Random Acts of Iniquity Read online

  I jammed my index finger into the edge of the screw. As I tried to turn it, my fingernail ripped.

  I jerked my hand back and shook out the pain. That hadn’t felt good. I needed something stronger than my fingernail to twist this screw out.

  I leaned back, trying to sort my thoughts. My head pulsed again, and my mouth felt unnaturally dry. I needed water. How long would I last in here? Twenty or so days with no food, but only a few days with no water? That wasn’t comforting.

  I had to get out of this room.

  I glanced back at the dresser. The drawers had brassy handles. If I could leverage one from its holder and pull it out . . .

  It was worth a shot.

  I crawled over to examine it. Grabbing the golden metal, I pushed and pulled until finally one of the handles came off. A surge of victory rushed through me.

  I stared at the end of the metal piece. It just might be flat enough to work.

  I crawled back to the door. My hands still trembled as I rose on my knees and used the edge of the handle to catch the screw. I sucked in a breath. It fit.

  I turned the handle like a crank, adjusting it as I worked to loosen the doorknob. After a few minutes, the screw fell to the ground.

  Moisture pressed at my eyes as hope rose.

  Maybe this would work. Maybe I’d get out of here.

  Or Chase would find me.

  Or Drew.

  Their two images clashed in my mind.

  Drew who wanted forever. Chase who steered away from commitment.

  Two men who were day and night.

  One whom my heart adored. The other who logically made sense.

  Since the two had come into my life, I’d been conflicted.

  Now, all I wanted was to see them. To feel strong arms around me. To listen to someone telling me everything would be okay.

  I worked the other screw until it also fell out. Then I began to dissect the door knob. Piece by piece, I pulled the mechanism from the door until a hole was left there.

  I swallowed back a sob of relief.

  With caution, I opened the door. I kept the brassy drawer pull in my hand, prepared to use the edge as a weapon if I had to.

  I scanned the space in front of me. I appeared to be in a house. In a bedroom at the end of a long hallway. A living room and kitchen probably waited on the other end.

  Everything appeared clean and neat. Pictures of flowers hung on the walls. An artificial fern sat in the corner. The peaceful image clashed with the truth until I felt nauseated.

  As I stepped onto the carpeted hallway, a deep voice cut through the air.

  “Holly Anna Paladin.”

  I froze and goosebumps climbed across my skin. Where had that voice come from?

  This was far from over. I wouldn’t be escaping.

  No, I had a feeling the worst was yet to come.

  My head swam at the thought.

  Chapter Two

  I swung my gaze around, desperately looking for the source of the voice.

  I saw no one. Only a dim hallway. A few doors. The great unknown beyond that.

  Where had that voice come from? It had sounded right on top of me.

  “Good job getting out of the room, Holly,” the man said. “I underestimated you.”

  I jerked my gaze up and saw a tiny speaker had been mounted in the corner of the ceiling, along with a camera.

  Whoever my captor was, he was hiding behind those devices. Realizing that brought a surge of anger through me. Coward. Yet my anger did nothing to diffuse my fear.

  I glanced up at the camera. My voice shook as I asked, “Who are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” The man’s voice sounded even and controlled, like he had no qualms about doing this. “Walk down the hallway.”

  I stared down the dim hallway, my mind racing. I imagined someone jumping out or other horrors that might await. This pink bedroom wasn’t exactly safe, but at least it was familiar.

  “Why?”

  “Because I told you to!” His voice intensified. “Now move.”

  Was that voice familiar? I didn’t think so.

  I swallowed hard, some kind of fight rising in me. The man wasn’t here. What was he going to do to me? In his cowardice, could I find some courage?

  “What if I don’t?” I rubbed my neck, instantly second-guessing my words.

  He said nothing for a minute. “You’re more stubborn than I thought you’d be. But that’s not going to work. Now, act like a good, submissive woman and follow my directions. Am I clear?”

  The man wasn’t playing. I felt certain I’d face consequences if I didn’t listen. I didn’t know what kind, especially if he wasn’t right here. But, for all I knew, he could be in the next room.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Yes, sir,” he corrected.

  My throat burned, but I said, “Yes, sir.”

  Nausea roiled in my stomach. I was dressed like a 1950s housewife, trapped in an old-style house, and he’d used the word submissive. I saw a pattern emerging, but I wasn’t ready to acknowledge what it all might mean.

  “Good girl. Start moving. Now.”

  My legs trembled as I took the first step. My hand—the one without my weapon—skimmed the wall. My gait still felt unsteady.

  I studied the ceiling above me. Were there more cameras? More speakers so the man could communicate? I had a feeling he was watching my every move.

  There was so much I didn’t know—and that terrified me.

  “Stop,” the man said.

  I froze at the end of the hallway. As I did, the lights came on in front of me, revealing a retro-style kitchen. Normally, I would love a place like this with its historic charm.

  All the appliances were old school and teal. The floor was checkered black and white. The countertops appeared to be a black Formica lined with chrome trim. I felt like I’d stepped back in time

  This time, I wanted out.

  “There’s a menu on the counter. Fix everything listed. Wear the apron that was left for you on the counter. Don’t ask questions. Women are meant to be seen, not heard.”

