Page 94 of The Black Trilogy

And no wonder. He thumped his head against the pillow in frustration then bit his tongue to save from crying out. What the…? Probing gently, he winced as he found a golf ball-sized knot on the back of his head, and when he ran a hand over his forehead, he discovered a line of stitches on his temple. What happened? Who stitched him up? This place sure didn’t look like a hospital.

A vague picture of Ash floated into his head, her face in shadow, lit only by the moon flickering through leafless trees. Had she been there? In the woods? Why would she when he’d sent her away?

Thinking of Ash made his chest tighten. Partly with sadness, but mostly with anger.

He’d told her he loved her, for pity’s sake—but she clearly hadn’t felt the same way. What had gone so wrong? She was the first woman he’d lived with, the first woman he’d wanted in his bed night after night, and although she’d seemed reluctant to commit, he’d hoped she’d stay indefinitely. Hadn’t he offered her everything? His home, his heart, even his credit card. What was with her attitude towards money, anyway? Even though she had none, she’d never wanted his. She’d even suggested getting a job, for crying out loud. As if he’d let her work for minimum wage when he earned a hundred times that.

Ash had genuinely cared about Tia, of that he was sure. Past girlfriends had treated his sister as an irritation to be avoided at all costs, but Ash connected with her. Tia had become a different person, a much nicer one, since they met.

But Ash had betrayed him.

Who was she, really? She admitted she’d lied, but what was the truth? Maybe, with hindsight, he’d been a little hasty in kicking her out, because now questions were eating away at him.

What did she want?

Why had she come to Lower Foxford?

Could she be working with the kidnapper? Was that why she’d been in the woods?

So many unknowns. Half-formed thoughts swam around Luke’s head, but each time he tried to grab one, it disappeared into the mire.

Think. Think. Think.

Okay, got one. A question. Why was he in this room? Had he been kidnapped too?

Muscles screaming in protest, he forced himself out of bed. Hmm. Who had undressed him? He’d certainly been wearing more than boxer shorts when he left home. A pile of clothes on a chair by the window caught his attention, and he shuffled over. Mud and reddish-brown stains covered his jeans and shirt. Blood? He sniffed, and a metallic tang wafted into his nostrils. His blood? The kidnapper’s? Tia’s? Please don’t let it be Tia’s.

Outside the window, a small flock of birds landed in the park opposite. No, not a park. Tall iron railings surrounded the greenery, and a pair of sturdy gates kept the riffraff out. One of those private squares that made the expensive parts of London so desirable? A car hooted its horn, and a black cab pulled up below.

Yes, this was definitely London.

Luke cringed at the thought of putting on his filthy clothes, but what other option was there? He opened the nearest door and found himself in a large bathroom. A stranger stared back from the mirror above the basin—sunken eyes, a couple of days’ worth of stubble, smudges of dirt on his cheeks. He turned to get a better look at the line of stitches. Blimey, that was a nasty-looking cut, and it stung like crazy.

How had he got it? Why couldn’t he remember?

A washcloth sat on the marble vanity, and he used it to clean up his face. Next to the basin, a row of pale pink toiletry bottles reminded him of an upmarket hotel. Who did they belong to? Was this a hotel? If he had indeed been kidnapped, there were certainly worse places to be held.

The cold water helped him to think straight, and he returned to the luxuriously appointed bedroom. Despite the opulent curtains and fifty throw-pillows, there were no personal touches, and whoever chose the paintings was either schizophrenic or seriously indecisive. A rose in a vase. A pair of dice. A green tiger drinking from a rippling pool. Luke squinted at the signatures, but he didn’t recognise any of the artists.

A selection of clothes hung in the wardrobe, both male and female, some cheap, some expensive. Probably not a hotel, then. The nightstand held a torch, tissues, and an economy-sized box of condoms. Had the previous occupant hunted ladies for a hobby?

Finding the other door unlocked, he overcame his nerves and walked out into a long hallway. More doors, more paintings. He peered at the closest, a vibrant abstract in acrylics, a mixture of purples and pinks. Looked original. What was this place?

He counted the doors—five in total, all closed. Both ends of the hallway disappeared around the corner, and apart from the faint sounds of the street outside, silence reigned.

Should he go left or right? Even that decision seemed too difficult today. Just pick one. Left, he’d go left. Around the corner, sweeping staircases framed a landing and led down two floors to a grand atrium dominated by a magnificent chandelier. In between, a lift door stood closed. He looked up, momentarily dizzy again, and saw the stairs continued up, seemingly for eternity. How big was this place? It reminded him of the mazes he used to program on his first computer.

Do you want to open the door? Yes or no? Yes? Haha. You’re dead.

Unsteady on his feet, he descended to the next floor, paused, and listened. Nothing. Another flight of stairs, and he stood below the chandelier he’d glimpsed from above—a work of art at least four feet high, made from multi-coloured blown glass. It belonged in a museum, not a private home.

But he had no time to stop and marvel. He continued past a cream leather couch and matching sideboard complete with fresh flowers, searching for signs of life.

Three archways led off the atrium, and he caught a snippet of sound coming from the left. Voices? Did they have something to do with Tia’s disappearance?

Luke continued in that direction, stomach fluttering. Past a dining room, past a cavernous lounge, past a music room with a grand piano sitting silent in one corner. Who played it? This place made his home look like a shack.

Finally, he made it to the kitchen. A kitchen bigger than his first apartment, the one he’d rented in Switzerland. Two strangers looked up as he entered, and a curvy, dark-haired girl put down her mug of coffee.

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