I had maybe a quarter of her talent for singing—my skills were in my fingers. I was meant to play the piano.
I open my eyes to the moonlit room, feeling cold. Something catches my eye, and my hands retract off the keys.
“Please, don’t stop.” Abigail steps out of the shadows. “It’s so beautiful.”
I close the lid with a snap and swallow a lump in my throat.
“I haven’t heard that song in a long time. Your voice is lovely.”
I push off the bench, not looking at her, and leave the room. I feel strange hearing Abigail’s compliments. I’m not sure what her angle is.
The next few days are the same. I go see Dr. Roberts, and we stare at one another for the hour-long session. I walk around the property with Abigail, trying to build up my strength. She never mentions the other night, and I am happy she doesn’t. That was a raw moment for me. We have lunch, and I nibble on some fruit and vegetables, but it’s something. A nap, followed by watching the horses run around the stables, then dinner. Abigail tells me old folk stories about the mountains, which are really quite interesting, then I head to bed. Sleep isn’t something I enjoy, but I know my body needs it, no matter how much I protest. Abigail keeps telling me the small amount of food I eat is why I am always so tired. I know I really need to work on that.
The sun beats down on my face, filling me with all kinds of mixed emotions. I struggle with the idea of staying here. Although it is the most beautiful place in the world, it is not my home. If I do go home, is Logan right about me not making it past a week before I would be kidnapped all over again? My head hurts thinking of all the what-ifs. What if they take me? What if next time they kill me? What if they hurt my father or Lynn?
Abigail takes a seat next to me on the patio. She knows it is one of my favorite places to sit and think. “I love how the water reflects the mountains. Such a pretty display of colors.” She’s good with me—never tries to force me to talk. She just fills in the silence when it becomes too much for her.
I notice Logan walking with York around the property line.
“Stepping up security,” she says as if I asked her the question.
I nod and keep watching.
After a few minutes, she sighs. “He’s a good man, Logan. Never married, doesn’t date. Claims he doesn’t have time. Men,” she laughs.
I smile a little too. That does sound like a workaholic male.
“Always an excuse to not let one’s guard down.”
I know she didn’t mean to direct that to me, but I feel a funny sensation in my gut when she says it. Maybe I need to start trusting someone or I’ll be lonely the rest of my life, but trusting people…the thought still really scares me.
After dinner, I sit on the floor in front of the couch in the living room to soak up the heat from the fireplace. Scoot, the house cat, doesn’t seem to mind sharing the warmth with me, I think because he gets a belly scratch from it. He is a fat little thing with an “I don’t give a crap about anyone” attitude, which strikes me as quite funny. A lot of the guys wear black, and I swear Scoot rubs up against them just to hear them groan. Now I know exactly where the patches of white fur come from.
None of the guys pay much attention to me. They are always polite but never speak more than they have to. Right now, that works fine for me.
“You should’ve seen Cole. He flipped his gun around and smoked the guy in the face, breaking his nose, spraying blood all over the place,” I hear one guy say to another behind me. “Then he clocks him under the jaw, sending him down the stairs. The rat tried to grab for his gun, but Cole popped three right between his eyes. He never saw it coming.”
Holy hell! The mental image I have from that almost makes me gag. Who is this Cole guy?
“I can’t believe I missed it,” his buddy whines. “So, that’s what, number thirty-four for him?”
“Thirty-five,” the storyteller corrects. “Not to mention the six he killed with his bare hands. Dude’s friggin’ Rambo.”
A chill runs up my spine. I’ve never heard anyone talk about killing someone so openly and so casually. Does this Cole come around often? I have no interest in meeting such a stone-cold killer. It frightens me to even think about taking someone’s life, let alone…how many times was that?
Scoot paws at my hand. Apparently, I stopped rubbing. “Sorry, kitty.” I immediately make up for it by giving his tummy a good once-over.
“I’m going on a guess here, but I’m thinking a 2004 merlot will make that belly scratch a little more tolerable.” A guy grins down at me and hands me a glass of red wine.
I smile with a small nod and take the glass.
He sits in front of me, leaning against the opposite couch and stretching his legs out in front of him. He runs his hand through his brown hair to remove it from his green eyes. It seems like something he has to do often. Scoot doesn’t like the interruption, so I make even more of an effort to give him attention. Greedy little cat.
The stranger leans forward. “Mark Lopez.” He holds out his hand.
I look at it then move mine into his for a quick shake.
“You’re Savannah Miller,” he states. “We’ve already met, but you were kind of out of it.”