  I flinched at the voice. In the corner of the kitchen, I spotted another camera and speaker.

  I had no idea what this man’s endgame was . . . but the possibilities terrified me.

  He was making me into a 1950s housewife, wasn’t he?

  I shuddered.

  “You need to get to work. Now. Do I make myself clear?”

  I swallowed hard and stepped into the kitchen. As I did, I straightened the skirt of my unfamiliar yellow dress. “Yes . . . sir.”

  On the kitchen counter, I found a note. Chicken pot pie. Lemon crème pie. A garden salad with homemade ranch dressing. Sweet tea. Dinner for two will be served at 5:30.

  5:30?

  I glanced around, looking for the time.

  A clock on the wall said it was 4:00 now. Did that mean I’d been missing all night and all day?

  The pit in my stomach grew deeper as I realized how many hours I couldn’t recall.

  What exactly would happen at 5:30? Would my captor arrive? Would he eat?

  And then what?

  A gasp escaped from my lips.

  I didn’t want to think about it. Instead, I pulled on the ruffled white apron and tied it around my waist. I needed to get started.

  * * *

  My hands trembled as I began preparing dinner. I took a quick break, long enough to smooth my hair and take a sip of water. I glanced at the camera from the corner of my eye, certain my captor was watching my every move. Then I turned back to my prep area, knowing I had to be mindful of the time.

  As I peeled a potato, I glanced over at the butcher block full of knives. Could I grab one? Use it as a weapon if necessary?

  I kept that idea in the back of my mind. I couldn’t afford to let my guard down right now. I had to be mindful of the things around me and keep my eyes wide open. It was the only way I was going to get out of this situation.

  I knew
that behind me, there was a living room with a low-profile blue couch. Just beyond a half wall to my left, I spotted a dining room table with a glossy teal top edged with chrome sides and legs. Matching glossy, padded chairs sat around it.

  There were windows there. No doubt they were covered in wood behind the curtains.

  I swallowed hard and continued to work. The pot pie, prepared in a large cast iron skillet, went into the oven. The lemon pie went into the fridge. I started on the salad and glanced at the time again.

  I still had thirty minutes left.

  Thirty minutes to think of a way out.

  My hands shook as I took a glass bottle of buttermilk from the fridge and whisked it with some mayonnaise, sour cream, and herbs to make ranch dressing. I poured it into a glass container with a small spout, put the top on it, and stepped back.

  Finally, everything was done—for now. The chicken pot pie had to finish baking. The lemon pie had to cool. I needed to set the table.

  I grabbed some silverware and scurried into the dining room. As I stepped into the room, I glanced around. My breaths were entirely too shallow. At this rate, I’d pass out. Despite that, I set the utensils at the proper seats.

  I’d done this many times for my family and friends. I loved hospitality. I loved taking care of people. Making them feel at home. But not like this. Not under duress. Not because I was forced to do so.

  My stomach twisted harder, tighter.

  I wondered about my family again. Did they miss me? Realize I was gone?

  How about Jamie? I was supposed to meet my best friend for lunch. When I didn’t show up, would she be worried?

  And then there was Drew . . . I knew he would do everything in his power to find me—after he realized I was missing. But he was out of town, and we didn’t talk every day anymore since we’d broken up about a month ago.

  Speaking of which, I needed to have him over for dinner when he returned home. I’d been thinking about it for a while now. Would I ever have the chance to say the things I needed to say?

  Then there was Chase . . . Chase.

  I straightened a placemat on the table. My heart pounded in my chest as I thought about him. He’d already lost so much in his life. Even though I knew I wasn’t that important to him, how would he handle another loss? Would it break him? Or would he truly not care?

  I pressed my fingertips into the table as my thoughts raced.

  I needed to get out of here. I needed to see the people I cared about. More than anything, I wanted to take care of them. That’s who I was. A nurturer. I couldn’t have them worried about me now.

  As I double-checked the place settings, I glanced at the front door. I could make a run for it.

  But I knew it was probably locked up tight.

  Something hummed above me. I looked up and saw that the camera had moved and fully faced me now.

  The man was still watching me. If I made one wrong move, he’d make me pay. I was sure of it.

  The timer dinged in the kitchen, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I hurried into the room and grabbed an oven mitt. Carefully, I pulled the cast iron pan from the oven. The casserole smelled heavenly, and my stomach grumbled.

  What would happen next? I’d cooked the food for the man. Would he come to get it?

  Another crush of anxiety rose in me.

  “Why is this happening?” I whispered, looking at the ceiling, to God.

  His voice wasn’t the one who responded.

  “Good job on preparing dinner, Holly. Step away from the kitchen counter and stand near the sink. And don’t even think about making any sudden moves or grabbing one of those knives from the butcher block.”

  The trembles started back in my hands as I did as he said. I gave one last look at the camera, trying to anticipate his next move.

  A click sounded in the distance. It sounded like a door opening.

  My throat went dry. The man was here. I was certain of it.

  Footsteps came toward me. Closer. Closer.

