The third time was the easiest. Loading the body into the boot was cumbersome but she knew the technique. Place your hands under the person's armpits, heave them upwards and push. Once the torso was in, the rest was easy. She arranged the young man in a foetal position to fit his lanky arms and legs in. His hair, soft and golden as corn, fell across his forehead and she reached to brush it back. Her gesture was tender, loving.

Then she slammed the boot lid closed. She got into the car, drove off and sped past the sports car, its hazard lights winking in the darkness.

~oOo~

Another morning, another cup of coffee. Jeff sat at the kitchen table as his mother busied herself with preparing breakfast. He had, as he did every morning, told his mother to sit down and allow him to prepare his breakfast. However, she had, as she did every morning, told him to sit down and wait for his eggs. Jeff shook his head as he flicked open the morning paper. It was a battle he would never win.

He browsed the front page before skimming to the business section, clicking his tongue at the news. Taking a sip of the freshly brewed coffee, he glanced at his watch. John would have arrived at Darwin college by now, likely exhausted from crossing time zones and date lines. He should have called in by now, but considering his travel time and the late hour in England, it was possible that he had simply fallen into bed.

As she placed his breakfast in front of him, his mother noticed him looking at his watch.

"Don't fret," she said. "It's, what, ten in the evening in England? He's probably gone straight to sleep."

"I know, Mother," Jeff said. "It would certainly ease my mind if he called in, but it can wait. It's not like his edible transmitter has activated. There's nothing to be concerned about."

"Exactly. So eat up. You're still a growing boy," she joked.

Jeff patted his middle.

"Growing outwards, maybe," he said.

At that moment, Gordon arrived in the kitchen, a whirlwind of sound and motion.

"Good morning, beautiful!" he said, leaning down to give his petite grandmother a kiss on the cheek. He grabbed a nearby dish towel and threw it over his forearm as if he were a waiter. "Ah, I see zis morning we have ze special, eggs a la Grand-maman."

Grandma Tracy pulled the towel from his arm and whipped it across his behind.

"Siddown," she said, trying not to laugh. "Save the theatrics for a dinner show."

"Aye-aye!" Gordon said. He fell into the seat beside his father. "Has John arrived in Cambridge?"

"I assume so, son," Jeff said. "He hasn't checked in yet."

Gordon poured himself a cup of coffee; Jeff frowned as he added half the sugar bowl to it.

"Johnny-boy is probably out painting the town red already," Gordon joked.

He sipped his coffee and gave a satisfied sigh.

~oOo~

Agony was the first thing John felt. An all-consuming pain shot from the back of his head and wrapped around him like a pair of tightening claws. As consciousness fully returned, other sensations followed. There was the vile taste in his mouth, the harshness of the pillow under his head, the drape of an unfamiliar blanket over him. He reached to touch the back of his head and his fingers came away sticky and dark.

It felt as though he was swimming in molasses, as if the air itself was suddenly viscous. It took a monumental effort to sit upright and when John finally managed it, his blood ran cold.

He was alone in a dark room that had only one window. The end of the metal bedstead was silhouetted against the pale blue veil that preceded the sunrise. The blanket had fallen to his waist and he looked down. Where is my shirt? Why... What goes on here? There was a sharp chill in the air; it was almost as cold as it had been outside.

Then it came back, a maelstrom of memories crashing over him. The car, the roadside, the woman.

Casting the blanket aside completely, he set his feet on the floor. When he tried to stand, though, his right hand would not co-operate. It was caught on something. When John looked, he saw the reason plainly: he was handcuffed to the bed. Oh my God! What is this?

With the stress, the pain in his head exploded exponentially and he fell back onto the mattress. White lightning strikes of agony flew across his eyelids and he gritted his teeth, grunting through the pain.

Eventually, his senses returned. What the hell is going on? he thought. I need to get out of here!

As his head stopped spinning, he sat back up and cast his eyes around for his clothes, though he could see nothing. Dammit, he thought. This is not good. How am I going to get out of this? He pulled at the handcuffs' grip; the metal bit into his wrist. He leaned in to look at the lock but the darkness thwarted him.

Then the doorknob turned.

John's head snapped towards the door, preparing himself for whatever would come through. The door swung open, the overhead light clicked on and the woman from the roadside stood in the doorway, smiling.

"Hello," she said. "You're awake at last. I was worried about you."

"Where am I?" John demanded. "What did you do to me?"

The woman giggled; the girlish sound was eerie; it made his skin crawl.

"I brought you home, silly," she said.

"This is not my home," John said. "You can't keep me here. Just let me go."

Slowly, so slowly, the woman's face changed as she walked towards the bed. Her expression slid from a pleasant smile to a dark-eyed scowl. From her side, she lifted an arm to reveal a handgun.

"This is your home now," she said. "You belong here with me."

John's eyes widened at the sight of the gun and he raised his unbound hand. At this close range, even a poor shot could still hit him.

"Look, I don't know what's going on, but –"

The woman erupted with rage, rushing forward and striking out with the butt of the gun. John managed to dodge the blow but found himself on his back, pinned against the pillow with the woman screaming in his face.

"You do know what's going on! You're here with me! You're staying here with me!"

John couldn't take his eyes off the gun that was pressed into his chest. His heartbeat thundered and blood roared in his ears. The pain at the back of his skull rose to in a crescendo.

"Okay, okay!" he said. "Just… Let's talk about this."

"There isn't anything to talk about," the woman said, her voice suddenly calmer. She withdrew the gun and sat on the edge of the bed. Setting the weapon down, she brought her hand up and placed it on John's face. "You're here with me now," she said softly. "That's all you need to know."

John flinched away from the caress. The woman smiled and patted his cheek.

"You'll learn," she said.

"Look, I have a family. I can't stay here. I have to go back to them."

"There's a family right here for you," the woman said. "There's me, there's my daughter. That's all you need."

"You don't understand. I –"

Moving with incredible speed, the woman grabbed his jaw and jerked his head. Pain seared through his skull again.

"No, you don't understand," she growled. "You don't have a choice. The minute you pulled over to the side of the road, you became my property. You belong to me. You. Are. Mine."

John's heartbeat pounded anew and a wave of terror enveloped him. My God, this is just… What is happening? This can't be real. It just can't!

The woman relinquished his face and gave him a demure smile.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just lose my temper sometimes. I'm not always this irrational. My name is Grace. What's yours?"

Fury swelled inside him and he schooled his face into a snarl.

"I'm not telling you anything," John said.

Grace's face fell into a scowl again and she slapped him across the face with an open palm.

"Don't talk to me like that," she said. "Show some respect."

John's cheek strung but he barely felt it as his rage exploded.

"Respect?" he spat. "Show some respect? You've kidnapped me, you've chained me to a bed, you've threatened me with a gun and you want me to show you some respect?"

She struck him again. Despite the sting, he refused to show any pain.

"I did show you respect," she said. "I didn't kill you. And I certainly could have." She leaned in close, her hair brushing against his burning cheek and bare chest. His skin crawled again as her hot breath washed over him. "And I could have killed you. Easily. It wouldn't have been the first time."

John's blood ran cold and bile rose in his throat. Oh, God...

Grace drew away again and tugged at the handcuff that secured him to the bed. She smiled.

"Now," she said, rising. "I have to get my daughter ready for school. You just stay here and think about your situation. I'll be back later."

John said nothing. There was nothing to be said. When she left, he allowed the first few tears to fall. Oh my God, what is going on? How did this happen? What am I going to do?

He limply pulled against the handcuff and squeezed his eyes shut. I need a plan and I need it now.