This killer, Priest, had her hostage in his home. But it certainly wasn’t a dungeon. Everything was modern and white, not even a hint of color or décor to break up the starkness. There was no character from the kitchen to his spare room, nothing to give her a clue into her captor. He was like a man without a soul.
What did he plan for her?
He wouldn’t let her go because she was a witness. That fact wouldn’t change in a day, week, or month, so she doubted he ever planned to release her. He’d either kill her or use her for information. He wanted to know more about those cops. If she was useful, it would keep her alive. Once she had nothing to offer this guy, she was as good as dead. Would he gut her or just snap her neck? A shiver rolled up her spine. She couldn’t let her mind drift into that territory or she’d put herself into another panic attack.
She was starving, but he said he was getting food. At least he was meeting her basic needs at this point. It could be so much worse. Then again, she had no idea how bad things could get.
Priest was what? A serial killer? A hitman? She couldn’t trust anything he said, even the story about the man he’d killed. He wasn’t a superhero out for justice. This was real life.
She remembered when he rushed down the stairs when she fell sideways while trying to get closer to the knife on the counter. He was bare chested, not an inch of fat on his body, just lean muscle on top of muscle. His abs were ripped and his shoulders massive. She could tell a lot more from the joggers he wore, but she averted her eyes after a few seconds. Intricate ink was over the side of his face, down his neck, and over areas of his chest. His arms were both covered in tattoos, and his biceps were huge.
After she broke down and almost began crying in front of him, she swore there was something different about his eyes. Was it annoyance, pity, or guilt in his gaze? She wasn’t sure what to make of Priest.
All that mattered was staying alive for as long as possible. Maybe that was just human nature because she had so little to live for.
She wasn’t sure how much time passed as there was nothing in her room but a made queen bed, an empty dresser, and a night table with just a Bible on it. There were even bars on the window. They may be painted white, but they were still just as sinister.
When the door opened, she jumped back. Priest stood in the doorway, now wearing a black t-shirt instead of sporting a bare chest.
“Food’s here,” he said.
He motioned for her to follow, so she did. Back in the kitchen, she immediately smelled the food. Her stomach rumbled even though she was certain she was more tired than hungry. It had to be the middle of the night by now, and she’d started work early in the morning.
He pointed to a stool at a large island. It was a good twelve feet long. Seemed overkill if he lived alone. He sat across from her, the stool briefly scraping against the tiles. She kept trying to study his face but forced herself to look at the table instead. He was uniquely handsome with strong, masculine features. There was more, an air of loss and sadness surrounding him.
An empty white plate sat in front of her. When he began filling his from the take-out containers between them, she followed suit. It was too quiet in the house. And her nerves were forever on edge, wondering what would happen to her from one moment to the next.
He didn’t say a word, his mind seeming to be elsewhere. That worried her.
They ate in silence.
“How did you get your name?” she asked. “It’s unusual.”
Priest stopped eating, wet his lips, and put down his fork. He looked pissed off. Cleo bit the inside of her cheek, waiting for him to respond.
He took a breath. “I used to be a priest. Past tense.”
“Really?”
That was a real turn-around in life choices. She always imagined priests as white-haired old men, not sexy hunks with tattoos and drool-worthy muscles. How had things gone so downhill for him?
“Really.”
He wasn’t much for conversation. Maybe if he thought of her as a real person and knew more about her as a human, he’d have a heart and spare her life. “I’ve had a lot of jobs in the past six years. Everything from dog walker to factory line worker. It’s not easy without a college education. I was hoping to get into the hospitality field, but after tonight, I’m not so sure. Nothing’s easy when no one in the world has your back, but I’ve gotten by.”
“You don’t need to tell me anything. I already know it all.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I know every detail of your life, from the eighteen foster homes you frequented since you were born, to the night you spent in jail for sleeping on private property. I know you dyed your hair black for a year when you were eighteen and you had your appendix removed two years ago.”
“What?”
“And I prefer your hair natural, by the way.” He resumed eating as if he hadn’t just stripped her raw to the bone. How was it possible? He’d only just met her today.
More importantly, why did she care more about him complimenting her than the fact he knew intimate details of her freakish childhood that he definitely couldn’t know—shouldn’t know? Her foster records were sealed, even from her, and the other stuff wasn’t public knowledge.
“You can’t know that stuff.”