CHAPTER 3: Weaknesses

Sara rubbed the skin of her wrist with her thumb, absentmindedly, an irritated shade of red from the few hours she had spent in cuffs.

Not so much because the sore skin hurt, but because the gesture soothed her.

Maybe there was a word for the awfulness of having nothing to do but wait. Of having to guess how many minutes had gone by since she had last gotten up from the bed and walked around the room to stretch her legs. A word beside 'boredom'. Gosh, how she wished she could be bored, without that iron anxiety gnawing at her, without freezing on the spot every time she thought she picked up the slightest sound on the other side of that door.

Was Lance back?

Had he gone at all?

She thought she had heard keys in a lock and a door clicking shut, but maybe it hadn't been the exit door. For all she knew, there was a handful of other prisoners elsewhere in that apartment.

"Ridiculous," she said.

She forced her fingers to stop rubbing her wrist. Now, she was pretty sure she was making it sorer.

A gasp broke free as keys entered a lock again. It was at some distance from her—this must be a rather big apartment. But Sara had grown used enough to the silence now that she'd be able to hear it if a soap bubble burst on the other side of that door.

Footsteps drew closer to her room. After more keys rattling and a bolt being pulled, the door opened, and behind it was the man who called himself Lance.

He smiled when he saw her, a smile of greeting, but that couldn't help itself from looking a little like a smirk.

He looked taller than usual, and Sara realized she hadn't thought of standing up.

"No, don't move," he said when she motioned to rise from the bed.

A flush of heat flew into her cheeks. It was pointless to hide traces of her vulnerability from him, anyhow. He must be used to detecting them, and there was only so much she could keep under the surface.

"It'll be easier like this."

"What will?"

He moved closer to the bed.

It took every bit of self-control Sara had not to scramble backward and let her back hit the wall. Where would that get her? She would not crawl away from him like an animal.

He stopped at the edge of the mattress and pulled a phone out of his pocket. "Ready to talk to your dad?"

A sigh of relief struggled to get out, and Sara bit her tongue to hold it in. She was sure to hold eye-contact, all the while, as if the man standing before her was really a puma whose lair she had entered right around dinner time.

Without blinking, she gave a curt nod.

He laughed, like she was being a good sport. His fingers moved across the keyboard and a wave of numbness washed over her.

Last time she had seen her father, he was signing her into that rehab facility where she'd spent a total of three months. He had sent one of his men to check her out because he couldn't be bothered to come, but he had paid every dime of the exorbitant fee demanded by the rehab center until Sara was fit to reenter society.

It was true he had never been one to get personal, and as a child, she'd arguably received more love from Francis, the redfish that circled around all day in its bowl. She rarely saw her father at all, aside from half an hour at dinnertime, most of which silent. But he had always done what he considered his duty to her, no matter his awkwardness or reluctance.

There was no doubt in Sara's mind her father would do whatever was necessary to get her out of here, unharmed.

She motioned to take the phone when Lance finished dialing and he glided it out of reach.

"I'm afraid not," he said, and held the phone close to her face instead.

Sara clenched her teeth, but could not help herself from swallowing in discomfort. "Is that necessary?"

"Probably not," he admitted. "But I don't like to take chances."

An image flashed through her brain, of herself grabbing the cell phone and hurling it into the wall so it'd smash satisfyingly.

Did he think she was that dumb?

Even if she had been the little girl everyone warned against such situations, Sara would have been capable of more self-restraint.

"I know, I know," he sighed exasperatingly, as if reading her mind. "This is all very—infantilizing. I don't mean to insult your intelligence." The phone started to ring. Lance was close enough that she could smell his aftershave. "But if anything goes wrong, it's my head on the line as well as yours."

Sara almost asked, 'You expect me to believe that?' But stopped herself after releasing the initial breath wanted for the words. He didn't care what she believed, and she didn't want to keep adding polish to that surface of politeness between them.

"Hello?"

It was her father's voice.

For a moment, Sara was only startled to hear him, immediately, and not have to go through the impossible networks of staff and secretaries who'd tell her he was busy, but they could make sure he got her message.

And he was worried, too.

No mistaking that.

Frank Tancredi had not sounded so worried since her mother was in the hospital, and they had both sat in the waiting room, a strained silence between them, as they came to the mutual realization that though she was his twelve-year-old daughter, she and he were in fact strangers, whatever blood might be running through their veins.

The deep, raw emotion in her father's voice caused Sara to freeze for a moment.

She did not want to sit there and say nothing, when he desperately needed confirmation that she was alive. But she hadn't prepared for this.

