Renee's fingernails dug into the black film that covered each basement window. The residue had to be spray paint she decided, and that lovely finishing touch made her new home every bit as depressing and gloomy as a good interrogation room should be. That had to what this was; one light hanging from the center of the room leaving all four corners obscured by shadows, a single folding chair, curious specks – some still red, maybe fresh, and others, dried, faded to a dark brown – fanned out around that chair in all directions. But the loveseat was clean; probably moved down here after the last poor soul who'd occupied this room had spilled his or her blood. She was thankful for that at least, the cleanliness of that small piece of furniture. It would no doubt serve as her bed for as long as Jackson kept her here.

"I know how this is going to end. You probably don't believe me when I say it, but it's true," she said.

Her voice was quiet, solemn and strained from her cries for help, which had come to a stop along with his car; when she knew for certain they had gone unheard. Renee didn't have to be loud. The subdued words were aimed at the man standing behind her with one hand on her waist, the other pressed against the wall, supporting the full weight of his relaxed body. And no matter how hard she tried to dismiss it, she couldn't escape the feeling of his eyes on her, watching as she picked at the darkened glass.

This man, the same one she had screamed for less than an hour ago said nothing in response, at least not initially. He stiffened at her words however, confused by what she'd said but refusing to admit it.

Renee had wondered why she'd done it; called out for him. It seemed strange after all that had happened, but when the car had come to a complete stop and the trunk had popped open she had been greeted by two men, neither one of them Jackson. She had been dragged into the house by the larger of the two, kicking and screaming the whole time. She remembered a hand coming close to her face as she was unceremoniously set down, she remembered biting that hand without hesitation, bracing for an impending blow, seeing an arm raised overhead, coming down on her, watching as that arm was caught mid air and then there was Jackson, grabbing onto her and holding on as she thrashed about like a child in the midst of a tantrum. He held her tight, so tight she couldn't move, could hardly breathe, refusing to let go until time passed, the minutes dragged and she quieted down.

Again, she likened it to the power of a familiar face. She knew what to expect from him – for the most part – knew the things that angered him and to a lesser extent, how he felt about her. They had reached a strange understanding of sorts and to start over again with a new captor or worse yet, captors, was unfathomable.

He cleared his throat. A sudden exhalation, but something she knew had to be forthcoming because he would never let her, or anyone for that matter, have the last word.

"What do you mean?"

"You'll take me somewhere. This…can't be your home," she responded, referring to the two story, white colonial style house with blue shutters and no visible neighbors, located somewhere in the Middle-of-Nowhere, New Hampshire.

"It is not."

"But you're not going to tell me where we're going. You'll make me wonder, guess?"

"You'll find out soon enough, and it will be much nicer than these accommodations, I promise you that," he said, almost apologetically.

"I'm sure it will be. Your home will be great; you'll treat me well and for a while…,"

"So what's the problem?" he interrupted.

"Things will change….things always change when people get comfortable. I won't live up to your expectations, you'll lose patience with me and then you'll do all the things you've already promised yourself you won't do…you'll hurt me."

What a life it would be, she mused, handmaiden to some emotionally needy assassin. If this weren't real life and if she didn't have the very real suspicion that she would never see her parents again, if she wasn't still weighted down by grief over her sister's death – a feeling she didn't think would ever fade – the whole situation would be laughable.

"But no matter what, I'll be locked away and you'll be one step closer to becoming a monster. Why, for what?" she asked, questioning him and her intended fate, already knowing the answers.

"You're being overly dramatic again," he responded. "But I'm glad to hear it."

"Glad to hear what?"

"That you think I'm only one step closer to losing my humanity. I'm kind of surprised you didn't pin the 'monster' label on me a long time ago."

"This is all a joke to you, isn't it?"

"No; on the contrary, I see it as a start," he answered, his voice dropping low, not pushing the envelop this time.

He watched her hand, the one that clawed at the glass. Renee had cleared a circle large enough to see outside and around, though she saw little more than a cracked and shoddy driveway. Steam rose from it as it baked in the summer sun; a stark contrast to the cool, damp air of the basement. Having spent her whole life living in the south, living in homes with slab foundations, the chill she felt now was less than welcome.

"You won't be able to break the glass, Renee, don't even try," he warned. Based on his comment, she wondered if he could read her thoughts and somehow knew she was scheming even as she spoke to him calmly or was it just his uncanny ability to predict human nature?

"There's a bathroom here. No tub or shower, but there's hot water and towels if you want to wash up. I'll bring you blankets…your backpack, unless you want me to find something nicer to wear than that Faded Glory shit you seem to love."

