Peril by Thomas H. Cook Page B

flaps hanging limply in the windless air, and an automobile showroom, complete with two convertibles. Toward the back a sandy beach, dotted with plastic palm trees, swept out from a large photograph of the ocean. “We can shoot just about any kind of story using these sets.” He motioned her to the left, where a mattress lay on the concrete floor, stark and unadorned, covered with a single white bedsheet. “It’s not up to me, you understand,” he said as he approached a still camera mounted on a tripod. “Other people have a say.” He stepped behind the camera and began fiddling with its dials. “Just have a seat there,” he told her, nodding toward the mattress.
    Gillman continued to adjust the camera. When he’d finished, he seemed surprised that Sara remained in place, glancing about, her arms stiffly at her sides. “I have to have a look,” he said. “At
you
, Samantha.”
    She stepped back again and felt the wall behind her. She could see the door ahead and wanted to rush toward it, but couldn’t. He would catch her, and she knew it. She drew her purse to her chest. “Stay away from me,” she said.
    Gillman stared at her. “What’s the matter with you?” He stepped forward, his hands raised slightly. “Look . . . I have—”
    â€œGet back,” Sara commanded.
    Gillman stopped dead. “I wasn’t going to . . . do anything to you,” he told her earnestly.
    â€œGet back,” she repeated sharply.
    Gillman’s eyes sparked with a sudden stunning realization. “Wait a second, you came for the receptionist’s job.” He shook his head. “Oh, Jesus. Mildred’s job. You’re not an . . . actress.” He laughed nervously. “I’m sorry, Samantha. Believe me, I wasn’t going to . . .” He glanced about the room, the grim partitions, the hanging metal lights, the cheap furniture and the plastic palms. “This place. You’re scared. I’m sorry.” He stepped back, his hands now at his sides, and stood completely still. “Just go, okay? Just go, and we’ll end it right here.”
    Sara didn’t move. If she moved, he would spring at her, she knew. If she turned her back, he would rush up behind her.
    â€œI’ll stay right here,” Gillman assured her. “Or I’ll go all the way to the other side of the room if you want.”
    Sara nodded stiffly.
    â€œOkay,” Gillman said, walking backward one slow step at a time. “This far enough?” he said finally.
    Sara gave no answer but turned and dashed toward the door, opened it, and rushed out, taking the stairs rather than the elevator, her feet thudding loudly against the concrete steps, until she burst into the lobby, then across it and out into the air, where, she saw to her relief, no one followed from behind.
    TONY
    He pulled into the driveway, but instead of moving down the walkway to his house, he turned and faced the cul-de-sac, his attention focused on the house across the way. He didn’t know Mike well, and he didn’t know Della at all. But he knew that Sara and Della were friends, and that Eddie had been right in thinking that Della might have some idea of where Sara was. He’d meant to ask her about it three days before, but embarrassment had frozen him, the terrible admission that Sara was gone, and he’d taken the chance that she might simply come back, make everything right again, so that no one would have to know that she’d actually left him.
    But three days had gone by and now he had no choice but to act. Still, he didn’t look forward to revealing anything intimate to Della. She was Sara’s friend, after all, not his, and although he didn’t know the actual depth of their friendship, he suspected that Sara had told Della at least a few private things.
    The thought that Sara might have had this kind of intimate conversation with Della