Tiffany glanced at the place where Sam's chain was attached to the ring in the floor. "You want me to let you off that chain, that's all. Even when it's not choking you, it's heavy, huh?"
"How would you know?" Sam asked.
Tiffany didn't answer. "You're not getting off it."
"What if I promise to be nice?"
She seemed tempted but ultimately shook her head. "I don't have any choice. Not tonight."
"What's happening tonight?"
"Wouldn't you like to know." She scowled at Sam's lack of progress.
"Are you going to stare at that all day or drink it?"
"My stomach's upset. I'm not sure I can get it down." She tried to give the glass back, but Tiffany's scowl deepened.
"No! You have to get it down."
"Why?"
"Don't you want it?"
"I want it. I just...I'm sick."
"So? Do it! You have to."
"But I can't."
"If you don't, Colin will knock you out some other way," she warned.
It was as she'd thought. Someone was coming over, and they didn't want her to make any noise. "Are you having company?"
Tiffany stepped closer, looming over her. "Shut up and drink it."
"I told you, I'm sick." And the reeking kitty-litter box was proof. She wasn't sure how Tiffany could stand it, except that she was more preoccupied than usual.
"Drink it anyway! Or would you rather I choked you again?"
Sam was pushing her luck, but she knew this might be her only chance. "C-can you give me a few minutes?"
Tiffany's sneer wasn't pleasant. At least her perfume improved the smell in the room. "I don't have a few minutes." She snapped her fingers.
"Come on!"
"I can drink it if you'll give me some time. Why don't you do whatever you have to do and come back for the glass later?"
Tiffany laughed. "So you can dump it? I'm not that dumb." With a curse, she picked up the chain, obviously determined to force the issue, and Sam began gulping as fast as possible.
"Oh, so now you'll cooperate," she said, her words dripping with sarcasm as she dropped the chain.
The smoothie felt so good going down that she almost couldn't endure the thought of throwing it up.
"There." Wanting to get rid of Tiffany before her stomach could absorb any of the drug, she handed Tiffany the glass.
Fortunately, Tiffany was in a hurry and didn't seem to think twice.
She took it and hurried out, and Sam slid over to the kitty-litter box.
Although she'd never made herself throw up before, she'd seen a friend do it in the bathroom at school, and it'd seemed pretty easy.
Sticking a finger down her throat, she gagged, almost threw up but then chickened out. She couldn't do it. It was too painful, too gross.
But then the strangest thing happened. She didn't need to try anymore.
Just sitting there, leaning over the foul-smelling kitty litter with her stomach so unused to being full was enough. She began to retch and kept vomiting until she was sure there couldn't be anything left inside her.
Afterward she slumped onto the floor and listened. The walls in this room were thicker than usual. She couldn't hear much of what went on outside, at least beyond the hall directly in front of the door. But she'd finally realized that if she was very still and put her ear to the wooden floor, a few sounds drifted up from below. Faint though they were, she was learning to decipher the differences between the opening of the door, the phone, voices.
The house seemed silent, but she knew Tiffany or Colin would eventually come to check on her.
After shaking the box to cover the vomit, she crawled back to the mattress, dragging the chain as she went, hoping the stench that had already filled the room would cover the smell of puke.
She prayed that she'd vomited soon enough and had gotten it all out.
She couldn't fall asleep. She had to remain aware, had to figure out who was coming over. Colin and Tiffany had to be expecting company. They wouldn't need to drug her if they were only leaving; they left all the time, and she'd never been able to get free.
Forcing herself to sit up, she hugged her knees to her chest and waited for sound or movement. If they came again, she'd pretend to be asleep so they'd stop worrying about her. Then, when it was clear their company had arrived, she'd use what little energy she had to cry out, rattle the chain, stomp--create enough noise to attract the attention of their guests.
But if Colin or Tiffany were the only ones who heard her, she wouldn't have anywhere close to sixty-six marks on the baseboard.
It was Tiffany who answered the door when Zoe got to the house.
"Hello." She smiled but seemed so reserved and aloof that Zoe stayed at the door instead of proceeding inside, even though Tiffany stepped back to admit her.
"Is anything wrong?" she asked.
Tiffany's effort to pump more energy into her smile was obvious. "Of course not. What makes you think that?"
"You seem a little...stressed."
"It's nothing. Just a bad day at work. And then your private investigator caught me as I got home to ask a few questions about Sam, so I'm running late." She fanned her face; Zoe assumed she'd been racing frantically to pull the meal together. "I didn't mind, of course," Tiffany went on. "But there's nothing I can do to help. And I already told the police that."
"I'm sorry. He's just...hoping that someone saw or heard something that's been overlooked. Especially since you were home that day."
"I wish I had heard something."
"I know. And I really don't mean to cause you extra work." Zoe wanted to either come inside or leave. She didn't want to remain standing on the stoop where Anton might see her. She wasn't sure how she felt toward him and didn't want to deal with any residual resentment or confusion. If not for Sam, she wouldn't have returned to the neighborhood at all. "Would you rather I came over after you and Colin have had a chance to relax and eat?
You don't have to feed me--"
"It's no problem," Tiffany cut in. "The food's almost ready." She waved toward the couch. "Have a seat. Colin's not home yet, but he'll be here any minute."
Zoe moved into the living room she'd glimpsed the day Sam went missing. It was as neat today as it had been then, but the furnishings weren't nearly as good a quality as they appeared from a distance. The couch, coffee table, even the pictures, had probably been purchased from a discount store.
She'd been with Anton long enough to spot a fake. He held any object that wasn't the most authentic and the very best in the highest contempt. But everything here matched, right down to the pictures of Mediterranean villas on the wall. Only the roses on the dining-room table didn't fall in line with the peach-and-beige decor.