1
The first thing she felt when consciousness began to return after the deep, dreamless sleep was the smells. Clean, perfumed bed linens, freshly changed. A light scent of shaving cream in the air, evidence of a male presence that had passed through some time ago.
Behind her eyelids, she registered the cozy warmth of the sun. The light's incidence on her eyes wasn't strong, suggesting the presence of curtains somewhere, but she wasn't sure. The brightness was too natural for that.
Greta's body stretched, the softness of the satin beneath her brushing against her bare thighs. Turning her drowsy head, she inhaled the lavender scent from the pillow. She stretched her arms and immediately felt, though her brain didn't register it right away, the freedom of movement. Her wrists barely hurt anymore. The air was lightly refrigerated, perhaps seventy-one or seventy-two degrees Celsius.
She extended her legs, but interrupted the movement when she felt an obstacle. Her right heel was tied firmly. She moved the left to test, noticing the immobilization there too. She opened her eyes and sat up in the queen-size bed.
There was an unlit fireplace on the other side of the room. The wood-paneled walls reflected the golden glow of the afternoon sun, creating dancing figures on the high, rustic ceiling also made of wood.
She threw the sheet up to investigate. The fabric flew for a moment before landing on the mattress. Her ankles were tied to the thick posts of the canopy bed where she lay. One to each post. The thin but firm chains gleamed like sleeping serpents under the sun. She couldn't do much more than spread her legs wide or close them.
The mattress was soft, covered with beige sheets and a light blanket, but the comfort only served to make the whole thing more unreal. As she fixed her hair, she looked at her own wrist. Bandages soaked in some substance had been wrapped there. And on the other wrist too.
Wide windows surrounded the room, curtains raised, offering a glimpse of vegetation outside. A tall pine tree stood out against the horizon. An abstract painting in shades of green and terracotta hung over the stone fireplace. The center of the image suggested the outline of a turtle. Beside it, an antique clock hung. The hands no longer moved.
Two brown leather armchairs near the fireplace seemed to await an intimate conversation that Greta preferred not to have. A small table for two near the window was decorated with a vase of wildflowers. From there she couldn't tell if they were real.
In another situation, it could be a room from a luxury mountain or countryside hotel catalog. But the chains on her ankles transformed all that rustic air into a horror film.
She smelled the scent of the pine trees she could see through the windows, along with many, many other trees. The conclusion was logical. She was far from civilization.
To her right was a bathroom. Then, a door. Solid, of course. Closed, obviously. And it was only natural to conclude it was locked.
Even knowing the futility of the action, she screamed with all the force of her lungs.
2
Daros pushed the cart through the supermarket aisles with the ease of a vacationer. The cold had subsided after a peaceful night's sleep, and he felt renewed.
The French bread was still warm, and he tore off a piece to taste. Delicious. He grabbed sliced ham and cheese from the deli and dairy counter. He added coffee, milk, eggs, butter, and some seasonal fruits to the cart. The pineapple, plums, and guava were the freshest fruits in the baskets that morning. For lunch, he chose a cut of meat he'd prepare with potatoes. He thought better of it and grabbed a bunch of broccoli, garlic, and onions too. He liked to cook. A lot, by the way.
At the checkout, he flashed a bright smile at the attendant scanning the products. She was a jovial woman with freckles and red hair pulled back in a loose bun.
"Wow... Some lucky woman's going to get a special breakfast?" she asked, returning the smile as she scanned a box of strawberries.
"You could say that," he replied, noticing the blush his deep voice provoked on her face. A woman was waiting for him, indeed. He just didn't think she was happy about it.
"How long have you guys been together?"
"It's fairly recent. But I'm going to make her a proposal soon."
"Wow. That is so beautiful!" The redhead closed her eyes and raised her crossed hands to her chin, vibrating with excitement. "There are still men like in the old days. So cute!"
"Yeah. There are."
People hear what we tell them, but register it how they want. Daros kept the conversation light and vague. He talked about the weather, about high prices in summer, about busy traffic downtown. He was good at seeming normal, at making people feel comfortable. It was one of the reasons for his success.
In the parking lot, he stored the bags in the trunk of the kidnapped woman's SUV. The day was clear, with the typical breeze of a beach town, always carrying a bit of salt.
He thought about the figure chained to the bed. He'd refused the idea of knocking her out in the store with a punch. She'd already been beaten by someone else. There's a limit to the violence someone can endure without ceasing to be who they are. For the same reason, he didn't restrain her by the wrists to the bed. Instead, he sprayed antiseptic on the abrasions on her skin and covered them with gauze and tape.
His business in the region was practically resolved. It was time to disappear for a while, let the dust settle. Maybe head to Europe, where the heat was already a distant memory and he wouldn't be involved in any newspaper stories. And he'd remembered to buy one.
He was closing the trunk when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. The display showed the information he never liked to read: "unidentified call." And the call was to his phone with a fake registration.
His smile died instantly.