CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:Going DownClare tried to turn her focus away from the pain, but the truth was her leg hurt like a sonofabitch. She could see that the cuts weren’t deep and the bleeding was sluggish, the wounds already scabbing over, yet they throbbed and pulsed with living fire. She wondered about infection, but surely it would take longer than a few minutes for that to set in.Patrick was taking more than a few minutes himself. He’d gone to search for a hammer and screwdriver at least fifteen minutes ago, she’d guess. She heard the sounds of rummaging from time to time. She also listened for the sounds of a car approaching outside.They were so close to getting out. In a suspense film this would be the exact moment that Big Daddy would return. The fear, like the pain, burned inside her, but she tried to ignore it, to push past it. She needed to stay strong. Later, after they were through this and were safe, she could break down, but not now.A small gasp escaped her lip

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:Daddy’s Home“You two have been naughty children,” the man said, his voice calm, even a bit chipper as if he and Patrick were engaged in a pleasant chat. “Where’s your mother?”At first, Patrick couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He stared at the gun as if hypnotized by it. The opening at the end of the barrel seemed so small yet so large at the same time. It was hard to believe that a projectile propelled out of that hole could cause so much destruction. Patrick had gotten into a few scrapes and physical altercations in his life, but until this moment he’d never had a gun pointed at him. Not even a cap gun when he was a child, as far as he could remember. He found the experience utterly debilitating.Big Daddy smiled, not a menacing smile, but again one that looked almost congenial. “I could tell you were going to be a feisty one from the first time I saw you running. So much energy and stamina. A boy a father could be proud of, if only you turned that energ

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:It’s a GirlPatrick sat in the dark, back against the rough stone wall. The lack of light was part of his punishment, as was the fact that he only had the food bucket in the cell with him. Big Daddy would bring the other bucket once a day and watch while Patrick used it. He’d resisted as long as he could, but eventually it had been a choice between using the bucket or fouling his pants and having to sit in his own filth. Humiliating and dehumanizing.Speaking of which, he reached into the bucket next to him and pulled out a handful of dog food and tossed it into his mouth like popcorn, crunching down on the kibble. The taste was chalky and sour, but he swallowed the mess down with a grimace. He turned the handle of the spigot and gulped several swallows of water.He had no idea exactly how much time had passed since his escape attempt with Clare. Weeks? Months? It was hard to keep track of time when he was submerged here in total darkness. Long enough for

CHAPTER TWOThe Runaway NectarinesAs Brad made his way back across Crenshaw Square, he silently berated himself for not taking his car. He hadn’t thought he’d need it since everything in the Historic District—scratch that, downtown—was within easy walking distance, but what seemed like a few short blocks when you were unburdened suddenly felt a lot longer when you hauled six plastic bags full of household supplies.Weary as he was, he still paused across the street and surveyed his new home. He remembered standing in this exact spot ten years ago, fantasizing about owning the house. At the time, it had seemed nothing more than an impossible dream, but here he was, literally living the dream.The house was no longer the dilapidated beauty it had been before. No more mold creeping down the masonry like a rash, no more broken glass, brand new shutters and roof. The restoration hadn’t been cheap, but 324 Abercorn was once again the grand manor Brad had known all those years ago. He co