Darkhouse. Alex Barclay

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       PROLOGUE

       New York City

      Edgy hands slid across the narrow belt, securing it in place on the tiny eight-year-old waist. Donald Riggs pointed to the small box attached.

      ‘This is like a pager, honey, so the police can find you,’ came his lazy drawl.

      ‘Because you’re going home now. If your mommy is a good girl. Is your mommy a good girl, Hayley?’

      Hayley’s mouth moved, but she couldn’t speak. She bit down on her lip and looked up at him, beaming innocence. She gave three short nods. He smiled and slowly stroked her dark hair.

      The fourth day without her daughter was the final day Elise Gray would have to endure a pain she could barely express. She breathed deeply through anger and rage, guilty that it was caused more by her husband than the stranger who took away her child. Gordon Gray’s company had just gone public, making him a very wealthy man and an instant target for kidnap and ransom. The family was insured – but that was all about the money, and she didn’t care about the money. Her family was her life and Hayley, her shining light.

      Now here she was, parked outside her own apartment at the wheel of her husband’s BMW, waiting for this creep to call her on the cell phone he left with the ransom note. Yet it was Gordon who dominated her thoughts. The insurance company had told the couple to vary their routine but, good God, what would Gordon know about varying his routine? This was a man who brewed coffee, made toast, then lined up an apple, a banana and a peach yoghurt – in that order – every morning for breakfast. Every morning. You stupid man, thought Elise. You stupid man and your stupid, stupid, rituals. No wonder someone was waiting outside the apartment for you. Of course you were going to show up, because you show up every day at the same time, bringing Hayley home from school. No detours, no stops for candy, just right on time, every time.

      She banged her head on the steering wheel as the cell phone on the seat beside her lit up. As she fumbled to answer it, she realised it was playing Sesame Street. He’d actually set the tone to Sesame Street, the sick bastard.

      ‘Drive, bitch,’ each word slow and deliberate.

      ‘Where СКАЧАТЬ