  The skin on my neck crawled as I braced myself for whatever might come. I preferred being alone with cameras to seeing this man face-to-face.

  Chapter Three

  A man wearing the same creepy mask stepped into the kitchen. A fitted suit stretched across his lean frame, and he held a briefcase. But I couldn’t see his true expression or what he really looked like.

  That terrified me.

  He placed his briefcase on the floor and paced closer. “Is dinner ready?”

  My voice trembled as I said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Good girl. I hope it’s hot. I had a long, hard day at work, and I don’t want any drama. A man deserves to relax after work, don’t you think?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll watch you as you serve dinner.”

  “Whatever makes you happy.” I was playing along, but doing so left a sick feeling in my stomach. I pulled two plates from the cabinet and set them on the counter before reaching for a serving spoon for the chicken pot pie.

  The man stepped closer as I stood at the stove. His hands went to my waist, and he rested them there, like they belonged.

  “Good job, honey.” His hot breath hit my ear.

  Bile rose in me.

  Feeling him touch me. Feeling his breath on me . . . it ignited something in me.

  I had to think defensively. I had to fight back. It was the only thing that made sense.

  I stuck the spoon into the crispy bread atop the casserole. With my other hand, I reached for the handle of the pan.

  As I did, an idea hit me. It was risky. Really risky. Too risky.

  But what choice did I have?

  I grabbed the pan from the stove with both hands, turned it, and swung it toward the man’s head.

  It collided with his mask. I heard an ump. Then a thud.

  I glanced around. The man lay on the floor. Chicken pot pie had splattered around his head.

  I couldn’t look at him long. I had to get out of here.

  Bending down, I reached into his pocket.

  Keys. There were keys there.

  I grabbed them and dashed toward the door. I gripped the knob, but it was locked, as I’d suspected.

  I took the keys and began jamming them into the mechanism. Finally, one fit.

  I glanced behind me, breathless as I expected to see the man appear in the doorway.

  He didn’t.

  Quickly, I turned the key. Twisted the handle. Scrambled outside.

  I squinted against the sunlight and briefly surveyed my surroundings.

  I was in a neighborhood, it appeared. A normal, all-American-looking neighborhood.

  I started forward, desperate to run, but my legs wobbled. Quickly, I pulled off my heels and tossed them over my shoulder. I’d take my chances barefoot.

  I dashed down the walkway, the driveway, to the sidewalk in front of the house. I didn’t look back. Didn’t want to see if the man was chasing me. If he’d come to from his unconscious state.

  Still feeling out of sorts, I sprinted to the house next door and pounded on the door. Anxiety crawled across my skin as I waited, knowing I was on borrowed time. I couldn’t stay here long.

  Please, answer!

  But I heard nothing. No movement. No signs of life.

  I had to move. Get as far away from that man as possible.

  I darted across the lawn, away from the house of horrors. More details of the neighborhood around me processed in my mind. Newer, craftsman style homes built to replicate the charm of times past surrounded me. No cars were in the driveways. Sod lay across the lawns, and sapling-sized trees had been planted.

  The street was deserted. Where was everyone? The vast emptiness of the neighborhood left me with an eerie feeling.

  A sound in the distance caught my ear. Was that . . . the zoom of traffic? Could there be a highway nearby?

  My heart skipped a beat. Where there was a highway, there were people.

  I needed people. I needed a safe place to call
the police.

  I rounded the corner onto another street. A gas station appeared in the distance.

  My heart lifted. I had to make it there. Cars were in the parking lot. Unlike this neighborhood, that business wasn’t deserted.

  I glanced over my shoulder.

  I still didn’t see the man.

  Finally, I reached the front door of the gas station and threw it open. The customers inside stopped and stared at me.

  “Help.” I collapsed on the dirty floor near the entrance. “I need help.”

  * * *

  I sat in a desk chair in the office of the gas station. Like a child, I pulled my knees to my chest and nibbled on my fingernails. I felt like I was here in this room yet separate from my body. I felt like I should panic, but instead I felt a wave of numbness. I knew what had just happened, yet it didn’t seem real.

  The gas station manager—who was probably younger than I was—lingered near the doorway, appearing nervous as he paced, occasionally glancing at me.

  He obviously didn’t know what to say. And I didn’t need him to say anything. There was nothing that could be said. Besides, he probably thought I was either high or off my meds. That seemed more plausible than the truth.

  The manager’s head jerked up, and he took a step toward someone. I lowered my legs to the floor, my lungs frozen. Someone was finally here. Who?

  A moment later, Chase Dexter appeared.

  Tall, broad, brooding. Button-up shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows. Blond hair disheveled. Clean shaven. The most handsome man I’d ever seen.

  Suddenly our history didn’t matter. How he’d broken my heart. How he couldn’t commit.

  I flew into his arms. He gathered me there and held me close. One of his hands cradled my head and the other tightened around my waist.

  “Holly,” he whispered into my hair. “I can’t tell you what the past few hours have been like.”

  Tears flowed down my cheeks. I didn’t try to stop them. I sobbed into Chase’s chest, and Chase let me.

  It wasn’t until I stepped back that he took my face into his hands and examined my features. “Are you okay?”