Page 6 of Rescuing Sara

And she never felt like crying when she was with Danni, who said it was always okay to cry if she needed to or just felt like it. Danni’s house was clean and warm too, even if her home-made cookies weren’t so good. Sara felt safe with Danni. Sara didn’t feel safe here. “I want to go home,” she repeated. “Where’s my grandfather?”

“He wants you to stay here,” Mrs. Arthur repeated. “This is your home now.”

“But Mister Joe said he was taking me to my grandfather’s office for a party,” Sara protested. Mr. Joe picked up her grandfather for work every day, but he wasn’t like a chauffeur. “When I saw him in that black Honda, that’s what he said, so I got in with him. Where’s my grandfather?”

“You ask too many questions, Sara.”

The words belonged to the very tall man coming through the half-open door, bringing some light with him. He was nearly bald with some fringy hair near his ears and little eyes that squinted like he couldn’t see too good. Behind his back the other girls called him “Hairy-with-an-i.”

But never to his face. They just called him “Sir.”

Sara wrapped her arms around her legs, hoping he wouldn’t see how hard she was shaking.

He came to stand over her, his hands on his hips. His eyes got even smaller, and his frown smashed his lips together in onestraight line. He looked like a monster on that cartoon show Mrs. M. didn’t want her to watch.

But “Sir” was real. Terribly, terribly real.

“You are a wicked and disobedient child,” he intoned. “You will stay here until you remember that this is your home now and we are your family. Come, Mrs. Arthur.”

“No!” Sara screamed. “I want to go home!”

The door slammed behind them, but not before Mrs. Arthur turned off the light switch and Sara was alone in the dark.

Outside, in the hall, “Sir” said, “She has great spirit, that one. Even after twelve days, she still has spirit. Might take more time to break her.”

“Shall we leave her there all day, Sir?”

Sir noticed that Mrs. Arthur’s tone was deferential and respectful as it should be. “No,” he said. “Just until lunch. Some like a girl with spirit, just not too much of it. Leave her there until lunch. Then we’ll see.”

Later Wednesday morning

The soft click of a door opening worked its way through Danni’s sleep, followed by the incredible aroma of eggs, potatoes, cornbread and coffee. She rolled over, peered at the clock and jerked into a sitting position. Nine thirty!

They–Mac, Anne and Patrick–had spent several hours last night telling her about The Cadre, a crime group, who among other things, specialized in teen trafficking. Anne had written about them in the past but had never expected to be abducted by them just this past October after her “niece” was taken by them. That, Anne had said, was how she’d met Mac.

“I didn’t know you were abducted,” Danni had said. “It wasn’t in your article about the kids being found and rescued.”

“That’s because only a few people know,” Anne had answered. “And it needs to stay that way, for everyone’s safety, including yours.”

Now, considering everything she’d learned, Danni took the fastest shower of her life, pulled on the jeans and Oxford sweatshirt she’d laid out last night and quickly braided her hair. Recalling the carpet’s softness, she decided shoes and socks could wait.

“I’m sorry to have slept so late,” she announced, stepping into the kitchen. “I should have been up–”

Words failed her as Patrick Danton turned from the stove, his cobalt-hued gaze traveling over her. The morning sun coming in through the window over the sink added a shimmer to his dark blond hair.

And oh, what that apron was doing for his frame. While he wasn’t as tall as Mac, he was still tall enough and the apron hung just above his knees. His feet, she noted, like hers, were bare.

And she really liked the way the heavy sweater hugged his shoulders and chest. An athlete, she decided. Most definitely an athlete.

“Did you have some place to be this morning?” he asked, moving a large skillet from one burner to another.

“Actually, no,” she said, sniffing the air. “I usually get up at half-past five. Is that cornbread I smell?”

“Corn sticks,” he said, sliding a frittata onto a plate on the counter. “Those, this frittata, potatoes, fruit salad and coffee. Unless you would prefer tea?”

“Coffee for breakfast, tea later,” she said. Looking back into the dining area, she said, “You’ve set the table too.”

“Would you prefer to eat standing up?” he asked, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

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