“That’s why the tape is no longer necessary.”

“You could have told me that over the telephone, or in some other civilized manner. Why did you put me through all that fear and anguish last night?”

“Meanness. Retaliation.”

“You admit it?”

“That was partially it, yeah. But fear and anguish are also good motivators. I needed to satisfy myself that you were telling the truth about losing your memory.”

“And did you?”

“If I hadn’t, you’d still have your hands and feet taped together.”

She thought about it for a minute, while the bacon sizzled in the skillet and he whipped eggs in a bowl. “If you believed me last night, why didn’t you let me go then?”

“If I had, you would have been so anxious to get back to your TV station and report your story, you would have hightailed it out of here, in the dark, not knowing where to go or even where you are. You would have plunged headlong into the wilderness.

“In order to keep you from hurting yourself or getting lost, never to be seen again, I would have had to chase after you. It had been a long day, I was tired, I wanted to go to sleep. I didn’t even want to argue with you about it. It seemed easier just to tie you down so you couldn’t leave.”

Privately she acknowledged that was precisely what she would have done if she’d been free to attempt it. “What’s to keep me from doing that now?”

“You won’t.” He’d removed the bacon from the skillet and poured the eggs into it, then put two slices of bread into a dented, rusty toaster. His motions were economical, like this was his daily routine.

“You committed several crimes, you know.”

Keeping his back to her, he shrugged.

“Think what a story that would make.” She glanced through the screen door toward the pickup truck parked only steps away from the cabin. “‘Raley Gannon broke into my house and kidnapped me. ’ l could have it on the news by noon today. There’s bound to be a main road not too far from here.”

“Four point seven miles. But you won’t go.”

He came to the table with a handful of flatware, which he dropped onto it with a clatter. The mismatched utensils were followed by a roll of paper towels. He divided the food between two plates, one of which he slid over to her. He sat down, doused his eggs with Tabasco, then picked up a fork and began eating.

The breakfast smelled delicious, but she didn’t dig in. It had just now occurred to her why he was so confident that she would stay even though she was free to leave. “I won’t go now because I have only a portion of the story.”

He stopped eating to rip a paper towel off the roll and wipe his mouth with it. Behind the beard, she saw a trace of a smile. “Your curiosity is much more binding than my duct tape.”

“This relates to what Jay was going to tell me, doesn’t it? And it must harken back to what happened five years ago. Right?” To her consternation, he continued eating. “When are you going to tell me the rest of it?”

“Your food is getting cold.”

He would tell her the whole story. She was sure of that. She wouldn’t have to outsmart or cajole him in order to get it, either. He wanted to tell her. Just as Jay had. Whatever it was, it was a hell of a story. Possibly a career-making scoop, as Jay had promised.

But it could wait until after breakfast.

She ate ravenously. When she was done, he cleared the table. She dried the dishes he washed. Her curiosity was killing her, but he didn’t speak a single word, so neither did she.

With the chore out of the way, they returned to the table and sat down across from each other. He began fiddling with a box of toothpicks in the center of the table.

The silence stretched out until it became unbearable to her. Apparently he was waiting for her to begin. She said, “If you had told me earlier last night that the same thing had happened to you, and given me a few minutes to assimilate it, I would have seen reason, just as I have this morning.”

“Maybe.”

“I wouldn’t have hightailed it out of here, I wouldn’t have plunged headlong into the wilderness. Not until I had the whole story.”

“Probably not.”

He was contradicting himself. She shook her head in confusion. “Then it wasn’t really necessary for you to tape our hands together and bind me to the bed, was it?”

“No.”

“So you did that out of sheer meanness.”

“Not entirely.”

“Then why? Why did you-” But she broke off without finishing the question because suddenly she knew why.

He kept his head down for a long time. When he finally raised it and looked at her, it felt as though he’d reached across the table and socked her lightly in the lower abdomen.

Just then footsteps landed heavily on the front steps.

“Raley! Get up, boy!”

“Oh shit,” Raley muttered as he came quickly out of his chair.

The strangest-looking man Britt had ever seen came barging through the screen door, nearly tearing it off the hinges in his haste. He stumbled over three hounds, who bounded in along with him, their tongues dripping slobber onto the man’s crusty bare feet. He cursed them lavishly for tripping him up.

“Get those damn dogs out of here,” Raley ordered. “They’ve got fleas. So do you, for that matter.”

The old man didn’t seem to hear him. Immediately upon clearing the doorway, he’d stopped dead in his tracks and stood transfixed, gaping at Britt, who had also shot to her feet, partially to protect herself from the hounds, who were circling her, sniffing at her bare legs with more curiosity than menace.

Raley whistled sharply. “Out!” The three reluctantly withdrew, whining, tails tucked between their legs. Raley held open the screen door. They slunk through it onto the porch, where they plopped down into three panting canine heaps.

Raley returned to the table and sat down as though the disruption hadn’t taken place. The old man was still rooted to the floor, staring at her. “What’s she doing here?”

Britt didn’t miss the disparaging emphasis on his reference to her. “You know who I am?”

“I ain’t blind. Course I know who you are.” He shot a look toward Raley. “I know all about you.”

His tone indicated that what he’d heard about her from Raley wasn’t complimentary.

“He kidnapped me.”

“Kidnapped you?”

“He came into my home, bound and gagged me, and drove me here.”

“Against your will?”

“Isn’t that what kidnapped usually implies?”

“Don’t get on your high horse with me, young lady. You’re gonna need all the friends you can get.”

That elicited a reaction from Raley. He looked at the old man sharply. “Why? What’s happened?”

“I seen it on the TV first thing this mornin’.” He looked askance at her, then spoke directly to Raley. “They done the autopsy on your late friend Jay.”

Any time a police officer died of anything other than natural causes or old age, it made news.

Patrick Wickham, Jr., knew that from when his father had been killed. He’d been gut-shot and left in a dirty, rat-infested alley to bleed out. Newspapers had deemed it a heinous crime committed by a lawless assailant. The community was saddened and outraged. It had lost a hero who would be long remembered and revered for his unstinting bravery on the day of the police station fire.

Barely a year had elapsed between the fire and the night Pat Sr. was slain. The brouhaha over the fire was just beginning to die down when his murder stirred it all up again.

As a trained policeman himself, Pat Jr. knew that his father had failed to follow procedure that night. He hadn’t even exercised common sense. But his costly misjudgment had been obscured by the posthumous accolades to his uncommon courage.

The other three heroes of the fire were asked to eulogize his dad. Pictures of Cobb Fordyce standing with head bowed beside the casket had made him a shoo-in for the race for the AG’s office. George McGowan had wept openly at the interment. Jay Burgess had offered Pat Jr. and his mother whatever assistance they needed from him and the CPD. “Anything,” Jay had said, pressing his mother’s hand as he kissed her cheek.