Page 69 of The Escape Artist

“Master, are you mad at me?”

He looked up from the frying sausage in the skillet. “Why would I be mad at you?”

She shrugged. “You seem different.”

He laughed, but it wasn't the laugh you heard after a joke.

He put the sausages and eggs on two plates with forks and carried them to the table, then he poured two glasses of milk and brought them over as well.

“Sit and eat,” he said.

Claire sat. Usually he fed her. Sure she could feed herself, but there was an intimacy in that shared act between them. He was mad at her. She felt the tears start to slip down her cheeks.

Ari sighed. “I'm not mad at you. This isn't about you. It's about him. I've been thinking about it for a while, and I've decided to kill him.” The deadly look in Ari's eyes left no doubt that he was serious. He intended to take a life. This wasn't a bluff.

“Him?” she asked. But she knew. She felt both elated and terrified by this idea. What if Ari wasn't the one who walked away from the confrontation? What if that man did? What if...?

“Do you remember where he kept you?”

She considered lying. It had been nearly four years, after all. It would be reasonable to forget the way.

“Claire?”

“Yes, Master. I remember.”

“Good. You will write down the directions.”

“I-I don't know it that way. I know it if I go. I have to see things to remember how to get places I've only been to once or twice.” She'd never been good at mentally retracing her steps to find things. She had to physically retrace them.

“You're not fucking going,” he growled.

She jumped at his tone, but pressed on. “Anyway, he's long gone by now.”

“I know that. But he probably didn't put the house up for sale, being a killer and all. He may have left behind evidence or some identifying information that might help me hunt the motherfucker down.”

“If you're going, I'm going,” Claire said. Her breath stuck in her throat. She hadn't openly defied him in... well not ever. And she definitely didn't want to start acting like Holly. But she couldn't stand the idea of being locked in this house and him out there hunting that man. What if Ari never came back? She might die in this house. Or what if he took Ari's wallet, found the house, and somehow got in? She chanced a glance up to find Ari staring at her. She couldn't read his expression.

“Fine,” he said.

They were silent the rest of the way through breakfast. After breakfast, while Ari cleaned the kitchen, Claire went to their now-shared walk-in closet and put on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, a lightweight jacket, and boots. Her brand was still sore, but the jeans weren't painful.

As soon as the brand had healed enough she'd spent half an hour staring at it in the full-length mirror of the walk-in closet, trying to decide how she felt about this thing that marked her as belonging to Ari forever. She wasn't supposed to want that mark on her flesh. It wasn't as though he'd asked her if she wanted it. He'd merely explained—as gently as possible—what he'd planned to do. He'd never even pretended she had a choice. And yet, she did want it.

“Are you ready?” Ari asked, standing in the doorway, the agitated energy still rolling off him. She glanced down to find a gun holstered at his hip. Her gaze rose quickly to his.

“Just in case,” he said.

She followed him out to the garage. They passed her silver Lexus on the way to one of his cars. He unlocked the door on a nondescript black sedan which somehow looked more conspicuous than if they'd just taken the red sports car. She got in and they pulled out of the driveway.

The drive was long. Neither of them spoke except for her giving him directions as each turn and stretch of road jogged her memory. The journey took them through the city, then out to the other side, through suburban neighborhoods, and out into a somewhat more rural area where the houses were farther apart and many were abandoned, as if people had just forgotten this area existed—or no longer cared that it did.

Finally they pulled up to a dilapidated green farmhouse. Ari put on some black gloves and got out of the car. Claire was right on his heels, her breathing going shallow from anxiety even before they reached the door.

Stones were falling out of the columns, and the rotting wood of the porch creaked when they walked over it. A raccoon scurried out from under the planks and darted across the field. There was an old rusted orange truck off to the side of the house.

Was that his truck? Claire couldn't remember. She'd been unconscious for the trip to his house. She shuddered trying to block out the memories as they slithered to the surface of her mind.

“I-I think he might still be here,” Claire said, backing away. “L-let's go.”

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