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She finally finished her food, washed up, then carefully looked around at the new location of her bed, and positioned the blanket and the knife where she could find them in the dark. Then she paced off the number of steps from the foot of the mattress to the sink and the toilet, then counted them again going back. Afterward, she closed her eyes and did it again, and again, until she was confident she could find them in the dark.
Then she picked up her shoe, eyed the bulb and made her first throw. The shoe didn’t even hit the ceiling. With only one eye to gauge the distance, she’d underestimated the height. So she kept retrieving the shoe and throwing it again, harder and harder, over and over, until finally, it hit the target.
To her dismay, the bulb didn’t break. She was so tired and so frustrated that she just stood there, screaming, sobbing, cursing, berating every man who ever lived, until she couldn’t catch her breath, and then she stopped. This wasn’t getting her anywhere, and she didn’t dare take the time to quit and rest.
She hobbled over to retrieve the shoe, then went back to stand by the edge of the mattress. She looked up again—the shoe clutched against her chest—then reared back and threw it, watching the arc, and then, once again, the contact.
But this time there was a flash as the bulb shattered and everything went black. In a panic, she covered her face, protecting her eyes as the glass from the broken bulb rained down around her.
When she opened them again, it was to total darkness. She couldn’t see her hand in front of her face, and the shock became reality. She’d never been in the presence of a complete absence of light. The air suddenly felt thick—too thick to breathe. It took her a few seconds to realize it was her own panic, and not the air that was choking her. She needed to calm down. She needed to rest, so she slowly turned, then eased down to her knees and crawled forward until she felt the mattress. The disgusting object had become a touchstone to safety, because now she knew where she was.
She crawled up on it, rolled herself up in the blanket and then felt around until she found the knife and held it close. She needed to be listening for the lock to release, and be watching for the door to come open and attack him before he realized the room was dark.
Sonny was back in his place. He’d taken a shower and disinfected the scratches on his chest, but he was in too much pain to sleep. So he sat up in his recliner all night, sobbing from the pain, popping over-the-counter pain pills, and alternating the ice packs in his lap.
He was tired. So tired, and he’d taken so many pain pills that it should have made him sick, but they didn’t even faze the pain.
He was still awake when the sun came up, and in no shape to go to work, so he called in sick, claiming he’d taken a bad fall, and was going to take the rest of the week off.
He finally fell asleep around 10 a.m. and dreamed of a woman who turned into a tiger and castrated him with her claws.
He woke up in a sweat, still hurting, popped some more painkillers, then crawled into bed with a fresh ice pack and willed himself back to sleep.
Millie Chriss was awake by daybreak. She quickly showered and dressed, then went down to breakfast, biding her time until it was late enough to call Detective Floyd.
After she ordered, she called Ray to let him know her plans, and that they’d connect later this evening for a longer talk.
“Just be careful,” Ray said.
“I will,” Millie promised, and then the connection ended.
She laid her phone aside and looked up at all of the other diners going about their mornings, thinking of how much safety and freedom is taken for granted.
Her baby sister was in trouble. She wouldn’t have just disappeared for three nights now without letting someone know where she’d gone, but where in God’s name was she? What had happened to her? Was she hurt? Was she even still alive? The uncertainty was making Millie crazy.
After her food arrived, she ate for the nourishment, then went back to her room. It was time to start laying out a new plan, and the first order of business was finding out if the evidence taken from Rachel’s apartment had yielded any clues.
She made a call to Detective Floyd and said a prayer for good news as she waited for him to answer.
Darren Floyd was in morning traffic on the beltway on his way to the precinct when his phone rang. He answered on Bluetooth so he could keep both hands on the wheel.
“Detective Floyd speaking,” he said.
“Good morning, Detective Floyd. This is Millie Chriss. I was wondering if you had any news.”
He sighed. “No, ma’am. I’m sorry, but there was nothing new from the crime lab.”
Millie’s heart sank.
“This is not what I had hoped to hear. What’s next?”
“I understand your concern, but we’re not quitting on her. This just isn’t making it easy.”
Millie hesitated a second, unsure of how this would be received, and then decided she didn’t care what they thought. This was about Rachel’s life. Not their hurt feelings.
“I want you to know that I plan to contact Charlie Dodge. If I can hire him, he will also be looking for her.”
Detective Floyd was well aware of Dodge’s reputation for finding the lost, and he knew Charlie had a hole card in his assistant, Wyrick.