It was Lance's amused smile that shook her out of her stupor.

"Getting emotional?" he asked.

Now, her teeth clenched so hard she had trouble getting the words out. "Hi dad."

It was as if a bucket of hot water spilled over her head. To have to do this alone would be bad enough, but in front of the man who had taken her—

Worse. Much worse.

"Oh, Sara."

A plaintive exhale she hadn't heard in a while. Maybe the last time had been during her first overdose. With time, her father had grown steelier at the idea of her daughter getting herself in trouble.

Well, that was hardly fair, Sara thought. Had she gotten herself kidnapped?

And yet, blended with the concern, her father's voice was tinged with reproach. Probably unintentional. As if he genuinely couldn't believe in his daughter's innocence anymore, whatever trouble he found her in.

"Are you—"

"I'm all right."

"Of course, she's all right."

Lance straightened up, taking the phone with him. It was on speaker mode, so Sara could still hear her father's strained breathing on the other end of the line.

"Nothing remotely unpleasant has been done to her, sir, and so long as you meet my employer's demands, nothing will be."

Silence dropped over the room.

Sara understood her father's embarrassment. This was his cue to be angry, outraged at the possibility of any harm coming to his only child, but he was so clumsy whenever an occasion for feeling fell into his lap.

It wasn't as if he could adopt a protective, threatening tone and thunder, 'If you harm her, I'll—'

No.

Frank Tancredi was a businessman.

In all likelihood, so was Lance.

There was no cause for emotional outbursts on either side.

"So," Lance resumed, in his insufferable friendly voice. "You don't need to worry about anything, governor. I'm going to make things extremely clear. It's my understanding you have a speech scheduled two days from now. For the inauguration of a new school opening, yes? Well. You're going to have your speech writer rewrite whatever he had planned for you. You're going to announce your intention to veto the legislation on gun reform."

Sara gasped.

Lance shot her an amused glance which fueled her hate for him. She had heard about that reform, and for once, had thought she saw something like hope gleaming through the usual tedium of politics. Her father's decision not to oppose the vote of the majority had been one of the rare times when she had agreed with him.

"Wait," she said, "you can't—"

"Sara, I don't mean to be rude, but it really would be better for us all if you kept quiet. As I was saying," Lance resumed, to her father's attention, "you will make known your intention to veto the reform. From that stage on, our holding your daughter will be a formality. We could trust you to keep your word, but I'm afraid trust is a word my employer is rather allergic to. After that announcement, when the bill comes into your office, a week from now, you'll do as you said and veto it. That's all. Easy as pie, right?"

Sara said nothing. She could hear the desperation in her father's breathing, and it made her deeply uncomfortable, as it had to see him collapse at the death of her mother.

All her life, Sara's father had been more like a fortress than a man, always safe, always private behind that fortified wall. And there was nothing more traumatizing to them both than the rare moments when the fortress showed cracks.

"You don't understand," he said after a moment. "I've done nothing but repeat I wouldn't go against the voice of the people. No one would believe—"

"Politicians contradict themselves all the time, governor," Lance cut in. "People won't be surprised that you're no exception. Now, have you understood what my employer wants from you?"

Another strained silence.

"It's important I hear it," Lance said, "so we're all clear and my employer doesn't think you need more—motivation."

"Yes."

"Good. I'm sure you don't need me to be any clearer as to what's at stake. I would love it if you could rely on your imagination instead of my having to tell you exactly which piece of your daughter you'll receive in the mail if we find you've tried to cross us in any way. I do hate to play the sadist, governor. But I'll do it. All clear on that?"

"Yes, yes."

Again, Sara heard the tiredness in her father's tone. This must be hard for him, facing the role of the outraged father, the shoes he couldn't fill.

"Good," Lance said again. "Then we have nothing more to say to each other. Goodbye, governor."

He hung up the phone.

Sara found she was staring at him, but couldn't stop herself for the life of her. "I thought you said I wouldn't be here longer than a few days."

He shrugged. "Well, it's a rather harsh truth you woke up to, isn't it, Sara? I wanted to ease you in. You might not believe it, but I assure you, I can be rather soft."

Sara appraised him.

Maybe executioners had their weaknesses, like everybody else. Maybe he wouldn't like to have to kill her, maybe he'd even get a couple of rough nights over it.

But he'd do it, and his bruised conscience wouldn't do her one bit of good in the end.

…

End Notes: Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please share your thoughts in the comment section as always! Writing is a lonely process, and you can't imagine how welcome feedback is ;). Take care!