THE FIFTH VICTIM
The stage door opened onto a dark hallway.
Vance pulled Maya through, his grip like iron on her arm. She tried to fight, but he was stronger than he looked. The bathrobe was gone. The gentle smile was gone. There was only hunger.
“You think you’re different from the others,” he said. “You think you’re special. But you’re not. You’re just another woman who needed someone to listen.”
“I never needed you.”
“Everyone needs me. They just don’t know it yet.”
He pushed her through a door, into a room she didn’t recognize. Storage. Boxes. Old equipment.
And a chair.
Not a comfortable chair. A wooden chair. With straps.
“You planned this.”
“I’ve been planning it since you walked into my office. You were always going to be the fifth. You just didn’t know it.”
He pushed her toward the chair.
Maya grabbed a box. Threw it at him.
He dodged.
She ran.
He caught her.
“Stop fighting. It’s easier if you don’t fight.”
“I’m not going to make it easy for you.”
She kicked. Bit. Scratched.
He slapped her.
Her head snapped back.
The world went white.
Then black.
She woke up strapped to the chair.
Her wrists were bound. Her ankles were bound. Her head throbbed.
Vance was sitting across from her, watching.
“Finally awake. I was worried I’d hit you too hard.”
“Let me go.”
“Can’t. We have an appointment.”
“With who?”
“With the bridge.”
He stood. Walked behind her. Pushed the chair.
It had wheels.
He rolled her out of the storage room, down the dark hallway, toward the back door of the auditorium.
Toward the parking lot.
Toward his car.
“My daughter will find me.”
“Your daughter is in my car. With Kaela. With Rachel. They’re all coming with us.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m efficient. There’s a difference.”
He loaded the chair into the back of his SUV.
Then he drove.
Toward the bridge.