Carmen promised herself she would not cry.

She was terrified, of course, but hoped she hadn’t betrayed that to the sick psycho who sat in the lounge chair across the room—just out of her sight line, at the moment. She still wore the Ozomatli T-shirt and shorts in which she’d been abducted.

At least he hadn’t stripped her naked—not yet anyway. Sometimes his eyes got a weird gleam that made her queasy…but she didn’t let herself think further along that line….

The room was dark, though it was daytime, slivers of light making their way around the edges of windows where blinds were drawn tight. Not pitch black, but dark enough to give her trouble making out more than the vague outlines of scant furnishings.

She lay on her back on a ratty sofa, a spring poking her backside, hands bound behind her, her mouth taped shut. Earlier, he had let her sit up for a while, but a short time ago he had pushed her back.

When he’d moved to her, she’d been scared all the more, not realizing he was still in the room. A low coffee table had been dragged into the middle of the floor, away from the couch. On a stand in a corner sat an old tube TV, but whether it worked, she didn’t know—it was either turned off or defunct.

She knew he was there now, she could feel him, watching her. Could feel the glittering eyes moving down her torso, stroking her legs, caressing her bare feet, then sliding their way back up to her face.

From where he sat, he could see all of her, and she could see none of him; but she knew he was there, all right. For one thing, she could hear him breathing, faint but unmistakable, like an obscene phone caller.

He spoke and she jerked.

“Do you want another drink?” he asked. His voice seemed almost soothing, concerned, yet somehow that only made it creepier.

She shook her head. She would have loved another drink, but that would only lead to her having to urinate again and suffer the indignity of him pulling down her shorts and forcing her to sit on that filthy toilet, a thought that made her want to puke.

And if she puked under the duct tape, she would choke and die. No, a repeat trip to the bathroom was something she would avoid, for as long as she could, anyway.

“You know this isn’t personal.”

He had shot her with a Taser, kidnapped her, brought her to this hell hole, forced her to expose herself in the bathroom, and even ruined her favorite T-shirt with that damn Taser.

What could be more personal than that?

“I know you’re wondering, why you? The others must’ve wondered the same thing too, I guess. Only with them, they didn’t have the kind of time you do…to think about it? I am sorry you are uncomfortable in this prolonged way. With the others? I could just deliver my messages, and they’d be gone, and I’d be gone. Simple. Straightforward.”

That he remained so calm, so blasé about the murders of so many people, chilled her even more than the kidnapping. This man could kill her and feel no more emotion about it than if he were mowing the grass or licking a stamp.

“With you,” he was saying, “it’s more…complicated.”

Complicated or not, it sounded like he meant to kill her.

She had little memory after opening her motel-room door, seeing the man, who, surprisingly, had no face in her memory, then the Taser, then this sofa. The amount of time that had passed between was blank.

Even if it hadn’t been long, with the sun visible around the windows, Harrow and the team must know something was wrong….

They would be looking for her. She just had to hope she could last until they found her.

“I want you to know, Ms. Garcia, this isn’t personal. I don’t do this to humiliate you. I don’t do this to make you feel uncomfortable. I would not strip the clothing off you and do something sexual. I am not that kind of person. Just so you know. Just so you know.”

But she didn’t know. She didn’t even know if he was trying to convince her…

…or himself.