Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel (13 page)

Mark was going to freak.

Big-time.

She closed her eyes and sank back to sit on the floor. Kind as he’d been to her and Star, he wasn’t very tolerant of messes . . . and this was a big one.

Think! There has to be a way to fix this!

Wait . . . hadn’t Mark mentioned a washer and dryer in the basement?

Yes!

And surely he had some of that spray-on stain remover down there, along with the laundry detergent. She could have this washed and dried long before the end of the workday. It would delay her going-home plans, but better to take a couple of hours and get this fixed than leave an unhappy host.

Darcy stood carefully, set the empty mug on the dresser, and slipped on her shoes. If she was going to venture into that grungy-looking basement, she wanted some protection for her feet. Who knew what kinds of creepy crawly critters lived in the shadows down there?

After tugging the comforter off the bed, she gathered it in her arms and exited the room.

Halfway down the hall, however, her step faltered as his warning from yesterday echoed in her mind.

It’s not safe down there. Stay out, okay?

He wouldn’t be happy if he knew she’d gone against his wishes.

But he’d be less happy if he saw the disaster in her arms.

She picked up her pace.

In the kitchen, she shifted the bulky coverlet in her arms and pulled the door that led downstairs fully open to let as much light as possible filter down the stairs. Since there wasn’t a light switch on the wall at the top of the steps, she’d have to make do with natural illumination until she got to the washer and dryer. There had to be a light of some kind there.

Still feeling a bit unsteady, she didn’t rush her descent on the rough wooden steps. At the bottom, she scanned the dank, dreary space.

The first thing she noticed was that Star’s guitar was gone.

Had she come for it this morning?

But Mark had left so early . . . that didn’t seem plausible.

So where was it?

And what was in those larger-than-gallon-sized metal containers with screw-top openings that were lined up in military precision against the wall in the far corner?

Puzzling as those questions were, she had a higher priority at the moment—putting the washer and dryer she’d spotted behind the open stairs to use.

Darcy circled around the steps toward them, the light growing dimmer as she approached. A hanging bulb with a pull chain drew her eye, and she swerved toward it and gave a tug. Brightness flooded the area.

Much better. The basement didn’t look nearly as spooky in the garish light from the bare bulb. The reflective white of the washer and dryer also added a bright touch, as did the two long white chest freezers that flanked the cleaning appliances.

Strange that Mark would have two freezers. He must bake an awful lot of bread—but who cared as long as she was able to get the comforter clean?

Dumping the dirty coverlet on top of the washer, she surveyed the shelf above it for stain remover. Yep, there it was. She pulled it off, set the nozzle on spray, and gave the dark blemish a thorough soaking. It lightened as she watched—a positive sign . . . she hoped.

Next, she shook some detergent in the washer, tucked the comforter inside, and started the machine. Hopefully, this would do the trick.

Rubbing her palms on her jeans, she glanced again at the twin freezers. They were awful big for a bachelor pad—but even stranger were the metal straps around them, held in place with industrial-sized locks.

Did Mark use them as safes, maybe? Brianna had told her once her mother kept extra cash in an empty pizza box in their freezer—but how much space would you need for a few extra bucks? And why not just use a safe that was too heavy for a burglar to haul away?

Darcy ambled over to the freezer on her left as the washer continued to fill. She wouldn’t mind having some more of Mark’s homemade bread. Maybe he’d give her a loaf to take home if she dropped a few hints and he had enough in reserve. Laura would like it too.

There wasn’t much chance she’d be able to determine his stash, though, given the locks.

She reached out to weigh the serious-looking piece of hardware in her hand—and an instant later found herself holding it.

Huh.

It must not have been fastened properly.

Dare she peek inside before replacing the lock?

Why not? She’d love to know what Mark kept in these gigantic deep freezes. No way could they be filled with bread.

But if they were, she wouldn’t hesitate to ask for a loaf to take home.

Fitting her fingers under the lip of the lid, she lifted it and leaned over.

Instantly, a booming roar thundered through her brain.

Her lungs locked.

The world tilted.

Even as her mind tried to reject what her eyes were seeing, bile rose in her throat.

She gagged.

Dropped the lid.

Staggered back.

No!

The renunciation screamed in her head, but she couldn’t erase the image from her mind—or deny the truth.

Mark had killed Star and dumped her in the deep freeze.

She jerked her gaze to the other freezer as her heart slammed into overdrive.

Who else had he killed?

Was she next?

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!

Black spots crowded into her field of vision. Her legs went rubbery. She swayed.

No!

She couldn’t hyperventilate. Couldn’t pass out. She had to get out of here.

Now!

With one last look at the freezer that had become Star’s tomb, she turned to flee.

And found Mark waiting at the bottom of the steps.

S
he’d ruined everything.

Mark gripped the railing at the bottom of the basement stairs, anger churning in his gut as Darcy stared at him, her eyes wide with terror.

