, he didn’t so much as shoot at a soda can. He was done with death.
But still, he sensed George waiting. Honorable George, who was always after him to do the right thing. So, he made his dead brother a second promise—he wouldn’t have sex with her until she desired him also.
They fell into a routine, that first week that he was home.
Excerpt continues below cover reveal.
He’d never thought of himself as a lucky man, but here he was, catching break after break. It was the power outage that had given him the guts to pick her up that morning. No cameras recording his movements. And best of all, she was highly sensitive to the sleeping pills he made her swallow after breakfast. Slept most of the day. It tickled him pink, to hear her snoring softly while she slept in his bed. In his bed.
No one had seen the inside of this house in the two years he’d lived here, other than an occasional plumber or handyman. He liked it that way. He’d bought the house and the Beamer from the royalty checks for the natural gas they’d discovered on the family farm. He figured that was the only good thing that sodden place had ever given him. Well, that and George. If it hadn’t been for George, sunlight to his shadow, he’d have gone through his childhood never speaking more than five words to anybody. Ma couldn’t care less—she’d always made it clear that George was her favorite. It was only in the barren landscape of Afghanistan that he’d finally found his place. Found his voice—giving commands, shouting orders at the Talibs, enjoying the bawdy humor of his fellow soldiers. But even that had ended badly, his own government siding with the damn warlord whose home he’d entered one evening to teach him a lesson. He’d thought that was the whole purpose of being there, to keep them in their place before they got any ideas about bringing the war to us. But nope. Uncle Sam threw him in a military prison for what he’d done to the warlord’s sister, although it never made sense to him what he’d done wrong, then shipped him back home to Podunk, Kansas, with a dishonorable discharge.
He hadn’t known that he’d been lonely until he’d found this redheaded girl. Companionship, the simple joys of sharing a meal with someone—all these ideas began to gnaw at him. Maybe this woman was the reward, the answer. He imagined it: Washing dishes while she dried them. Eating dinner in the evenings in front of the TV, like a regular couple.
There had been a problem on the third day, though. He’d decided to bring her to the kitchen for breakfast, blindfolded. But as soon as he removed the gag, a wail started from deep within her. He was already so invested in the idea of them as a couple that for a brief second he was stunned. Then, his soldier’s instinct took over and he slapped her. The wail died in her throat and her jaw went slack. Immediately, regret flooded him. He really had tried to leave all that nastiness behind him. And yet, he had to establish some ground rules, just as he’d learned in Afghanistan. You had to intimidate those Talibs to let them know who was boss. It was a truth as universal as gravity—you either controlled or were controlled.
He pulled out the kitchen chair. “Sit,” he said, the insult of her wailing embedded in the gruffness of his voice. “What do you want? Cereal? Oatmeal?”
“They’ll be looking for me,” she said in a rush. “If you’re holding me for ransom, I can get you whatever . . .”
He felt a spurt of anger, wanted to slap her again. Who did this woman think he was, some common thug? He held his finger to her lips. “Hush,” he said. “Listen to me.” And then, the genius lie: “You are very far from home. Nobody is looking for you, nobody will find you. It’s best if you just do what I ask. I’m not looking to hurt you, you understand?”
“Then why? What did I do to . . .”
“Samantha,” he said and watched her startle. He’d gotten her name from the credit card she’d carried in her pocket. “Yeah, I know all about you,” he lied.
“How? How do you know me?”
“Don’t worry about it. Don’t think. It won’t help to think. Just do as you’re told. I’m the captain of this ship. You just follow orders and we’ll be fine.”
She sat quietly as he made the oatmeal. He dished out some on her plate and guided her hand to the spoon. “I’m not hungry,” she said, and he shrugged, angry.
“Suit yourself,” he said. He knew he could outwait her.
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