Chapter Three Part One - Breakfast

Time passed blindly. There was no clock in the room. I did not own a wristwatch. My phone, from what I could remember, rested on Tanner's bean-bag chair in his bedroom. All I had was the world around me.

The sunlight from outside kept growing brighter and higher in the sky. The dull morning darkness drifted with the hours I spent in that little bedroom. Birds began to sing. Leaves crunched outside the window at one point and when I looked I had spotted a small doe. Nature moved. I did not.

No matter how many times I twisted the knob or pounded on the door itself I did not receive an answer. I had nothing to break the window with besides my foot. Even then it wouldn't matter - the boards would be more of a challenge to get past.

I sat on the bed. What was I going to do? Trapped as I was, I was still granted some freedom; at least I hadn't been chained to the wall like a victim of torture. I stood up and paced the room. I could not sit still. Energy surged through my limbs the way electricity flowed to telephone poles.

Why was I there? Why had I been taken? I couldn't think of a logical answer to either question. And that sort of scared me; maybe there wasn't a logical reason. Maybe it was just a chance happening.

I kicked the dresser with my foot. The wooden thing wobbled and lurched into the wall with a thud. The act felt good so I heaved my foot at the dresser again. Over and over I swung my foot into the side of the dresser and soon enough a scream ripped past my throat.

That was not fair.

I clenched my teeth, halted the kicking, and went for the drawers. Releasing my frustration, I yanked out the drawers and flung them across the room. Wood crashed against plaster, wood slammed against wood, wood smashed against -

Glass shattered. I stopped before throwing the next drawer - the last drawer - and turned to look at the window.

Spider web cracks slithered around the top of the glass. The bottom half had smashed. Sharp pieces stuck up and out but since there were wooden panes across the window the entire thing hadn't broke.

I took a single step towards the window. At the same time I heard the familiar click that sounded on the outside of the door earlier when the Catcher had left. A flip of a lock.

I held my breath. Seconds ticked. I waited for him to burst into the room. The door didn't open. Was that good or bad? I crept over to the door.

A wretched squeak sounded when I twisted the knob and pulled. But it didn't matter who heard - someone must have unlocked it on purpose.

A hallway was on the other side of the door. I poked my head out, looking both left and right.

To the left was a foyer that contained a front door, small curtains hanging from the top to cover a window. A staircase - I could identify a simple wooden banister - shared the same wall with the room I had occupied.

I turned to the right. That must have been the kitchen as there was a table with two chairs, all plain and wooden. Grease and flour, the pungent smells of breakfast, wafted down the corridor. Soft sounds came from the same direction - the scrape of plastic on cast iron, sizzling, and humming. The distinct noise of laminated paper scratching together. I did not like that direction.

I tip-toed out the door of my room and down the left hallway. When I reached the foyer I looked up the banister, scanning the stairs for movement. Nothing. I went to the door, barely reaching it before I was stopped.

An archway that I hadn't seen earlier appeared on my right. From that same direction a heavy growling emanated. I froze.

A beast, one I could only describe as something straight from a horror film akin to Cujo, stood no more than six feet away.

Animals had always taken an easy liking to me. Dogs were my favorite animal. Occasionally when I used to walk past my neighbor's house on the way home from school, their little Dachshund would trot out and give away some friendly licks on my upturned palm.

The monster before me was not a Dachshund. That was a full-grown Doberman, ten times larger than a little wiener dog, thirty times more ferocious, staring me in the face. I felt the submissive need to kneel before the creature.

The dog's head reached well above my hips. I imagined it rearing up in the air, paws extended. It frightened me more than the Catcher had. Dog's are said to be man's best friend. Something about that animal suggested otherwise. The hair on my arms prickled upwards as goosebumps littered my skin.

I could only think, Holy shit.

The Doberman snarled, baring sharp canines. Muscles under its brown and black coat rippled with tension as his body grew taut to pounce. Its neck elongated, pointing towards me, and it took a step forward. One gigantic paw almost as big as my hand.

I swallowed, retreating instantly. It barked once, sharply, and I winced.

"Ribbon!"

Was that a name? It must have been; the dog relaxed his body, straightening to full height, ears pricked toward the sound.

The voice that called was female, pitch somewhat higher than average, head-cheerleader preppy sounding. But it was not that that piqued my curiosity - there was someone else in the house. Did she know of my existence? Could she help me? I desperately wanted to turn around but I did not want to draw the Doberman's attention.

"Ribbon! Ribbon, where are your manners?"

I turned my head.

There was a woman more adult-looking than me, hands on her waist. She glared at the dog. Her eyes - soft, hazel irises that resembled Melody's - did not look angry as the rest of her body tried to appear. She was taller than me that her higher voice didn't quite make sense, but when she spoke again it sounded more friendly. Warm, even.

"He didn't mean anything by that." She turned to me with an apologetic crease between her brows.

