"Where's your mom?"

"Home. Agents and police are there tapping the phone and setting up recording equipment in case he tries to call."

"He won't."

"I told them that, but we have to do something. They're also going to tap Gillian's phone."

Exhaustion was written on her pale, drawn face, and he asked, "When did you last eat?"

"I don't know. Yesterday, I guess. I haven't even thought about it."

"Let's go down the street and get something. You can fill me in at the same time."

"I don't think I even brushed my hair."

He smoothed out a couple of strands. "You look fine."

They were leaving when Ben came bursting in. "Is it true? Did he take Gillian?"

"Yes," Mary told him.

"Oh, man!" Ben put both hands to his head. "I can't believe it! I fucking can't believe it! This can't be happening! Shit! Oh, shit!"

"Calm down," Anthony told him.

"Calm down! How can you say that? How can you both stand there looking so… so not busy? When you know as well as I do what is happening right now! She's being tortured! Her fucking eyes are being cut out! Do something! You have to do something!"

Mary's face turned ashen, and Anthony thought she might pass out. Before Ben could do any more damage, Anthony grabbed him roughly by the arm and steered him out the door, practically throwing him down the steps. "In your present mental state, you have no business being here," he said coldly. "You aren't helping anybody."

"Neither are you! How could this happen? You said the guy was in jail! You said everybody was safe. That Gillian was safe. Well, you were wrong! Wrong!"

"Hitchcock confessed," Anthony said. "He fit the profile. Evidence pointed to him."

"You people are supposed to know more than the rest of us!"

"You're overreacting."

"Overreacting? You're underreacting." He began to cry. "She's dead! You know it and I know it! She's already dead!" Sobbing, he turned and ran.

The door slammed, and Mary came to stand beside Anthony on the porch. "Should somebody go after him?" Her voice sounded tight, as if she might fall apart any second. He'd never seen Mary cry. He didn't want to.

In the distance, two blocks away, Ben was still running. "Let him go," Anthony said angrily. "Let him run himself into exhaustion."

"He was just saying what everybody else is thinking."

"Well, he's wrong." Anthony turned so he could see her face. Don't cry. Please don't cry. "About Gillian. You know that, don't you?"

Mary pressed trembling fingers to her mouth. Tears filled her eyes.

Anthony put his arms around her and pulled her close. He wanted to say they would find her, and when they did she would be okay. But that would be a foolish promise to make. Mary, more than anybody, knew things could get bad. Really bad.

He pressed his lips against her hair, against her head. She was almost his height, but she was so frail, so vulnerable. "Come on." With his arm around her, they walked down the sidewalk.

The cafe wasn't crowded, and Anthony ordered sandwiches for both of them. As they waited for their food to arrive, Mary composed herself enough to fill him in on what she knew.

"Gillian was able to talk him out of killing Holly," Anthony said. "Which means she has some influence and control over him."

"I know. I keep telling myself that."

When her food arrived, she grimaced. She wasn't sure if she could get any of it down, and even less sure she could keep it down.

"What we have working for us is Gillian," Anthony said. "She read the profile. She studied him. She knows him. She also knows who he wants her to be. She can be his ideal woman. She can be perfect for him. She's going into this armed with knowledge the other giris didn't have, and I think her chances of coming away are good."

"That's what I've been thinking, but I needed to hear you say it."

Anthony waited until she looked up and met his gaze. "You probably still see her as your little sister, but I saw a young, capable, smart woman who can stand up to this guy."

Mary nodded, her expression strained. Then she pulled out her phone and entered a speed-dial number. "Mom? Anthony's here with me. He has something to tell you." She handed the phone to him. "Tell her what you just told me."

Chapter 28

The whir of a shutter woke her.

The man in the ski mask loomed above her, a camera in his hand while the lamp beside the bed cast tepid light into the room. As she watched, he adjusted the aperture and took another shot. There was no flash-he must have been using fast film and a slow shutter speed.

Gillian's head throbbed. A rotten taste rilled her mouth. She shifted her weight-and realized she was tied to the bed by her wrists. A second ago she'd been in the bathroom… How had she gotten from there to here?

Confused, she looked down… and the feeling was one of total disconnection-like looking at someone else's body.

She was decked out in a pink shirtwaist dress with a flowered apron-the kind of apron she remembered old ladies wearing when she was little, the kind that crossed and tied in back. On her legs were thick black hose, on her feet a pair of clunky black shoes.

A sound escaped her-a sound she couldn't believe she'd made. It was a whimper, coming from deep in her chest.

He looked over the camera. From behind the ski mask, two cold eyes watched her. He was tall-probably over six feet. He wore a plaid shirt with tails that hung out. On his legs were brown canvas pants. The ski mask was gray with a red stripe-ratty, stretched out, and snagged.

He continued taking pictures, posing her, turning her in different directions.

Finally he untied her. "Put your hands like this." He demonstrated.

Her arms were asleep. She couldn't lift them.

He sighed and placed her hands on her hips, then stepped back and took a shot. Apparently finished for the time being, he put down the camera and asked, "Are you hungry?"

The thought of food made her stomach lurch, but she nodded. Anything to move to another scenario.

"Come into the kitchen." He motioned for her to follow.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, then sat and waited for the room to stop spinning. When it did, she got to her feet.

The shoes Were too small. Her toes were crushed, but she managed to wobble to the kitchen, dropping into the chair he pulled out.

The table had been intimately set for two. Place mats and cloth napkins had been arrayed, along with a single tapered candle and a red rose. So that no one could see in, the windows had been covered with floral wallpaper.

In front of her was a bowl of tomato soup and a glass of milk. His setting was empty.

Slowly, she pulled her napkin to her lap, unfolding it. She reached for the spoon. Fingers still wooden, she accidentally dropped it on the floor, where it landed with a clatter. She flinched, afraid he would hit her.

So this is how it happens, she thought It's easy.

Without conscious thought, she was already doing all she could to keep from making him angry, all she could to keep from being punished. In a few short hours, the person known as Gillian had vanished, replaced by someone who existed on an instinctual level.

He picked up the spoon and placed it next to her bowl. He reached for her, and she drew away. But he merely caught her arm and began rubbing it. His palms were as rough as sandpaper, those of someone who worked outside. She'd never felt Tate's hands, but she couldn't imagine that he'd done much physical labor in his life. He grabbed her other arm and did the same. "Better?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Good."

He sat down across from her. She picked up the spoon again, and this time didn't drop it.

The salty soup stung her lips and the inside of her mouth. She forced herself to swallow, forced herself to take another bite.