Онлайн книга Monday Mourning

Frantic, I struggled with my bindings, bucking and twisting until my skin felt raw. The knots held.

The back door slammed again.

I relaxed, closed my eyes.

Pomerleau returned with more accelerant.

Dear God. Where was Anne? She wasn’t in this room. Could I get Anne and McGee out? Would we die before emergency crews could respond?

Should I talk to Pomerleau? Could I form an argument, craft a thought that might buy us some time?

Did it matter? The house had been searched and found empty. I hadn’t told Ryan I was coming.

Tears pushed hard. I ached to rip at my bindings, to spring free and grab Pomerleau, to shut down this impostor for a human being.

I lay still and waited.

The smell of gas was strong now. I tasted bile, felt spasms under my tongue.

Another can hit the floor. I watched Pomerleau’s feet round the corner.

This time the rear door didn’t slam.

I tracked the footsteps. Hallway. Back room.

“Tawny, we have to move!” I hissed.

It was hopeless. I was going to have to act on my own.

Arching and contracting my back, I strained with every fiber to free my ankles from my wrists. The knots held. I wanted to cry from pain and frustration.

Pomerleau’s footsteps echoed again in the hall, then receded into an adjacent room. Seconds later they were closing in on the parlor.

I settled to the floor.

Too late.

The footsteps hitched, then sped toward the armchair. I heard a mewing, more kitten than human, then the footsteps veered toward me.

“So, my little dormice are both awake.

It was pointless to remain passive. Summoning all my adrenaline-induced strength, I rolled onto my knees and looked up.

Pomerleau was an ebony cutout in the murky gloom. A cutout holding a coffee can. The room reeked of gasoline.

Fear rocketed from nerve ending to nerve ending.

Empathize? Cajole? Accuse? Beg?

“Where’s my friend?” Had Anne gotten away somehow?

Hideous leer from Pomerleau. “She didn’t last. She fell through the looking glass.”

Heartsick, I spat out, “Catts didn’t murder those girls.

When Pomerleau stepped closer, a single arrow of gray illuminated her face. “Murder?” Dusky voice. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“You tortured and starved them.”

“They fell through my looking glass.”

“Angie Robinson.”

I felt more than saw Pomerleau tense.

“Tell me why,” I pushed.

“Truth or dare?” Lilting.

“What did you do to my friend?”

“Truth or dare?”

Dear God! The woman was enjoying this!

“You’ve brutalized Tawny.