Blood Always Tells by Hilary Davidson (top 10 novels .TXT) 📕

that looked startlingly modern compared to the decrepit, starchy formality of the entryway. Unlike those in the musty rooms at the front of the house, its window wasn’t boarded over. Dominique stared through it, absently noticing how different the view was from the house in the Hudson Valley, even in the dark. There, it was all manicured yards and flowerbeds and a big, white gazebo that could’ve come out of a storybook. Here, the woods were thick and dense, with old trees growing so close to one another that they blotted out the moonlight. They were losing leaves, but there was enough of a canopy overhead to make the stormy sky even darker and more forbidding. She’d always been a city girl, first Chicago and then New York. Being around people energized her. To her, empty countryside was only so much dead space, waiting for people to come liven it up.

“What’s that smell?” she asked.

The kitchen would almost have been cozy but for the rank odor that hung in the air like a shroud. Something had died there recently, and the body hadn’t been cleared out.

“What happened in here?” she breathed.

“It’s a good thing I don’t have a strong sense of smell,” the man said. “At first, I thought your pal Gary was faking it—he said he was going to throw up—but it’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

“Where’s Gary?”

“He’s fine. Don’t worry about him right now.” The man cleared his throat. “You want something to drink?”

It was as if he were playacting as host, Dominique thought. In spite of what Gary insisted about his wife being behind their kidnapping, that theory didn’t sit right with her. What Dominique had planned for that day would ultimately benefit Trin, and even though she’d never had a conversation with the woman, she suspected Trin knew something about what was going on.

But it was more than that. What if she hadn’t doped Gary with that muscle relaxant? Would Gary have been a match for the Viking? The Bug had seemed ready to scuttle off at the flick of a finger. Would she or Gary have been able to call for help, or run away to a neighbor’s house? She’d never know, but the possibilities filled her with regret. She was largely to blame for the situation they were in.

“Diet Coke—any pop—would be good. Thanks.” She hated saying thanks to the man, even if he wasn’t as awful as the Viking. It didn’t roll off her tongue because of Gary’s warning. It was her Nana’s training, bred into her since she was a small child.

“Just so you know, there’s no food,” he said, walking to the fridge. “Take a look inside.”

He opened the fridge, and Dominique reared back. The stench increased tenfold, fanning out like a swarm of insects. Dominique couldn’t even look at first. When she did, she saw that the fridge was fully stocked, and not with human heads, as she’d imagined. The door was lined with cans of Diet Coke and light beer. There were bottles of wine resting on their sides across the bottom shelf. But the light inside the fridge was off and everything that wasn’t in a bottle or can—meat, vegetables, milk, cheese—must have spoiled.

“What happened?”

“We filled it on Sunday,” the man explained. “There was supposed to be enough food in here for a week, just in case things went wrong. And then the power must have gone off, and it never came back on in the fridge. Maybe it blew a fuse.”

“Is there any other food?”

“A box of crackers. That’s about it.” He cocked his head. “Good thing you’re a supermodel. You’re used to starving.”

“Wow. You’re not exactly the world’s most competent kidnappers, are you?” Dominique said. “You don’t even have food for yourself, let alone us.”

The man’s icy eyes turned baleful. He was obviously offended by her criticism.

“You know what I think?” Dominique went on. “You should quit while you’re ahead. No harm, no foul. You pack us back into that van and take us to the first stop on the highway. We won’t tell a soul. You and your crew get away scot-free and nobody will be the wiser.”

“You’re not in any position to negotiate, you know,” the man said. “You’re going to help me clean out the fridge.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Then I’ll let you have something to drink. Don’t do it, and you and Gary will both die in this house of thirst. It’s up to you.”

“Why do you care about cleaning out the fridge if you can’t smell anything?”

He made a dismissive snort. “Gary, Mr. Macho Ex-Boxer, almost barfed in here. I don’t want any messes to clean up, especially anything involving DNA.”

“I think you mean your brother wants you to clean this mess up, since he’s boss of this operation and you’re not.” She wanted to view his reaction, see if there was any daylight between him and the Viking. He looked resentful, but he shrugged. She tried a different tack. “What can I do with my hands cuffed?” Dominique asked. He had let her keep her hands secured in front. Small blessings, as Nana would say.

“You get to hold the garbage bag.”

Dominique had cleaned plenty of refrigerators in her life—she was obsessed with details like that, which was another trait she’d picked up in Nana’s neat-as-a-pin house on Chicago’s South Euclid Avenue—but this mess was impossible. Whoever filled it with food hadn’t cleaned it out first, so there was grime in there that she was sure was breeding new life forms. There was enough fish and meat and chicken to feed a small army, plus wilting heads of lettuce and brown broccoli florets. Bringing up the rear was the smelliest part, a cheese selection dominated by Roquefort, Stilton, and something called Pont-l’Évêque. That last one made her gag.

She listened for footsteps while the man filled a couple of trash bags, but there were no sounds from the hallway or upstairs. It didn’t sound like anyone else was in the house, but obviously