He hauled her out, carried her inside, dumped her on the floor while he made certain the Privacy sign was out, the door locked, all the shades pulled.

“Just you and me, baby doll. Just you and me.”

When she moaned a little, stirred a little, he hit her again.

“Not quite ready.”

He cut the zip ties, dragged her into the chair he’d placed in the center of the room. A good sturdy one, with some weight to it. He zip-tied her wrists to the arms, her feet to the legs.

“You won’t be trying any of that Bruce Lee shit today, bitch. Oh yeah, I read all about that. Even found an interview online. I like to jerk off while I watch it.”

He searched her pockets, put her phone in one of his own, her multi-tool in another. And gave her breasts a couple of hard pinches just for fun.

He checked the time. Right on schedule! Though he figured he could take a solid two hours with her, he’d promised himself he’d keep it to one.

He’d wiped the place, top to bottom, and had packed his things. Time to get started.

He yanked her head back, tried slapping her awake. But her head just lolled. Must’ve hit her a little too hard the second time, he decided. With a shrug, he got a cold bottle of Gatorade out of the cooler he’d stocked for the road.

He sat, laid the Glock in his lap, drank, and watched her.

She came to slowly, her face alive with pain. Bad dream, bad dream, she thought, dazed. Terrible headache.

“Wake up, sleepyhead!”

Her blood froze; her stomach dropped, then clutched like a fist.

When her eyes flashed open, the pain was nothing against the fear.

“Miss me, baby doll?”

Only one person had ever called her that. She knew him. The beard, the hair—long and a duller color—didn’t change his eyes. She knew him.

When he rose, holding a gun so casually, fear sweat sprang to her skin, soaked it.

She tried to spring to her feet, to defend herself, to fight, found herself pinned.

“Scream,” he warned, “and I’ll shoot you, not to death, but it’ll hurt. Then I’ll gag you. I’m looking for a little conversation, but we can go with your bleeding on the floor and a monologue. Your choice.”

“What do you want, Trent?”

“Didn’t I just say?” He slapped her—not too hard, just enough so she’d know who the hell was in charge. “What did I say? Repeat after me. Trent wants a little conversation.”

She had to swallow the bile that wanted to rise into her throat. “Trent wants a little conversation. You don’t need the gun, Trent. I’m tied to the chair. I can’t go anywhere.”

“Are you telling me what to do?”

“No. I’m asking if you’d put the gun down while we talk.”

Her mind emptied but for terror when he stuck the barrel under her chin. “Denied! How about I just pull the trigger? How about that?”

“I can’t stop you, but then I wouldn’t hear what you came all this way to say to me.”

“You’re shaking, Darb. You scared?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m scared.”

“Good. You should be.” But he removed the gun, stepped back. “Scared little baby doll, aren’t you? You’ll give me whatever I want, won’t you?”

When he pinched her breast, she couldn’t stop the flinch, the shudder, but she made herself say, “Yes.”

She’d thought she’d hated him to her capacity to hate. But she found more.

“Do you think I want sex from you? I could take it if I wanted, but you’re not getting off, oh no. No goodies for you, bitch. You want to know what I want? I’ll tell you what the fuck I want.”

The rage in his voice had her bracing for another blow, but he spun away, spun back, gesturing wildly with the gun. “I want my goddamn life back, the life you stole. I want every minute of the time I spent in prison back. I want my business back instead of having my own fucking family shove me behind closed doors, paying me to keep out of the damn way, and not embarrass them. I want my fucking partners dead, my so-called-friends dead for cutting me out, taking what was mine. I want to stop pretending I’m sorry for smacking around my own wife when she deserved it.

“How about that, Darb? Can you give me what I want?”

His face, red with fury, shoved close to hers. Submission, she thought, he wanted her submission, her humiliation.

Maybe if she gave it to him she’d live.

She let the tears come, let them flow. “I’m so sorry, Trent. I’m so sorry.”

“Are you, Darby? Are you? Were you sorry when you sat in court, when you testified against me? You didn’t look sorry, you lying cunt, when they found me guilty and you and that bitch of a mother of yours hugged like it was your goddamn birthday.”

Give him what he wants. “I was afraid, I was afraid and I made a mistake.”

“A mistake? Is that what you call it? The first week I was in prison, because of your mistake, I got jumped. Bastards beat me up just because they could. Mistake?”

Oh, the irony, she thought, but kept her head lowered, her eyes down. “You were so strong. I was afraid.”

“You belonged at home, at the home I gave you, under the roof I put over your head, not out grubbing in the dirt like some damn dog.”

The dog, the dog, the dog. Someone would find the dog, her truck. Someone—

“Are you listening to me?” He yanked her head back.

“I’m ashamed, so ashamed. I don’t know how you can ever forgive me. If you could let me try to make it up to you—”

“Do you think I want you?” With a wild laugh, he gave her hair a vicious yank, then let go. “Do you think I came all the way down here, holed up in this hick backwater, because I want you back? You’re going to pay, Darby, pay for all the things I want and can’t have back.”

He jabbed the gun into her stomach. “How’s this for a start? How’s your mommy doing, Darb? How’s she doing, mommy’s little baby girl? You know how easy that was?”

She heard her own ringtone—incoming text? Distracted, Trent drew the gun away, pulled her phone from his pocket. “From Roy. Are you fucking him, too?”

Trent dropped her phone on the floor, stomped on it.

“Sorry, Roy, Darby can’t come to the phone right now.”

The shaking came back so her knuckles rapped, rapped, rapped against the arm of the chair. “What are you talking about? About my mother?”

“What? Oh right.”

He strolled back for his Gatorade, took a good gulp. “You went running home to her, didn’t you? Went running home to her while your lawfully wedded husband rotted in prison. Even got a fresh new restraining order against me when I got out, and stayed all safe and warm with Mommy.”

“You…” Nothing, even after all he’d done, had prepared her. Nothing ever could. “You killed my mother.”

“You killed her! You signed her death warrant when you put me in prison. I just stole a car—you learn some useful things inside. That’s what they call it, you know. Inside. Stole a car, put my bike in it, poured some beer on the floor, blew some weed inside. Just had to wait for her to come jogging along, and bam!”

He did a kind of dance across the floor. “Man, she flew! Just keep driving, dump the car, ride the bike to where I stashed mine. Boom, and boom. And boo-hoo-hoo, Mommy’s dead.”