Page 74 of His Obsession
“That’s where he took her,” I say.
I’m already moving toward my car, phone pressed to my ear.
“I’m ten minutes out,” he says. “Want me to come to the house?”
“Meet me at the estate. Bring two men, quiet ones. No convoy.”
“Nico?”
“He’s staying with Gia.”
Matteo pauses, and I know he understands exactly how ugly that conversation was. “Good.”
“Do we have house plans?”
“County records are old. I’m pulling what I can.”
“Send them.”
“Already doing it.”
I get into the car and slam the door harder than necessary.
Outside, the street looks obscenely normal. Neighbors stand on their lawns pretending not to watch. Somewhere down the block, a dog barks without stopping.
I don’t look back.
The map sits open on the dash, the abandoned estate marked in red. I pull away from the curb and press my foot down.
Adrian has made his last mistake.
27
VALENTINA
Iwake up with the taste of chemicals in my mouth and no idea where I am. For a few seconds, all I can do is stare at the ceiling and try to make my brain work. The room is dim, but not dark. Daylight comes through heavy curtains that look expensive in an old, neglected way, like someone decorated this place twenty years ago and never came back to enjoy it.
The bed beneath me is soft. The air smells like dust, old wood, and whatever Adrian held over my face. My stomach turns so violently I barely make it off the bed.
The bathroom is attached to the bedroom, thank God, because I don’t get more than a few steps before I’m on my knees in front of the toilet. I throw up until there’s nothing left, but my body tries to heave anyway. Morning sickness doesn’t hold a candle to pure, undiluted panic.
When I finally stop, I stay on the floor with one hand braced against the tub, breathing through my nose because my mouth still tastes like poison. My head throbs. My shoulder aches where Adrian grabbed me. My throat burns from screaming or crying or vomiting. Probably all three.
I reach for the flush. Nothing happens when I push it down. I stare at the handle for a second, then try again. Still nothing.
“Of course,” I mutter, registering how dark it is in the bathroom.
I push myself up carefully and turn on the sink. The faucet gives one dry little cough, then nothing. I try the other handle. Same thing. No water and no electricity. I wouldn’t expect this from Adrian. Not that I particularly want to think about what I should expect from him, but I’ve never known him to be drawn in by rustic charm.
I make myself leave the bathroom and actually look at the bedroom. It’s nice at first glance. A big bed with fresh sheets. The dresser looks hand-carved from expensive wood. A faded oriental rug covers the hardwood floors. A chair by the window sits slightly crooked on one leg. This room wasn’t designed to house a prisoner, but I can’t imagine anyone has been inside in at least five years.
The window is the obvious first choice. I cross the room too quickly and almost fall when my head swims. Once the dizziness passes, I grab the curtains and yank them open.
White bars are bolted over the outside of the window. They’re painted the same color as the trim so passersby wouldn’t notice them right away. I wonder if they’re a feature of the house or if Adrian had them added.
I try the window anyway because nothing about my thoughts is rational right now. It opens maybe three inches before stopping hard. I shove at it with both hands and get nothing for my trouble except a sharp pain through my shoulder and a stronger urge to cry.
The door is locked, of course. I rattle the handle anyway, then press my ear to the wood and listen. Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. No hum of electricity. Wherever he brought me, it’s quiet enough to make my own breathing sound too loud. I back away from the door and force myself to think.
