“Fuck the rules,” Branford said, already up and moving toward the door. “This is fun.”

No way to gauge time, no clue when he’d return. She noticed a black camera dome in the corner above the bed. What did it matter if he watched? Surely he expected her to test her restraints.

Four seatbelt-like nylon bands kept her pink-pajamaed torso against the chair. One over each shoulder, one across her ribs below the breasts, one around her waist. Her arms, pulled together behind the chair, lay over the straps, bound at the elbows and the wrists, her fingertips pressed together.

Three days and no cops. Hardly any memories of the time so far. Who knows what he’s done to you, what he’ll do to you.

Her chest shook. She shut her mouth, kept the breath in.

Don’t lose control, not yet.

A similar strap crossed her thighs and flattened her legs against the seat. She tried to move her feet. Another set near the ankles restricted any movement other than side to side.

Lose control? Who are you kidding? You have absolutely no control.

Her chest heaved again. “Not now.”

Words couldn’t stop the looming attack. Fighting against hyperventilation, she tried to remember Scott Canton’s advice.

The rush of the water. The sunlight above. The run to the car. Dinner with Mary and Aaron. Sex with Greenwood.

For a second, she felt calmer, but then she remembered the photos of Angela Chapman on her missing person’s poster.

Which of Caitlin’s photos would they use? After all the years of getting the story, she’d be the story.

In Bloomington.

Where it all began.

Her short breaths couldn’t compete with the straps. She lost her air, her sight, and her consciousness.

*   *   *

She smelled rosemary and garlic, opened her eyes.

Still in her chair. A plate on the table held a sizable mound of potatoes, steamed broccoli, and a grilled chicken breast.

Branford held a plastic forkful of food inches from her face. “Here comes the airplane.”

She turned aside. “No way.”

“Caitlin, do you remember rule two?”

“The drugs you’re forcing into my body have clouded my memory. Was rule two ‘Screw yourself’?”

She braced for another punch, but Branford placed potatoes into his own mouth and swallowed. “See? No drugs in the food.” He forked a piece of broccoli. “No hormones either, and the veggies are organic.”

She ignored the angry chorus warming up in her belly and changed the subject. “Nice touch with the scars. That was you, right?”

He smiled. “I’ve found the key to a convincing disguise is an uncomfortable visual disfigurement, which I know sounds awful—”

“You kidnap and imprison women.”