Jessica was in a very bad way.
Still alive.
But deteriorating rapidly.
He knew she would be.
A lesser person would have copped it by now.
She hung there, zombie-like, her lips blue, her cheeks striped where black mascara had run down her face. Blood from her wrists had travelled in tiny red rivers down her forearms, staining the sleeves of Amy Grainger’s skimpy mini-dress. Her eyes didn’t respond to the torch-light. But he was taking no chances. With gloved hands, he blindfolded her before forcing a bottle of water into her mouth. She gasped suddenly, nearly choking as the liquid gushed into her gullet, her mouth chasing the neck of the bottle like a baby trying to find a nipple.
He let her drink, knowing that she’d be doubled up with stomach cramps if she took too much at once. They’d never find her. He’d watched them trying, but they didn’t have a clue. Give Daniels her due though, she’d made the connection to his hiding place and that was impressive. Smart cookie, she was. Less than an hour ago, she’d faced the local media in order to find the girl alive. He’d watched her striding confidently to the podium, blinded by flashbulbs as she made her appeal.
She was wasting her breath.
‘Please let me go,’ Jessica whimpered.
He slapped her hard.
His voice was low pitched and venomous.
‘Blame your father,’ was all he said.