She was the only person who could calm him down. And now she was gone.

Mum would be angry and tearful and fierce, and Dad; well, she worried about him the most. Mum loved her and James with total devotion, but Dad’s love went further. He depended on them. His kids were what gave his life meaning. His own father had died when he was young and his mum had not seemed to cope very well. Maggie didn’t know exactly what had happened, because he never talked about it, but she didn’t think he had had a particularly happy childhood, and he had made up his mind to make sure the same didn’t happen to his kids. He was never too busy for them, never had anything to do which was more important than whatever it was they wanted from him. All her life he had been there for her, calm and patient and reliable and loving. If she was interested in something, he explained it; if she wanted to help him wire plugs or change the oil in the car or put up shelves, he told her how and put the tools in her hands and watched as she did it. And he kept her safe, always.

She had no idea how he would cope with her disappearance.

That was what made her angriest about the man who had taken her. He didn’t care what he did to her family, didn’t care whether they became depressed or split up or committed suicide. All he cared about was getting what he wanted.

Which was her, in a cage.

She hated him for that. Not for wanting her, but for his selfishness and what it was doing to the people she loved.

And now, on top of it all, she was hungry. She was going to have to take food from him.

She heard the scraping noise. Her heart rate sped up; she felt the first fluttering of panic, a tightness in her chest. She sat up on the bed. Seconds later, the door opened.

The man stepped inside.

He was not holding a tray. He did not have food or water.

He looked tired and irritable.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ve had quite the afternoon, Fruitcake.’

Maggie looked behind him, wondering whether he had brought a tray and put it down and she had somehow missed it.

He followed her gaze, frowning.

‘What is it?’ he said.

She didn’t answer. He looked at her, his expression at first questioning and then, slowly, understanding.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You want something to eat. Well, I’m afraid that’s impossible.’ He scratched his nose, then inserted his finger into a nostril. ‘I did make something, but I had to eat it.’