“Huh.” Julia let go of her. She studied Sophie intently for a long moment, and stopped whispering. “I guess.” She held up her free hand, which was full of cloth. “I’ve got something you can change into. If you want.”
Oh, God. I’ve been kidnapped and she wants me to dress appropriately. “Fine.” The side of her face hurt, but it didn’t seem to be too bruised. She didn’t dare glance at the old man in the Kiwanis booth. If I can get over there—he’s got to have a phone, right? Or something.
The bathroom was cold and industrial, but well-lit and actually clean. The clothes turned out to be a pair of jeans that fit if she rolled up the legs like a little kid, and a long-sleeved thermal shirt that clung embarrassingly. There was a flannel button-down, too, with the same smell of musk and laundry detergent, but no socks and absolutely no undergarments.
The girl steered her toward the handicapped stall; Sophie shivered through changing and spent a blissful few minutes getting rid of the pressure on her bladder. When she came out, clutching Lucy’s clothes to her chest, she looked longingly at the sink. It would feel so nice to wash her face, even if the water was freezing.
But Julia was still in a stall, humming something off-key. Sophie clutched the sad, small scraps of clothing and the heels, hugging them, and caught a glimpse of herself in the scratched piece of metal passing for a mirror. Wide eyes, her smudged glasses, and a wild mop of hair. She probably looked like a bag lady, though the side of her face wasn’t that badly discolored. There was just a tender spot under her hair and puffy redness down her cheek, and she’d had worse.
Much worse.
She stared at the mirror for a few seconds, trying to clear her head. A rattling sound echoed in the depths of her memory, and she shivered. But it made her start moving, impelled by the sure intuition that had saved her more than once. It didn’t happen often, that tingle along her nerves. Since leaving Hammerheath, it had always been accompanied by the rattling buzz of copper-bottomed—
Did I feel it last night, and just not pay attention? She pushed the question aside and took the first few tentative steps.
Her purse was still in the van. Stupid, stupid, stupid! she chanted inwardly as she edged, heart hammering, for the entrance. Cold tile gritted under her bare feet, and she eased out of the hallway and into the chill of a winter morning. Without the heels, her footsteps were silent.
She set off for the Kiwanis booth, not daring to look over her shoulder. Don’t act guilty. But walk quickly. Walk determined. Catch his eye.
Her stomach rumbled. If she could catch the man’s attention and ask him to call the police, she could get free, she could … what? Give a statement?
What statement could she give? She hadn’t seen anything she could swear to, just things out of a nightmare. Things with fangs, and a confused impression of something leaping, something covered in hair like a …
Like what, exactly? She couldn’t put it into words. And the rattling in her head got louder.
Forty feet away, the man coughed behind his newspaper. Her feet were numb; she stepped on a pebble and winced. Going barefoot at home was nothing like this. The jeans were raspingly unfamiliar, and she really wanted nothing more than her own kitchen, her ratty chenille robe, and a hot cup of coffee. And a Danish. A warm one, dripping with icing and with chunks of brown-sugar-drenched apple.
She could almost taste it, and hurried up. Thirty feet. Twenty-five.
The air was still except for the hum of traffic from the freeway. What was she going to say? This isn’t a joke. I’ve been kidnapped. Please help me.
She practiced it inside her head, clutching the clothes to her chest. Cold morning wind touched her hair, and the sky was still orangeish in the east from dawn. If she was at home she’d probably still be in bed, and if Lucy stayed over—
Pain jabbed through her chest. Oh, Lucy. Luce. God.
The rattling in her head got worse. Fifteen feet. Ten.
She opened her mouth—and let out her breath in a sigh when the man looked up, his hazel eyes caught in a net of crinkles, his smile immediate and genuine.
The buzzing rattle stopped.
A heavy arm fell over her shoulders. “Cup of coffee, sweetheart?” Zach said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
Everything in her cringed away. She stared at the old man, willing him to realize she’d been about to ask him for help. The sore spot under her hair throbbed, and her cheek was on fire.
The old man grinned even wider, if that was possible. She saw the glasses dangling on a chain at his chest, and her heart sank. “What a pretty young miss. I call all the young girls ‘miss.’ Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Zach’s arm tightened. “Make that three coffees, please. And probably a doughnut for her, too. We’ve been driving all night.”
“Family trip?” The man eased off his stool and shuffled around the small booth. “Reason I ask is, I heard your van door.”
Zach grinned easily. “Yeah, heading south. Warmer down there.” His arm tightened again, and he—of all things—bent down and kissed the top of Sophie’s head, inhaling deeply. As if smelling her. She writhed inwardly with embarrassment; what was she supposed to do? Start screaming?
What would he do if she did?
A sudden crystalline image from last night, right before she’d run off like a panicked idiot, burned through her brain. It was the thing that had killed Lucy, snarling and champing its too-big teeth, while Zach’s shape changed like clay under running water.
Growing fur.
Sudden certainty nailed her in place, the chill concrete biting into her feet. I didn’t imagine that. I saw it. That’s what made me run. I saw it all.
“Oh, I hear ya, I hear ya.” The old man shrugged inside his jacket, setting out three foam cups, putting a pink bakery box on the small counter. “Honey, why don’t you just peek in there and see if there’s a doughnut you like? I got apple fritters, and Bismarcks, and all sorts of good things. Fresh this morning, too.”
Sophie swallowed hard, her throat making a little clicking noise. Zach bumped her, gently, and she was suddenly very sure that if she didn’t try to act normally, something would Happen.
Like something “happened” to Lucy? He said they weren’t going to hurt me.
He could have been lying. She’d heard “I’m not going to hurt you” before. If she had a quarter for every time she’d heard it, she wouldn’t have to worry about scraping together rent for a year.
Zach used his free hand to open up the top of the bakery box. “See anything good?” He sounded concerned. Morning light was kind to him, running over the shadow of stubble on his face, the thin nose, dark eyes a lot of women probably liked. His hair was a soft mess except for the wiriness of the white streak. One stubborn wave of it fell over his forehead, and he actually grinned down at her like he was having a great time.
Sourness rose in her throat. He’d kidnapped her, and had the effrontery to smile and put his arm over her shoulder like he owned her?
“I’m not hungry,” she managed through the stone in her throat. “But thanks.” She stared at the old man, her eyes burning. Look at me. Please see me. Please help me.
“Dieting? Never did anyone any good, honey. First three letters of diet are a warning, that’s what they are.” He wasn’t looking at her; he was pouring the coffee, frowning a little. She tried leaning away from Zach’s arm, but it was useless. Her feet went numb, aching from the cold.