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rats?”
    Hell if I know.  It feels like rape sans penetration.  Is he some kind of voyeur?  Abby and I aren’t doing anything worth watching; how can we?  We’re stuck here with nothing but each other, not even a bedpan.
    “What do you think he’s doing up there?”
    I have a few ideas.  None are pretty.  Masturbating with a belt around his throat? Eating a sandwich, planning his next double-kidnapping?  Grouping around the feeds with his buddies?  Jack once explained to me what circle-jerking is.  He laughed when my lip curled back in disgust.  I hope that’s not what’s going on.
    I realize this will be my biggest gig yet.  A few weeks ago I thought it would be the role I landed on a new sitcom shooting in the summer.  Not the lead, just the slutty best friend.  I’ve got one of the leads in this, though.  A guest slot on Psych Torture Porn: Kidnapped Girls in Basement edition. My biggest and final performance, since I’ve only got a fifty percent chance of living.
    I’ll be known for more than just that Tide commercial now.    
    Abby’s having a silent meltdown.  Her face must be in her hands; her tears are muffled.  I can’t let her get hysterical because it’ll make me lose my shit, too.
    “Hey.”  I perform a blind search for her hair and stroke it the way Jack does when we have our Sunday couch potato days in front of our television.  “We need to be strong.  If we sit here crying we’ll only be giving him what he wants, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. We have a chance.  I’m sure we’ve been reported missing by now.”
    She bobs her head on my shoulder and her tears slide over my skin.  “You’re right.”
    I need to get her mind off this, even though it’s a stupid idea.  It’s hard to forget you’re locked in a black room.  “You’re wearing a wedding band, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “What’s your husband’s name?”
    “Jerry.”  She sucks in a long, rattling breath.  “Our anniversary’s next month.  Five years. Feels like we’ve been together forever.”
    “What are you planning on getting him for a present?”
    I hear a shaky smile in her voice.  “He’s a hard man to buy for.”
    Understandable.  Men in general are hard to buy for.  “I have the same problem with my boyfriend.  Jack.  He collects old bills.  Money, you know?  I spent a hundred bucks to get him a twenty dollar bill from 1921 for Christmas.  Stupid, huh?”
    She gives a thick laugh.  “No.  I think it’s sweet.” 
    “And I think it’s sweet as well,” the voice calls down.  “But if you don’t mind, I need to interrupt this touching mome nt to consult with my sponsor.”

FIFTEEN
     
    The hallway leading to Brooke Dutton’s hospital room teemed with hospital staff and uniformed officers when John burst through the double doors with Chief Foster in tow.
    “Where’s Sergeant Jennings?” John led a winding path through the throng.  “I’d like her to brief me.”
    “She’s with Brooke.  I have a feeling getting her to leave the room is going to be like taking a squeaky toy from a Rottweiler.  Lisette doesn’t look scary, but w ait until she opens her mouth.”
    “I understand she wants to shield Brooke, but I can’t do my job without hearing every scrap of information.  Which room number?”
    Foster nodded at a door on the right. 
    John rapped on it, pressing his one hundred and eighty-five pounds into his hand as he leaned against the doorjamb.
    A frustrated grunt erupted behind the door before it swung open.  “Who the hell are you?” A woman with both blonde eyes and hair barked, scanning him from his feet to the tie at his throat.  “You look like a Fed.”  She spat the last word like it was a nasty, flesh-eating virus.
    “That’s because I am.”  He offered his hand, which she ignored. “It’s imperative I speak with you.”
    “I’m not finished.  You’re going to have to take a fucking number like the other