I wake up handcuffed to a large brass bedframe. Metal clinks on metal. My head whips up and around to see my restraints, but when I shift, even a little, nausea rolls through me. Everything twists and blurs. I swallow and swallow again. I pull against the handcuffs but the metal digs into my wrists. The chain that connects them is a metre or so long, allowing me to prop myself up onto my elbows.
My throat is thick. My tongue too fat in my mouth. I can still taste the sharp chemical tang of the cloth used to drug me. This is when I become achingly aware of my own body. I glance down. My black T-shirt and jeans are gone. I’m wearing pyjamas – they’re soft and feel new. The realisation dawns slowly: I was stripped while unconscious. I lay very still, making note of how my body feels, checking for torn flesh or pain. Other than the nausea and the taste in my mouth, I feel fine. Still, I think of the masked man, his hands on me, and my stomach lurches.
I force myself to stay calm and try to work out where I am. The room is unfamiliar. It smells of fresh paint. The walls are dark green. To my left is a door. It’s open a little and I can just make out the tiled floor beyond and the porcelain base of a sink. At least my prison has an en suite. Not that I can get anywhere near it while I’m handcuffed to the bed. There are three large windows in a row but, from this angle, all I can see is the bright blue sky. The afternoon light stings my eyes. Opposite the bed is an ornate dressing table and chest of drawers, both distressed oak with gold hardware. In the middle of the room is a large rug in autumnal shades, laid over wooden floorboards. To my right is an enormous armoire. This bedroom is reminiscent of those found in exclusive boutique hotels.
In the farthest corner is another a door. My heart races. I imagine a hallway beyond it. A flight of stairs. A door to the outside. To someone who will hear me scream. I pull against the restraints but the metal bites into bone. My entire body is shaking. I lie back down as another wave of dizziness takes hold. Very slowly, I look around the room for a weapon. If I can get free, I’ll need one. I think longingly about the knife I’d tucked into the pocket of my jeans. There is nothing in this room I can use to defend myself. No mirrors I could smash. No glass frames. Not so much as a lamp to hit someone over the head with. I don’t think for a second my lack of options is an accident.
I’m being kept in a house which means there must be other houses nearby. If I scream loud enough, I might be heard by a neighbour concerned enough to call the police. My captor could be nearby, but I can’t let fear of what he might do stop me from trying to escape. So, I take a deep breath and let it out on a frenzied shriek. I shout. I clang my restraints against the brass headboard. I yell again but over-exert myself. The nausea takes hold and then I am vomiting over the side of the bed.
I hear the door open. I look up so sharply, the room spins, and I think I might be sick again. I wipe my mouth against the back of my hand and eye the woman crossing the room, carrying a wooden tray. She could easily be mistaken for the woman who’s been impersonating my sister this summer: tall, blonde and beautiful. Wordlessly, she sets the tray down on the bedside table, glances at the puddle of vomit and then disappears into the bathroom. I stare after her, too stunned to speak. She returns a moment later with disinfectant wipes. I’m breathing deeply, trying to control the dizziness. She kneels and starts cleaning up the mess. ‘You’ll feel better soon,’ she assures me softly. ‘The drugs only made me sick for a day.’
I take in her pale blonde, waist-length hair and china-blue eyes. So much like Olivia. So much like the woman who pretended to be Olivia. This woman’s lashes are long, almost touching her brows. She’s thin – all bony shoulders and jutting collarbones and sharp jaw. Her skin is so white, I wonder when she last saw sun. She drops the soiled wipes into a cloth bag she pulls from the wardrobe and then tosses it towards the door. When she turns back to me, she eyes me pityingly.
I stare up at her and dare to hope. ‘Olivia?’
She presses her lips together and shakes her head regretfully. ‘Bryony.’
‘Bryony.’ I roll her name around on my tongue. ‘Where am I?’
She smooths her hands over her white, ditsy-floral print dress. ‘In your new home.’ She looks uncomfortable, as though she had to force the word ‘home’ out of her mouth like a broken tooth. She glances towards the door and I get the impression someone waits on the other side, listening.
I lick my dry lips. ‘Is this a cult?’
She almost smiles. ‘No.’
I eye her. ‘But you’re not here by choice?’
She glances furtively towards the door and my skin prickles with dread. She gives a quick shake of her head. ‘I’ve been here for seventeen years.’
My mouth falls open. Seventeen years. ‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-one.’
She looks younger. I’d have guessed mid-twenties. Bryony was fourteen when she’d been brought here, only a year older than Olivia was when she was abducted. I sink into the pillows and stare up at the ceiling, heart thundering in my chest. If she’s been trapped here for seventeen years and never managed to escape, what chance do I have?
‘How long have I been here?’ I whisper.
‘Two days.’
Is that long enough for someone to realise I’m missing? But then, who would even be looking for me? I’ve burned all my bridges. It could be days before anyone attempts to contact me. I think of the note I left at home. If my parents think I’m travelling for a month, will they bother to look for me at all? I feel myself getting hot with panic. I jolt upright, struggling for breath.
Bryony hands me the glass of water from the tray, but I’m shaking so much it sloshes over the rim. I take a sip and my stomach roils. I thrust it back at her. She reaches for the plate of dry crackers but I bat them away. ‘Please,’ I breathe. ‘Help me get out of here.’
She glances nervously towards the door again, then back at me with wide, sympathetic eyes. I open my mouth to beg but she says, ‘Your sister wants to see you.’
I blink. ‘Olivia?’
She nods.
‘She’s alive?’
‘Yes.’
Relief floods through me but drains quickly as doubt sloshes in. ‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’
‘I suppose you don’t,’ she says honestly. ‘But I know your sister. I’ve known her for sixteen years.’ Something like anger flashes across her face but it’s gone before I’m sure. ‘If you want to see her, you must agree to obey.’
My heart quickens. ‘Obey what?’
‘The rules of this house.’
I tiptoe into this conversation as though it is a snake-infested grassland. ‘Which are?’
‘Don’t try to leave. Always follow his instructions. If you agree, he’ll allow you to see your sister. Or you can refuse and stay locked in this room.’ She gives me only a moment for this to sink in. Before I can ask who ‘he’ is, she says, ‘What do you want to do?’
I don’t know that she isn’t lying, but escape is impossible if I don’t at least get out of this room. ‘I want to see her. I’ll …’ I trail off as the word ‘obey’ sticks in my throat.
Seeming to understand, she says, ‘Obey?’
I nod.
‘OK. I’ll come back in a few hours to collect you.’
‘For what?’
‘Drinks in the library.’
‘Drinks with who?’
She gives me a look.
‘My captor?’ I ask, outraged.
Her silence tells me I’m right. ‘Olivia will be there, too.’ She takes a small key from her dress pocket, reaches over and, to my astonishment, unlocks my handcuffs. I rub at the red marks on my skin. The urge to run for the door is almost impossible to ignore, but I’m still dizzy and weak, any escape attempt would be immediately thwarted. I need to know the layout of the house at the very least. So, I force myself to be patient.
‘Eat the crackers and drink the water,’ she instructs. ‘It will help settle your stomach. Take a shower. You’ll find everything you need in the dressing table.’ She nods in the direction of the wardrobe. ‘And wear something nice.’
She turns and starts walking towards the door. I don’t want her to leave. I don’t want to be alone in this prison. I have a thousand unanswered questions. ‘Who is he?’ I call after her. She stills, her hand on the door. ‘What’s his name?’
She glances over her shoulder. This time, there isn’t just pity in her face, but fear, too. ‘Heath,’ she answers. ‘Heath Ledbury.’