It sounded like a slam, a knock against the Walmart brands she didn't necessarily love, but could certainly afford and call her own; things that hadn't been passed down from Elizabeth. And yet she knew it wasn't meant to be insulting. She knew his mocking tone and that's not what this was. It was as if…

"Are you trying to make nice?" she asked, the words filled with shock and contempt. "What is wrong with you? Can't you feel…?" She stopped, unable to find the words to complete that sentence; not without pushing him over the edge.

"Who do you think I am?" he asked, taking her accusations in the worst possible way. She knew what he was thinking, why he had become so defensive all of sudden and had to admit that he wasn't completely off base.

He stepped back, moving toward the staircase before he turned back around, clearly offended that she would label him a deadbeat but thinking that to walk away during an argument would be an admission of defeat or worse, an acceptance of the title. "Do you think I'm some sort of working class schnook like your ex? I'm better than that. I'm better than him."

Renee offered nothing but a blank stare to counter his wholehearted assurances, knowing that his resolve and willingness to change would fall by the wayside once he felt secure. Those all too common phrases, I'm sorry and it won't happen again, would later become, it's your fault, and if only you would learn to act right. And in that moment she reminded herself never to fall for the phony promises and insincere trappings of another well-known face. What she saw before her was old wine in a new bottle, nothing more.

"I'll just have to take your word on that. You've given me no choice in the matter," she said.

"Do you remember the first promise I made to you?" he asked, relenting in the face of her misery, offering what was for him, a shred of kindness.

Renee thought back to all their encounters, some bone chilling, some impassioned, some tender; but try as she might, the only memory she could ever truly recall was the sight of Elizabeth lying on a cold bathroom floor, covered with a blanket as if keeping her out of sight could ever really keep her out of mind. That tragedy obscured everything else, making her encounters with Jackson irrelevant as well they should be.

"I don't know," she admitted, voice cracking just a little from the grief as she crossed the room, passed him by without so much as a glance and plunked down on the sofa with a heavy sigh.

"I promised you that if you stayed with me, you'd be happy," he said and dropped a book into her lap.

The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, by Stephen R. Covey.

Renee laughed, picturing Jackson relaxing in his home, a beer in one hand, this book in the other, dreaming of a time when he would one day rule the world.

"It's perfect, thanks, Jackson."

"I'm leaving, Renee," he said abruptly, ignoring her sarcasm and drawing a concerned look from her. "I wanted you to have something to help pass the time. These guys will bring you food, but that's about it."

Food; he spoke with optimism as if she could possibly eat at a time like this. How long had it been since she'd had a meal she began to wonder. If memory served, it was lunch with Elizabeth on Friday afternoon, when life was easier and on a relative upswing.

That was one day and three murders ago….

"You're going to leave me in the care of the Jackson Five?" she laughed, referring to the five men she'd counted in total as she was being escorted to the basement.

To her surprise, Jackson wasn't upset by her snide remark. Stunned as he was by her use of humor at a time like this, he quickly recovered, grinning at her and flashing, not the fake, pursed lip smile she'd seen before, but his genuine smile; the one that made his nose flatten just a little and his forehead crinkle. Renee found it somewhat unsettling that she had so quickly learned to tell the difference.

"I never know what's going to come out of that mouth of yours," he began, starting up the stairs and leaving her behind. "Being unpredictable is what got you here, Renee. And we both know it's better to laugh than cry. Don't forget that. It'll help you through it."

Renee wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that, but by now she'd grown weary and was almost too tired to care.

Feeling as though the point had been made, he ascended the stairs, shutting the door behind him quietly and leaving her alone to wait and wonder where he was taking her, how he planned to get her there and dreading the time when that door would open and she would be told it was time to go.

She reached into her back pocket and withdrew the pen; the one that had rolled into her desperate, searching fingers as she lay there with her hands tied behind her back, frightened and blind. It was ironic really; everything else in Elizabeth's life had been a shambles. To live with her peacefully was to ignore the clothing strewn about her home, to dismiss the wet towels she would leave balled at the foot of her bed only to throw them away when they grew mildew, and her closet looked like a bomb, one throwing clothing rather than shrapnel, had gone off. But the trunk of her car was bare…go figure.

At the time it didn't seem like a useful object. She didn't envision herself fighting off a group of men and winning her freedom with her trusty Cross pen, but she had held onto it, had chosen to conceal it anyway, because there was nothing else.

Now, as she opened the book to the dedication page, seeing all the blank space it provided, she touched pen to paper and began yet another desperate act.

"My name is Renee Ridgewater. If you should read this…"

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Author's Note: I just had to start the sequel. A bit of writer's block again, so I figured starting a new story might give me a much needed jump start.

So, Renee's stuck in a basement for now. It won't stay that way for long and these two have a very bumpy ride ahead.

Thanks to emptyvoices for the input and to everyone else for taking the time to read and/or review.