Page 8 of Preying Game

The door clicked open, and she walked back into the corridor.

“Take the route to the dining room,” his voice boomed out over a speaker.

She closed her eyes for a moment, then made a turn to the right. Instead of heading for the gym or the exercise room, the route led her upstairs, and for the first time in weeks, she stepped into an area of the house that must be above ground. She glanced toward a window, but huge shutters covered the outside of the glass.

Another corridor beckoned, and she ended up in a room furnished with what looked like English antiques. She saw satin drapes, polished wood, velvet upholstery, and a table set for a meal. Well, two tables. Both were about the size of a card table, and they were separated by a metal grid that walled off her section of the room from the main part.

She looked around at the opulent surroundings and the food arranged on the tables. Did Hayward run this place himself? Were servants on duty, taking care of the dishes and the upkeep of the house?

If he had servants, what did they think about his holding a woman captive in the basement? Or did he pay them enough to keep his secret?

She looked toward the door at the far end of the room, feeling a mixture of fear and anger.

The door opened, and a man stepped through. Hayward, looking the way he had on the three previous occasions when they’d shared a meal. He was probably in his fifties, with salt and pepper hair, a pasty complexion, and dark eyebrows. His lips were a slash in the lower part of his face, and his chin was small for a man. He was wearing a tweed suit and a white dress shirt which was open at the collar. No tie. If she had passed him on the street, she would have thought he was pretty ordinary—and nonthreatening, but that was hardly what she would call him now. This man might look harmless, but she knew he was a monster whose greatest joy was wielding power over others.

She struggled not to let her emotions show or to glance away as she confronted him.

He tipped his head to the side as he studied her, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

“You’re looking fit,” he said, a throwaway observation under the circumstances. She was in the best shape of her life because he had taken the choice away—for his own purposes.

“Have a seat, my dear.”

The endearment made her want to snap out a biting retort, but she fought to control the impulse.

She sat down at her table, and he took a seat at the other one, facing her through the screen.

Plates were already set out, and she saw that lunch was steamed broccoli, chicken cut into pieces so she wouldn’t have to use a knife, and half a baked potato with sour cream and chives. That was a special treat because she hadn’t had a potato in . . . weeks?

Next to her plate was a glass with iced tea—another indulgence. There were even two sugar cubes in a little saucer beside the glass. She dropped them into the amber liquid and squeezed the wedge of lemon hooked over the top rim of the glass. Then she stirred, glad for something to focus on.

He had given himself the same food as she, although his skinless chicken wasn’t already neatly cut.

He’d deprived her of a knife. But she did have the fork and the iced tea spoon. She eyed the cutlery. What if she took one of those and turned it into a weapon? Sharpen the handle of the spoon somehow?

The idea was tempting. She could slip the spoon or the fork into the folds of her skirt. But she understood on a gut-wrenching level that that would be taking too much of a chance. Surely he’d notice if either of the items was missing when she went back to her room. And then he’d be furious and retaliate.

So far he hadn’t done anything to physically punish her besides making her work beyond endurance, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do it—or decide it was time for the hunt.

All that circled through her mind like a trapped animal turning in its cage. His voice brought her back to the present encounter.

“A nice healthy meal,” he remarked with a touch of sarcasm in his voice as he cut off a piece of breast meat and forked it to his mouth.

What was this meeting all about, she wondered, as she took a bite of the chicken, forcing herself to chew and swallow? Was it tasteless, or had she just lost her ability to catch any flavor from the food?

Finally, he gave her a reason for their luncheon. “I’d love to get to know you better.”

If she knew him better, could she use that to her advantage? “Yes,” she managed to answer.

“I understand you were an English major,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve enjoyed poking into your background.”

The food in her mouth had turned to ground glass now.

Forcing herself to chew and swallow, she answered, “Well, I took as many American lit courses as English lit.”

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