Once in the car, he’d showed her the lancing device and told her exactly what was on it. No larger than a thumb, it looked like it had been taken from a diabetes testing kit. The tip of the small lancet retracted inside the plastic casing would shoot out with the press of a button. It was coated in the same venom he’d used on Jakob.
Jakob.
Thinking about him—about the lines of pain that creased his face and the way he’d collapsed—would cause her to panic, and she was not going to panic.
She’d bottled up her fear, stuffed it deep down, and remained calm and quiet the whole way here.
She couldn’t, wouldn’t, take any kind of decisive action, until she knew exactly who she was dealing with.
Was this man a serial killer…or her stalker?
She had her suspicions, based on his behavior so far, but if she was wrong…
He took one hand from his pocket and started to reach out toward her, his hand not grabbing, but palm up, offering.
Stalker.
She was about to bet her life on that.
Annalise put her hand in his, climbing out of the car. The man’s eyes widened for a moment, and he squeezed her fingers painfully. Annalise kept her expression neutral, but the fear she’d just managed to suppress started to leak through her mental barriers.
The man looked down at their hands, at her fingers squashed in his, and his breathing sped up. Annalise’s stomach knotted.
She didn’t pull away, and after a moment, he turned and started walking, pulling her along with him, the bones of her fingers still grinding against one another in his too-tight grip.
He hauled her across the clearing to the caravan, releasing her hand so he could pull out a key and unlock the door. While he wasn’t looking, she flexed her aching fingers.
He put the caravan keys back into his pocket, then pulled out a small black cell phone. It was an older style, with actual buttons for the numbers rather than a touchscreen. He frowned down at it, then tapped the keys. He didn’t dial enough numbers to be a phone number, but after hitting a few buttons, he stuffed it back in the same pocket as the keys. Finally, he opened the caravan door and gestured, gallantly, for her to precede him into the dark interior.
Her courage, the shell of calm she’d pulled around herself, cracked. Silence and compliance were no longer her best bet.
Annalise shook her head slowly. “I don’t like caravans.”
The man frowned, the first hints of anger touching his face. “You used to go camping in caravans all the time when you were younger.”
Before now, he’d mostly been silent, uttering only a few terse warnings and commands, then the apology as they arrived. This sounded more like his normal speaking voice.
If she hadn’t already figured this was her stalker, that comment would have sealed it. It also meant that if she got into the caravan, she was likely facing a long imprisonment punctuated by rape. Which, admittedly, was far better than her fate of being raped, then murdered and decapitated if he were the serial killer.
“You remember that,” she said neutrally.
He preened, as if her words had been a compliment. “Of course I do.”
“But,” she said softly. “I didn’t actually enjoy it. Too small. Too enclosed.”
His frown deepened. “I bought this for you.”
“I understand that,” she murmured, internally wincing. So his desire to please her was, and would be, rooted in his expectations of her needs, not in what she actually said.
He shook his head. “You’ll love it, Anna. You will.”
A pet name. An intimacy that no doubt made sense to him because it was appropriate in his version of reality.
Annalise slowly and deliberately shook her head, making sure the movement didn’t seem panicked.
His expression darkened, and her stalker’s hand shot out, closing tightly around her upper arm. He jerked her forward, her shins cracking against the metal step just below the door opening. Annalise cursed in pain, and he yanked on her arm so hard that her shoulder joint started to throb.
“Inside. You will love it,” he declared.
One of her side duties at the Kripo was to work with the Polizei on outreach. Mostly she’d written scripts and pamphlets the officers could use when talking about crime prevention to community groups. One of the things she’d written had been a script officers used when speaking at schools, where one of the main points the officers had hoped to drive home was never get into a stranger’s car. No matter what they said, never get in the car.
The script for the children hadn’t included the statistics. Hadn’t told them they were far more likely to be kidnapped by a family member than a stranger. Hadn’t told them that if they got into a vehicle, the chances of being found decreased dramatically.
Never get in a stranger’s car. Too late on that one. But the sentiment still applied.
Never get into a stranger’s caravan.
Especially if you know that the stranger is very dangerous.
“I would prefer to stay out here, in the sunshine and fresh air, and talk.” Annalise knew it was probably futile. Her words were slightly breathless, thanks to a combination of panic and pain.
“No, I got this for you. It’s nice. We are going inside.” His voice was rough with anger.
The stalker hauled up on her arm, and Annalise reluctantly stepped into the trailer. It was either that or run. It was safer, and smarter, to do her best to keep him calm.
Once inside the caravan, which smelled new, he directed her toward a small built-in bench. There was enough light coming from outside that she could see the L-shaped bench, with its artfully arranged pillows, with a small dining table in front of it.
The daylight also glinted off the chain and single handcuff coiled on the table.
Annalise panicked, backpedaling. She knocked into her stalker and he teetered in the open doorway. If she was lucky, he’d fall hard enough to be knocked senseless and give her a chance to escape.
But she wasn’t lucky, or maybe he was too focused, too prepared. He caught himself on the doorframe and then shoved her forward. Annalise stumbled into the table, winding herself when her lower abdomen hit the edge.
He shoved her sideways, sending her sprawling on the bench. Then one of her arms was jerked up and back. A click and the cold metal of a handcuff encircled her wrist.
The caravan door closed, sealing them together in utter darkness.
Annalise had never felt so small, so scared.
There was no steel door, no Jakob.
No hope.
All she had was herself…and a doctorate in abnormal psychology.
Annalise forced herself to sit up, then cleared her throat. When she spoke, her voice was calm. “Could you turn on a light, please?”
A moment later, lights clicked on. The small camper was elegant inside, with polished wood compartments and recessed lighting. There was a double bed at the back, which she ignored, even as dread and fear formed a tight ball in her gut.
Annalise tugged her shirt down so the front was smooth, brushed back her hair, and dropped the wrist bearing the cuff onto her lap, out of sight. As she moved, the chain slid from the table top, falling onto her lap and to the floor, pooling around the base of the metal table leg to which it was attached.
With no outward signs of either fear or her captive status, Annalise looked at her stalker.
The rage and aggression he’d displayed outside retreated, leaving him looking a little nervous.