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cringed and kept talking. “My mother is an actresstoo. Famous. Daisy Juniper. She’s won two Academy Awards. She has money. She’ll pay you to let me go. She will. Is it money you want?”
    â€œMoney. Money and fame. Fame and fortune. You think being rich and famous makes you special. Every idiot with a cat on Youtube is famous.”
    â€œI’m not famous. I’m nothing. Really. Nothing. I work as a secretary in an office. I’m nobody.”
    â€œDidn’t I tell you to Shut The Fuck Up!”
    Winnie pressed herself against the wall, tried to be as small and flat as possible. Cookie scratched against the kitchen door.
    â€œWhat does it want?”
    â€œHe. Not it. He. Cookie needs attention.”
    â€œGo ahead. I’ll wait right here.”
    â€œSure you will.” He sighed again. “I think Cookie’s tired of the kitchen. He’d like the run of the house, but I can’t have iguana shit all over the carpet.”
    â€œHe’s not paper-trained?”
    â€œHe’s not a pet. He’s a wild animal.”
    He emphasized “wild.”
    â€œLike you,” she nodded at him. “You seem wild, to me.”
    He smiled. She had said the right thing.
    â€œIt’s cooler in the back.” He took her arm. “Come on.”
    She wanted to stay near the front door, but she didn’t want to make him angry again. Maybe there was a phone in the back. Maybe in the cooler air she could think more clearly. Maybe he would get her back there and slice her into pieces with his little knife. He couldn’t have Winnie shit all over the carpet.
    He led her toward the hallway. Her skin was slick with sweat and she easily pulled her arm out of his grasp. She looked at the front door.
    â€œDon’t,” he said. “Just don’t.”
    He took his knife out of his pocket and clicked it open. The blade was long, partially serrated. It would hurt. She offered her arm. He gripped it tightly.
    â€œThank you.”
    Two steps down the hallway she stopped again.
    He exhaled, exasperated. “What now?”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œWhy?”
    Winnie was sure it was a good thing to exchange names with a kidnapper. She had read it somewhere. He had to see her as a person then. “My name’s Winnie,” she said. “Short for Winifred. Isn’t that awful? What’s yours?”
    â€œBob.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œNo. It’s Rob.”
    â€œAre you Irish?”
    â€œBingo. My name is Patrick.”
    â€œDo they call you Pat? Or Rick?”
    â€œRight. Do I sound Irish?”
    â€œSo what is it?”
    â€œBill. Jim. No, John.”
    â€œWhy don’t you want me to know?” Winnie was exasperated.
    â€œCall me whatever the fuck you want.”
    â€œHow about Shithead?”
    His eyes widened, then he frowned. “You will learn to appreciate me.”
    Winnie’s stomach churned. Would she be here that long? He jerked her down the hallway.
    â€œCan I use the bathroom?”
    â€œNow?”
    â€œI have to use the bathroom. Whenever I get nervous.”
    He looked surprised. He had obviously not thought of this eventuality. Winnie gave him a shy little smile.
    â€œI’m so embarrassed. I’m going to—you know—I had a big breakfast,” she lied, “and lots of coffee. It’ll be awful. Actually, I feel kind of sick.”
    He didn’t like mess, and she worried she had made herself sound so disgusting he would kill her just so she wouldn’t use his bathroom. He grimaced, but he backed her up and opened the first door. The bathroom was as clean as the rest of the house. One threadbare towel was folded neatly over the rack. His toiletries were put away out of sight. And there was a small frosted glass window behind the toilet.
    â€œThank you.” She smiled gratefully. “Thank you for being so understanding.”
    â€œFor a shithead,