Twisted Read Free Page A

conference just ended. I’m in the parking lot with my motor running. I’ll swing by now, before I head home.”
    “God bless you.” There were tears of gratitude in the older woman’s voice.
    “What’s your address?”
    “One twenty-five East Seventy-eighth, between Park and Lex. Apartment 640.”
    “I’m on my way.”

CHAPTER TWO
    DATE: 20 March
    TIME: 1800 hours
    OBJECTIVE: Athena

    Finally. She’s awake.
    This time there’s awareness in her eyes. Not like the other times she came to, when she was groggy and disoriented. This time she sees me—
really
sees me. She’s quivering. Afraid.
    She should be. She knows she’s mine.
    I can feel that adrenaline rush begin. I’m used to it now, although the first time it caught me by surprise. Not anymore. Now I anticipate it. It feels good. Power. Control. She’s resisting, but her struggles are futile. This time I took extra precautions because of her strength and intelligence. Thicker ropes binding her wrists and ankles. Duct tape securing the ropes. The door of her room double-locked.
    I didn’t gag her. I will when I go out. But no one can hear her. Not from this place.
    Breaking her is going to be harder than the last one. But I’ll do what I must.
    They
demand it.
    125 East Seventy-eighth Street, Apartment 640

    Sloane perched at the edge of the Trumans’ elegant antique mahogany-and-damask sofa, sipping the tea that Penny’s mother had insisted on brewing. Setting down her cup, she adjusted her pen in a style she’d gotten used to—one that guarded her injury—and flipped open her notebook.
    She waited patiently while Hope Truman fluttered about, arranging a plate of ladyfingers.
    Ladyfingers. That brought back a slew of memories. Snack time at Penny’s, after they’d played Barbies for hours. Penny would stylize her Barbie, choosing fashionable outfits for her, then color-and style-coordinating all her accessories. Sloane would pretend her Barbie was She-ra, Princess of Power, and body parts would fly. It was lucky for Ken that he wasn’t anatomically correct.
    Back then, ladyfingers had represented a treat. Now they were Hope Truman’s way of releasing a burst of nervous energy—desperation and procrastination combined. Sloane recognized the signs. A loved one who wanted results, but was terrified of what they’d be. And after nearly a year? There was nothing to cling to but prayers, nothing to hope for but a miracle.
    Sloane was supposed to be that miracle.
    Subtly, she studied Penny’s mother. At fifty-seven, she’d aged gracefully. Still slender. Well put together. Hair and makeup perfect. Brown cashmere turtleneck sweater and camel slacks that made her a walking ad for Bergdorf.
    But it was obvious that this crisis had taken a huge toll.
    There were tight lines on her face that had nothing to do with age, and a haunted look in her eyes that Sloane had seen too many times to misread.
    “So how are your parents?” Mrs. Truman asked, grasping for chitchat to accompany the normal motions of hostessing.
    “They’re fine,” Sloane replied. “They retired and moved to Florida—although I use the word
retired
loosely. My mother still works with a few of her favorite authors who were clients at her literary agency, and my dad still handles an occasional art deal if he has an affinity for the piece involved.”
    “Yes, I remember how much he used to travel abroad—and how often you went with him.”
    “I loved it. That’s how I learned so many languages. It’s probably one of the main reasons the Bureau became so interested in recruiting me.” Sloane cleared her throat, and gently steered the conversation to where it needed to be. “Do you want to tell me about Penny?”
    With an unsteady nod, Mrs. Truman stopped fussing over the refreshments and sank onto the edge of a wingback chair, her fingers tightly interlaced as she spoke. “I apologize for rambling.”
    “Don’t. You’re frightened. Striking up ordinary conversation is a