I nodded slowly. Of course, I thought, he must have done it as a way to ask me to pet him. I didn't say that out loud.

"Now I'm being rude." The woman laughed nervously. "I'm Tawnee."

She held out her hand. I looked over her straight nose and immaculate eyebrows, deciding whether or not to like her. Consider the fact that her dog nearly ripped me to shreds, I could not let my guard down.

"Where the hell am I?"

Tawnee's hand dropped. Her eyes shifted away from mine, looking to the horrid bear of a dog still standing in front of the door - or as she called it, 'Ribbon'.

"Are you hungry? There's some pancakes and eggs in the kitchen. Come on in." Tawnee waved me forward while taking a step.

I didn't follow. I didn't want any goddamn breakfast, I wanted to go home. Did she not know how I came to be there? Did she think that I stayed over with that despicable excuse of a man? Her roommate, most likely? Bile churned in my stomach.

She noticed I wasn't following.

"Ribbon," Tawnee said softly.

A ripping snarl echoed from behind me, sounding the same as rocks being thrown in a lawn mower blade. I jumped forward. A heavy bark followed. Ribbon crept forward, fangs jutted out, saliva pooling from his curled lips. I spared a look of panic at Tawnee.

"This way." Her voice was light again. She must have sicced the dog on me the most calm way possible. I decided I hated her, too.

Ribbon and Tawnee guided me to the kitchen, friendly tour guide and fearsome guard. I stopped at the threshold. I spotted an additional two chairs on the other side of the table. Beyond the table was a wooden desk. The counter and the rest of the kitchen must have been along the wall to my left.

Tawnee sat down on a cushioned wooden chair at the far end of the table. A magazine laid on the table in front of her, Cosmopolitan, open to a page that advertised perfume. Chanel, specifically.

Mom owned Chanel - Chanel No. 5. A lump formed in my throat at the thought of her. Thoughts of Tanner, and Dad, and our stupid cat, Sawyer. He was only stupid because he refused to go outside without a collar and leash. What sort of creature doesn't want freedom to roam the outside world?

A sob bubbled past my lips before I could contain it. Freedom sounded wonderful at the moment. Tawnee didn't say anything but I knew she heard the awkward gasp of air. Her shoulders stiffened and her eyes, though never leaving the page of the magazine, widened.

When she did look up, her face was kind, welcoming. I wanted to scream at her.

"Sit," she said.

"Fuck. No," I replied.

Tawnee's eyes flicked to the right, towards the wall I couldn't see, where all the sizzling and popping seemed to be originating from. Curious, I peered around the corner.

Counters and cupboards littered the wall, all wooden and carved beautifully, save for the dark gray granite counter tops. A stark black stove held two frying pans equally simmering. In front of the stove stood my worst nightmare.

The Catcher had a turner in one hand, the handle of a frying pan in the other. His body was facing the stove but his head was angled towards me, that awful mask still covering his face. My eyes bugged at the sight of him, my cheek reheating at the memory of his knuckles against my skin. How hard he had struck me with the very hand that was cradling a turner.

I reared back from the kitchen ready to turn and run. I did not get far. One backward step brought on the brutal barking of Ribbon.

"Fuck!" I shouted, flattening my back against the wall. There was no where to go, no where to escape. One direction held a murdersome canine while the other promised a psychotic man. I would almost rather take a chance with the dog.

Ribbon's incessant barking hammered my eardrums. I could not think. My hands pressed against the wall. I wanted to sink into the plaster. Disappear from that place.

I glared at the dog. His weight shifted to his back paws as if he was preparing to lunge. My jaw locked together as I waited for his attack.

Something blurred in my peripherals. Ribbon stopped barking.

The Catcher stood in the threshold of the kitchen more massive than the dog - who whined at the sight of the Catcher, the stinking coward - with his eyes boring into me. My teeth had yet to un-clench.

He did not speak. He grabbed my arm at my elbow and yanked me forward, stumbling.

"Let me go," I grunted, scrabbling at his fingers. Catcher didn't listen. He dragged me across the kitchen, Tawnee staring at us solemnly. Why the hell wasn't she helping me?

"Help me!"

She did not move. The Catcher pinched my arm harder. I cried out in pain.

We reached the table and he pulled out a chair. The legs screeched against the linoleum floor, sounding like a dying bird with the force he used. My seat was opposite of Tawnee. He forced me onto the chair, pushing roughly on my shoulders, holding them down for a moment to see if I would jump right back up. As soon as he let go I did.

My knees weren't even straight before his hands shot to my throat, fingers easily curling around my neck. He didn't squeeze but he pushed me down much harder than the first time.

I felt a panic the moment his hand contacted my neck. Fighting, I told myself, was useless, not weak. He could effortlessly overpower me. Everything about him was big - he was well over six foot tall, maybe six-five, and had a lean, athletic build. Tendons stuck out of his forearm as he kept his hand clutched around my trachea. I forced myself to not act stupidly. Instead I looked up to his face and stared him in the eyes. Letting him know that I would not always be so compliant.

