It was all Zoe could do not to say a word, not to betray the fact that she’d come to and her mind was clearing. She wanted to shout out to Chloe, to warn her, to comfort her, but Zoe bit her tongue. Instinctively she knew it was best to stay silent, to lull the freak into believing she was still sedated and unconscious, not a threat. Let him focus on his work, whatever it was, until Zoe could come up with a plan, some way to get them out of this horrific situation.

Barely making a sound, she once again tried her bonds and was rewarded with a deeper cut into the flesh of her throat.

Damn!

Again, Chloe pleaded but her cries only incited him further. The man was a psycho. Well, duh. Only a true whack job would abduct twins off the street, drug them, and torture them. And his quick-triggered temper indicated he was volatile. Dangerous. Tied as she was, Zoe had only one weapon: her wits.

Crap!

Once Chloe was subdued, the near-naked bastard resumed his off-key singing. Never had the birthday song sounded more like a funeral dirge. And that was, no doubt, his intent. She was certain of that one heart-stopping fact. Gone was any thought of a prank gone wrong.

“Happy birthday, dear twinsies,” he crooned in his horrid, scratchy voice, still concentrating on his work and not sending a single glance her way.

Good.

“Happy birthday to yooooou.”

Her stomach convulsed. Vomit rose in her mouth, but she fought the urge to spew.

And then he started over, repeating the verse, like a broken, ominous record. She hated to think what would happen when he stopped. Because she knew. As certainly as she knew this day was her twenty-first birthday. He was going to kill her. And kill her sister. This sicko was just waiting for the right moment.

No effing way.

“Do you know what time it is?” Olivia’s voice called softly from the bedroom, and Rick Bentz, seated at his desk where he’d been for the past two hours, glanced at his watch. “It’s after midnight,” she said groggily, and he imagined her in the bed, wild curls splayed on the pillow, her eyes at half-mast. “Come to bed, honey.”

Bentz’s jaw tightened. She was right. The digital display on the face of his watch read 12:14 in the damned morning. And he’d like nothing more than to strip off his clothes and the worries of the day to settle into bed with her. The baby, Ginny, eight months old, was asleep while their aging dog, Hairy S, was curled up and snoring softly. Even the damned parrot wasn’t making a peep.

Too bad. He couldn’t shut it down for the night. Not yet.