If only he’d gotten out of the center five minutes sooner, this disaster could have been avoided. But a sick child had needed comforting, and he couldn’t leave after that without a thorough hand-scrubbing. His chafed fingers still tingled from the meticulous five-minute scouring.

It was too late for regrets, however. The damage was done. The bang of the freezer lid as he’d descended the steps, audible even over the rushing water that was filling the washer, plus the lock lying on the floor, told him that.

Darcy had seen Star—and she’d probably guessed about the others.

She knew what he’d done.

But she didn’t know why.

That was the sole saving grace. Because once he explained everything, she’d understand and try hard to prove herself, to live up to his expectations, to step back from the brink and let him help her salvage her life. She had a lot more potential than the others, and he intended to let her know that. It might give her more of an incentive to try hard to be better.

He took a step toward her.

She gasped and veered sideways, closer to the stairs behind him, eyes wild.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Darcy.”

Her incredulous expression, heaving chest, and the darting glances she was tossing toward the stairs told him she didn’t believe that.

But it was true—if she did her part.

All at once she made a break for the stairs, moving faster than he expected.

He beat her there.

When she realized she’d been outmaneuvered, she skidded to a stop several yards away and stared at him. Her throat contracted, and she moistened her lips. “You killed Star.” The accusation came out in a horrified whisper.

“She was expendable. And she wasn’t part of the plan.”

Darcy rubbed her palms on her jeans and retreated a few paces. “W-what plan?”

“I’ll tell you all about it in time.” Again, he took a step toward her.

She continued to back away—toward the door. Excellent. He didn’t want to hurt her more than necessary, but under the circumstances, he doubted she’d go into the soundproof room willingly. Having her in close proximity to the entrance would make things easier.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the key.

Her gaze dropped to his fingers, and she crouched, every muscle taut, her posture reminding him of a cornered animal about to spring in a last-ditch effort to gain freedom.

Not going to happen.

“I have something to show you.” He walked toward her.

She tried to zigzag past him, but he grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the door a few feet away.

“Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

If she heard him through the frenzy of her struggle, she gave no indication. Sucking in ragged gasps, she lashed out at him, jerking left and right, clawing at his shirt, kicking his shins, and finally raking her fingers down his face.

For the second time today, he felt a piercing sting on his cheek.

She’d drawn blood.

Enough.

Twisting her arm behind her, he propelled her toward the door and shoved the key in the lock, ignoring her moans as she doubled over.

Once he had the door open, he pushed her inside, yanked the door closed, and relocked the dead bolt. Moving close to the fish-eye peephole, he took in the panoramic, if distorted, view of the room.

Darcy was sprawled on the floor where she’d fallen, staring at the sign on the far wall.

Good.

Maybe now she’d understand he meant her no harm.

Pocketing the key, he crossed the basement to the washer and looked inside. Why was she cleaning the comforter from her bed? He inspected the shelf above. The stain remover was out of position by a couple of inches, and he lifted a hand to straighten it. She must have spilled something on the coverlet and was trying to repair the damage. Breaking his rule about going into the basement had been wrong, but attempting to rectify a mistake was a noble undertaking. He approved.

The lock for the freezer lay several feet away, and he scooped it up and secured it. He must not have latched it properly the night he’d dealt with Star. He’d been in a hurry. That was his fault.

But the discovery was Darcy’s. She was too nosy, and she didn’t follow instructions. Both were areas she’d have to work on—and there was plenty of time for that.

All the time in the world.

Mark headed back to the stairs. He needed to return to the center. But first he had to take care of whatever damage Darcy had done to his face. Perhaps it was providential he’d been cut by the
ice this morning. A larger bandage shouldn’t draw all that much attention—except from Faith.

She noticed everything.

As he started up the steps, a faint hammering penetrated the soundproof door of Darcy’s new home. And if he listened very closely, he could hear her muted, sobbing plea for release. Neither, however, would be audible from the main house. He’d constructed the room well.

Blocking out the muffled noise, he continued his ascent.

And made a slight change in plans for the evening.

“Do you mind if I cut out early? I have to run an errand.”

Dev swiveled away from his computer screen toward Nikki, then cast a pointed look at the growing mound of files in the corner of his office. “Sure. It’s not like there’s any work to do around here.”

She aimed her index finger at him. “Keep that up, and you’ll be picking up your own birthday cake.”

Birthday cake?

He leaned toward the calendar. February 12. Yeah, tomorrow was the big day. “I forgot all about that.”

“We assumed you would. So you want the cake or not? It’s a tiramisu from MacArthur’s.”

His favorite. “I guess. If it’s already ordered.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thanks.”

“The thanks is supposed to come first, but I’ll take it. Besides, company’s paying. I’m just the gofer. Cal says we can’t dig into it tomorrow until he gets here, though. Translation—keep your hands to yourself if you happen to get here early . . . like that’s going to happen.” She started to exit.