Catcher removed his hand and walked back to the stove. His socks made soft scraping noises on the floor when he moved - I only noticed that because everyone and everything else was eerily quiet. Not a second later his hand was on the end of the frying pan, his other hand flipping a pancake. My lips curled in distaste at the sight of him acting so fucking normal. Sick bastard.

I turned to Tawnee. She had been staring at me; when I looked at her her eyes darted away almost guiltily.

She flipped a page in the magazine, her face going blank. "So how did you sleep?"

How. Did. I. Sleep.

What the hell was wrong with those people?

I shook my head. I was furious. But I wanted someone to speak to me. So I jerked a thumb towards the hallway and asked, "Is that a dog?"

Tawnee looked hurt. "Of course he is! He may look scary but Ribbon is just a big teddy bear on the inside. Aren't you, buddy?" She held out her hand.

Claws clattered against linoleum as the brute entered the kitchen.. The dog's head was higher than the table so he rested his muzzle gently on Tawnee's lap. The stub of a tail on his backside went wild with twitching. She crooned to him as a mother would a child.

I eyed the dog wearily. "How did you come up with 'Ribbon' for a killer like that thing?"

"He's the biggest sweetheart a girl could ask for." She smiled lovingly at the animal. "When he was just a puppy Lincoln tied a ribbon around his neck." She glanced at me. "You know, one of those pink satin ones that are popular around Easter? Anyway, Lincoln surprised me with him - a Christmas present, of course - and I was trying to get the ribbon off of his neck but he nearly bit my hand off!"

Tawnee laughed. I did not see what was so funny about almost losing an appendage.

"So we kept the ribbon on for the first few months. We knew it couldn't stay on forever as the animal grows. One day I woke up and the little pink ribbon was torn in two! Poor Ribbon was whining over the scraps. He still has it, actually."

She pointed behind me to a corner with a large cushion that nearly took up the entire length of the wall. A badly faded strip of silk, strings torn on each end, sat on a corner of the dog bed.

"Hard to believe that thing was a puppy," I said.

Tawnee laughed again, a high tinkling sound, airy. She patted Ribbon on his wide skull. "She's just teasing you, honey. You're wonderful." To me, she said, "Lincoln likes to call him Ribs. Makes him sound more tough."

"Who's Lincoln?" I wondered.

Tawnee looked confused. "My brother." She said it more as a question before turning to look at the Catcher. "Lincoln Maddox."

I followed her gaze. Dread swarmed my stomach. He had a name.

Lincoln was her brother. Her brother was the Catcher. The Catcher was my kidnapper.

"He kidnapped me."

I said the words. They were out in the open, settling in the air strangely.

"Are the pancakes done?"

No one acknowledged that I had talked.

"Did you hear me," I said, louder this time. "He kidnapped me. Your brother kidnapped me! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

I leaned over the table. The idea of reaching across and shaking her shoulders flicked behind my eyelids when I blinked. I felt like a madwoman trying to convince a doctor that I was sane.

"Smells delicious," she murmured.

My mouth fell open. She did not care. She knew and had not acted like it was a crime, what her brother had done. Hope drain from my body like water draining from a bathtub after pulling the plug. Did she not understand that he was a psychopath?

He turned around at that moment, frying pan in hand. Tawnee straightened herself in her chair, sniffing the air with a mix of "Ooh's" and "Ah's". I wanted to vomit. All over the pancakes. I couldn't because the feeling didn't last long.

Lincoln slid two large, steaming, golden brown pancakes on Tawnee's plate and my stomach grumbled. He turned to my plate, placing two cakes on the ceramic dish. My mouth watered.

I hated that the food appealed to me; I hated even more the fact that I absentmindedly picked up the fork that rested on the side of the plate. The smell made my stomach gurgle again, loud enough for all of us to hear.

I dropped the fork and leaned back in the chair.

Lincoln crouched beside the table. Even then, when he tried to be short, he was still tall. We were eye-level, his stare commanding. I glared at him.

"Tastes perfect," Tawnee mumbled. I shot a look at her.

Everything she wanted to say out loud was written on her face; Tawnee's mouth was pinched, not with food, with warning: Shut up!

Her eyes were wide, glassy, flicking back and forth from Lincoln to the plate: Fucking eat it!

I didn't understand why she was doing that. If she wanted to help me she would have called the police. Maybe she was just being pushy. And then I got a distinct feeling that something wasn't right between the two siblings.

I thought back to the last ten minutes. The way Tawnee glanced at Lincoln when I said something snarky. How she looked at him when talking of Ribbon; even though she smiled, I could see it did not reach her eyes and they held a strange glint to them when she looked at Lincoln. Almost like fear.

That thought alone made me swallow thickly. If Tawnee, Lincoln's goddamn sister was afraid of him, what the hell should I be?

I stared at Tawnee.

Fucking terrified.