again?”
Abby’s heart was beating too fast.“If I help you escape, will you take me with you?”
The dinner’s unswerving gaze projected open disbelief. “You’re toying with me again, aren’t you?”
Abby shook her head.“No, ma’am.”
The dinner coughed. “Okay. What’s the catch? There is one, right?”
Abby nodded.
“Of course.” The dinner grimaced, glanced up at the manacles biting into its slim wrists. Then it looked at Abby and said,“Well…spell it out.”
Abby told it what she wanted.
The guarantee she needed.
A meager enough list of demands, she thought, considering the dinner’s only other option.
The dinner was silent for a long moment. It stared at the damp, earthen floor and thought about what it’d been told. After maybe a full minute, it raised its head and said, “You can’t just let me go now? While they’re away?”
Abby shook her head. “Tomorrow night, the night before the holiday feast. That’s the right time.”
The dinner made a sound of immense frustration.“But that makes no sense. We can be far away by the time they even realize we’re gone.”
Abby shrugged.“There are things you don’t understand yet. You’ll just have to trust me. Tomorrow night is perfect. I promise you.”
The dinner rolled its eyes. “Okay. Whatever. But you have to do something for me, too.”
“Oh?”
The dinner laughed. “Convince me. Make me believe you’re not just”—another, more pointed glance at its manacled wrists—“yanking my chain.”
Abby smiled.“Okay.”
She retrieved an old wicker chair from a dark corner of the cellar, set it in front of the dinner, and sat down.
Then she began to talk.
She spoke without interruption for a long time.
An hour or longer.
Telling the dinner all about her life.
C HAPTER N INE
She couldn’t stop thinking about her Prada bag. It was the real deal, not one of those knockoffs like the one she’d bought from a street vendor in Tijuana years ago. The fake had looked almost good enough to pass for the genuine article, but it began to fall apart after a few months. An end of the strap came loose first, which she reattached with messily applied epoxy. Not exactly a hip look. She could have replaced it with a cheaper, more eye-pleasing bag, but she clung to the cheap and battered Tijuana souvenir with a stubborn tenacity that earned endless withering comments from her friends. Then, less than a month ago, her mother took her out to dinner for her birthday. At some point between the end of their meal and the arrival of dessert, Jessica excused herself to go to the bathroom. When she returned, a little gift bag stuffed with brightly colored tissue paper sat in the middle of the table.
She hadn’t known what to expect. Some sort of necklace, maybe. Something silver. Cynthia Sloan knew her daughter preferred silvery jewelry to gold and had gone that route for more than one previous birthday. Sothe expensive, genuine Prada bag had come as something of a surprise. More of a gasp-inducing shock, actually. Jessica wasn’t one to squeal and gush over gifts, even really nice ones, but she made an exception this time. It was a leather runway bag from the new fall collection. Cost? Who knew. Some ungodly amount. And then there was the card, with its longish, heartfelt note from her mother expressing deep love for her daughter, along with the wish that she’d been better able to express that love over the years. She should have known something big was up then, but she was too distracted by the check enclosed with the card. A check written in the amount of five thousand dollars—two grand of which she’d planned to hand over to Hoke today for the Falcon. The last time her mother had given her money had been for her eighteenth birthday, and that had been a hundred bucks. Big money to her at the time. She should have questioned the unusual extravagance, but she’d been too overwhelmed, too touched by the affection expressed in her
Abby’s heart was beating too fast.“If I help you escape, will you take me with you?”
The dinner’s unswerving gaze projected open disbelief. “You’re toying with me again, aren’t you?”
Abby shook her head.“No, ma’am.”
The dinner coughed. “Okay. What’s the catch? There is one, right?”
Abby nodded.
“Of course.” The dinner grimaced, glanced up at the manacles biting into its slim wrists. Then it looked at Abby and said,“Well…spell it out.”
Abby told it what she wanted.
The guarantee she needed.
A meager enough list of demands, she thought, considering the dinner’s only other option.
The dinner was silent for a long moment. It stared at the damp, earthen floor and thought about what it’d been told. After maybe a full minute, it raised its head and said, “You can’t just let me go now? While they’re away?”
Abby shook her head. “Tomorrow night, the night before the holiday feast. That’s the right time.”
The dinner made a sound of immense frustration.“But that makes no sense. We can be far away by the time they even realize we’re gone.”
Abby shrugged.“There are things you don’t understand yet. You’ll just have to trust me. Tomorrow night is perfect. I promise you.”
The dinner rolled its eyes. “Okay. Whatever. But you have to do something for me, too.”
“Oh?”
The dinner laughed. “Convince me. Make me believe you’re not just”—another, more pointed glance at its manacled wrists—“yanking my chain.”
Abby smiled.“Okay.”
She retrieved an old wicker chair from a dark corner of the cellar, set it in front of the dinner, and sat down.
Then she began to talk.
She spoke without interruption for a long time.
An hour or longer.
Telling the dinner all about her life.
C HAPTER N INE
She couldn’t stop thinking about her Prada bag. It was the real deal, not one of those knockoffs like the one she’d bought from a street vendor in Tijuana years ago. The fake had looked almost good enough to pass for the genuine article, but it began to fall apart after a few months. An end of the strap came loose first, which she reattached with messily applied epoxy. Not exactly a hip look. She could have replaced it with a cheaper, more eye-pleasing bag, but she clung to the cheap and battered Tijuana souvenir with a stubborn tenacity that earned endless withering comments from her friends. Then, less than a month ago, her mother took her out to dinner for her birthday. At some point between the end of their meal and the arrival of dessert, Jessica excused herself to go to the bathroom. When she returned, a little gift bag stuffed with brightly colored tissue paper sat in the middle of the table.
She hadn’t known what to expect. Some sort of necklace, maybe. Something silver. Cynthia Sloan knew her daughter preferred silvery jewelry to gold and had gone that route for more than one previous birthday. Sothe expensive, genuine Prada bag had come as something of a surprise. More of a gasp-inducing shock, actually. Jessica wasn’t one to squeal and gush over gifts, even really nice ones, but she made an exception this time. It was a leather runway bag from the new fall collection. Cost? Who knew. Some ungodly amount. And then there was the card, with its longish, heartfelt note from her mother expressing deep love for her daughter, along with the wish that she’d been better able to express that love over the years. She should have known something big was up then, but she was too distracted by the check enclosed with the card. A check written in the amount of five thousand dollars—two grand of which she’d planned to hand over to Hoke today for the Falcon. The last time her mother had given her money had been for her eighteenth birthday, and that had been a hundred bucks. Big money to her at the time. She should have questioned the unusual extravagance, but she’d been too overwhelmed, too touched by the affection expressed in her
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