“Hey . . . since you’re going to the bakery, would you pick me up a caramel pecan coffee cake too?” It was his birthday—he could splurge, couldn’t he? It wasn’t like anything else special was
going to happen, other than calls from his parents and brother in Minnesota.

“Those are loaded with fat and calories.” Nikki folded her arms. “Your arteries are gonna fill up with plaque if you eat that kind of stuff.”

He dug for his wallet. “I don’t care. I like it.”

As he pulled out some bills, she waved him off. “Already ordered. My treat, even if I don’t approve. See you tomorrow.”

Before he could respond, she ducked out and disappeared down the hall.

Bills in hand, Dev settled back in his chair. Nikki was a piece of work, with her sassy mouth and tough-as-nails veneer, but she sure livened things up around the Phoenix offices. Trading barbs with her was one of the highlights of his day.

But he could think of other highlights that would be nice too—like sharing a birthday dinner with a certain librarian.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen. She was an active client. Too bad he didn’t have a professional excuse to see her.

Or did he? Not on his birthday, but tonight.

So far, their mystery man Mark hadn’t called him. And according to the director of the shelter, neither Mark was scheduled to work again this week. But the man had told him he was still welcome to hang around there, and he had a plan in mind to ferret out the volunteer’s name.

Might Laura want to come along? Her presence could be helpful. A guy with a lovely but worried woman on his arm was apt to gain more sympathy and cooperation. Hadn’t he used that excuse when he’d taken her along the last two nights to the shelter?

Trouble was, that’s exactly what it was—an excuse. He was used to working alone, knew how to push the right buttons to persuade people to cooperate. He didn’t need Laura to get the information he was after.

He needed her for entirely different reasons—and pursuing those reasons at this stage wasn’t smart.

But even as that caution flag waved in his mind, he was reaching for the phone.

Darcy couldn’t stop shaking.

Sitting on the beige carpet in the locked room, back propped against the twin bed that hugged one wall, she shivered, wrapped the throw tighter around her, and did another 180-degree sweep of the 15-by-20 space.

Nightstand with lamp. Dresser. Door leading to a tiny bath that contained a shower and toilet. A small refrigerator stocked with water and juice, a microwave resting on top. A doorless closet containing old-lady clothes on plastic hangers. Treadmill. Round café table with two chairs. Easy chair with an adjacent reading lamp. The twin bed behind her.

It was a room designed for long-term living by a single occupant.

And the “Welcome Darcy” sign on the wall told her she was that occupant.

But she had a feeling she wasn’t the first to inhabit this space—nor the coldest.

An image of the second locked freezer on the other side of the washer and dryer flashed across her mind, and another chill convulsed her.

How many girls had Mark killed?

Was she next on his list?

A sob choked off her air.

God, please help me!

Darcy couldn’t remember the last time she’d prayed. Not since Mom died, for sure. But who else could extricate her from the mess she’d created for herself? Laura had probably searched for her the first couple of days, but she might have given up by now, relying on prayer herself, asking God to give her stupid half sister some brains so she’d come home.

Well, she’d gotten the brains.

Too late.

The sound of a key turning in the lock sent her pulse skyrocketing, and she jumped to her feet, throwing off the blanket. Too bad she hadn’t found some item in the room that would work as a weapon. But the furniture and lamps were bolted in place, the drawers were rigged to keep them from being pulled out all the way, and she didn’t have the tools to disassemble the treadmill and use any of the metal tubing that formed the grip bar.

Not that a makeshift weapon would help her all that much. As she’d discovered earlier when Mark had grabbed her arm, his home gym had paid dividends. He had a grip like steel.

He pushed the door open, stepped inside the room, and closed it behind him. A metallic glint drew her attention to his hand, and she sucked in a breath.

Was that a knife?

Frowning, he looked down. After a moment the creases on his brow eased, and he opened his hand so the object rested in his palm.

Scissors?

Stymied, Darcy watched warily as he set a small bag on the table.

“Time for a haircut.”

She stared at him as he pulled some plastic sheeting out of the bag, spread it around the base of the chair, and motioned for her to sit.

“I don’t want my hair cut.” She clenched her hands at her sides and backed away.

The deep creases reappeared on his brow. “Don’t make this hard, Darcy. I’m doing this for your own good. You’ll thank me for it later.”

Not a chance.

The steel blade glinted as he motioned her toward the chair again, and she cringed. Scissors were sharp. They could stab. She didn’t want them anywhere near her neck.

She edged farther away, stalling. “Why are you doing this?”

“Long hair leads to temptation.”

What was that supposed to mean?

He pointed to the chair. “Come on—let’s get this over with and I’ll fix you some dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eating is optional. The haircut isn’t. Are you going to sit willingly or not?”

The hammering of her heart intensified. What was the best way to play this? Making him angry wouldn’t be wise, not with a sharp object in his hand, but neither did she relish watching her long hair end up on the floor . . . nor having the blades of the scissors whispering around her neck in the hands of a man who was clearly certifiable.