Nowhere to Run by Nancy Bush Page B

Occasionally a semi-nice glass of wine.”
    She went to the sink and poured him a glass of water, placing that in front of him, too. They stared at each other and she picked up the sandwich and held it to his mouth.
    “Actually, I’d like a drink of water first.”
    “Take a bite.” When he pressed his lips together in rebellion, she added, “Please.”
    “You’re a very polite kidnapper,” he pointed out again.
    “You were right. It’s my first time,” she admitted.
    “Wow. I’m shocked.” Then, “The police after you?”
    “Probably. By now, anyway.”
    “What did you do?”
    “Take a bite,” she said again, and he bit into the sandwich with white teeth, his gray-blue gaze never leaving her face. When he was finished chewing, she held the water glass to his lips and he took a long swallow. After that, they sat in silence while she fed him the rest of the sandwich.
    After he’d swallowed the last bite, he said, “What about you? Hungry? I don’t have a huge selection, but I think there’s enough for another sandwich.”
    “I’m going to go close the garage door.”
    She was happy to get out of his presence for a moment. Her head was crammed with thoughts. She needed to see the news. She needed to know what was going on.
    God, what have I done?
    The realization that she was a kidnapper sent a shockwave through her body. What had she been thinking? Now, it didn’t matter what the situation at Zuma was all about, she was a criminal of the worst kind.
    Shutting the garage behind her, she looked around quickly and found the source of the twine in a roll in the extremely empty garage. There were no rakes or tools or lawn chairs or whatever else people kept in garages. There was nothing but the Jeep, the twine and a pile of black tarp.
    Reaching upward, she grabbed the handle for the garage door, looking out to the road just as an older-model Buick cruised by with an elderly man at the wheel. He didn’t even bother to glance over, but panic filled her anyway as she slammed down the door. She grabbed up the roll of twine.
    Returning to the kitchen, she set the twine on the counter, then stood in front of Auggie and asked, “Is this really your house?”
    “Yes. Why?”
    “It doesn’t feel like anyone lives here.”
    He assessed her silently for a few moments, then said, “I just moved here and I don’t have a lot of stuff.”
    “Where’d you come from?”
    “Canada,” he said.
    “Canada,” she repeated with an edge to her voice. “You don’t sound Canadian.”
    “Yeah? Well, I’ve been oot and aboot all day, eh? That good enough for you?”
    She almost laughed. Hysterical laughter, for certain, but the irked look on his face was almost comical. Almost. “Not really.”
    “I didn’t say I was Canadian. I’ve just been living in British Columbia a while, that’s all. I’m a fishing guide.”
    “Really?”
    “Really. What are you, besides a fugitive?”
    “I’m . . . I’m . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment, then asked, “You have a television?”
    “Basic cable. In my bedroom.”
    “Can you walk?” she asked. She hadn’t bound his feet.
    “You want me to come watch TV with you?”
    “Just the news.”
    They stared at each other another moment or two, then he got awkwardly to his feet, carrying the chair on his back as Liv preceded him across the living room toward the west end of the house. Directly ahead was a bathroom and there were bedrooms to the right and left of a short hallway. She could see the television in the bedroom to the right—the room toward the rear of the house—and headed that way. Auggie followed after her, banging the chair into the wall several times and swearing softly in the process.
    By the time he’d slammed his chair down near the door and sat upon it and Liv had perched on the end of the bed, it was five forty-five. Had it really only been hours since the attack?
    The remote was tossed on the bed beside her. Liv snatched it up and hit the