Trevor covered the phone’s mouthpiece and looked up at Lara. “The woman was Native American.”

Every muscle on her face froze. “No way.”

He nodded and returned his attention to Ben Jones. “What date did your sister and her fiancé arrive in Tampa?”

“August 10^th. She told me she and George were planning to elope someday, but she never said when or where. I can’t believe she just left without a word.”

A morning cleaning crew had found George’s body on the beach August 11^th, making him believe the man could be Sanchez. “Why did you wait seven months to report her missing?”

“Are you shitting me? My parents have been going crazy calling the police up here in Ohio every week. They put out APBs and everything. Maggie and George just vanished. I only now had the guts to go into my sister’s room.”

He understood. “Did her computer indicate which hotel she was staying at?”

“The Holiday Inn.” Ben gave him the address.

Bingo. The hotel was near where they found the nude man. He asked the brother their heights and approximate weights. Trevor would have a hard time talking so clinically about one of his sisters if she went missing.

He flipped the page over on his yellow pad. “Do they have any distinguishing marks?”

“You mean like tattoos or something?”

“Yes.” He pressed so hard on the pencil, the tip broke. Shit.

Lara handed him a pen and tossed him a weak smile. He was glad she had his back.

“George had a tattoo of a snake on his right shoulder. Do you think you can find them?” Ben’s voice cracked.

Poor kid was working hard to hold it together. “We’ll try. Do you have George’s parents’ number?”

“Sure.” He spit it back immediately.

Trevor wrote down the information. “Are your parents home?” He wanted to get Maggie’s medical records in case she turned up. Lara could confirm her identification if a skeleton appeared.

“No, but I can have them call you.”

“You do that.”

“Look, you have to find her. She’s diabetic and has to have her insulin.”

The medicine wouldn’t do her any good if she were dead. “I’ll do my best. I promise.” As he hung up, his head swam with possibilities.

Lara grabbed his arm. “What did he say?”

He read off his legal pad to make sure he had all his facts right.

Ethan took a drink from his cup. “Looks like we might be working together. You on Maggie Jones Sanchez, me on her husband.”

“I find it hard to believe she’d be alive after all this time. It didn’t sound as if she was the type to elope and not return home, especially since she’d purchased return tickets.” He ripped off the bottom half of the page on his pad. “Here are George’s parents’ number. We’ll probably have to exhume the body and run tests to see if it’s him.”

Ethan nodded. “I’ll get on it now.”

Trevor pushed back his chair. Lara’s eyes looked glassy, which wasn’t good. “Are you ready to go?”

She blinked. “Absolutely.”

Maggie’s knuckles bled from stabbing at the wallboard for the last few days with the knife she’d stolen from CG. She’d pulled out the sofa and worked in the cramped space between the sofa back and the wall, hoping he wouldn’t notice her attempt to escape once she replaced the furniture.

He’d stopped by yesterday to drop off a shitload of food and enough insulin to last two weeks, but he didn’t say why the big dump. When she asked if he was going away, he’d merely shrugged. Not showing any signs of excitement at the possible reprieve took her acting to a new height.

If he was going to be gone, now was the time to work on her escape plan.

So far, she’d managed to create a one-foot wide hole in the plasterboard, but making headway through the cinderblock would be a different story. She prayed the concrete block was hollow.

The rumble of a car engine jerked Maggie from her chore. Shit, shit, shit. He’s coming. How could that be? She was positive he’d be gone for at least a week.

The floor was covered in plaster dust. This wouldn’t do. She was filthy. He’d know she’d been up to something. He’d kill her for sure.

She picked up the knife, shot to her feet, and shoved the sofa against the wall. The strain of an engine sounded nearby. Oh, no. She sprinted to the kitchen and stuck her hands under the faucet. With a damp towel, she wiped her face and her clothes the best she could.

Maggie stilled. It wasn’t the car door she’d heard but a garage door opening. He was going into the garage, which, the best she could tell was at the far end of the property. He said he had a hobby and liked to work in there for hours.

She let out a breath and relaxed for a moment. He could come to her afterwards, or not at all. With all the windows boarded up, she couldn’t see anything, not even if it was day or night. After waiting ten minutes without her jailer returning, she ran the vacuum over the floor. To insure he wouldn’t catch on to her escape plan, she took a quick shower. He liked her clean. It made him less pissy when she smelled good.

She’d just pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt when the kitchen door opened.

“Maggie? You here?”

Like she could go anywhere? Idiot acted like they were married or something. What a sicko.

“I’m in the bedroom.” He’d hurt her less if she were cheerful. She was ready for an Oscar when she escaped from this hellhole. And she would get out.

“Come out here. I want to show you something.”

She rushed into the kitchen. His normally solemn face appeared brighter, his eyes shinier. Confused, she stepped back, unsure what was on his mind. His usual MO when he came in was to list how bad she looked and how messy the kitchen was. Not now. What was up?

“Yes?”

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “We’re going outside. I have to blindfold you.”

Outside? OMG. Clean air. Fresh wind. She gave him her back. She hadn’t been outside since the monster had kidnapped her. Seven months, three weeks and two days, but who was counting? She should be thankful he’d bought her a television, HD no less, and a laptop. She spent her time writing and watching TV—but not just any mindless show. Fitness shows. Maggie wanted to get strong—strong enough to escape.

He tied a cloth around her eyes. Tight. “So you don’t try to escape, I need to tie your hands.”

Fine by her. She could almost taste the air. She turned back around and offered him her wrists. It felt like he used some kind of plastic to hold her hands together, but it didn’t matter. She wanted to be outside, if only for a short while.

He clasped her arm. “Don’t scream. Not that it really matters. No one can hear you anyway.”

Oh, she’d be good. So good in fact, he’d forget about her. Somehow, she’d learn what was out there.

With more care than she thought possible, he led her outside and even told her when to step around a rock or something. Whatever he wanted to show her must be something special.

She opened her mouth, dropped her head back and gulped in the cool air. She inhaled and inhaled, never reaching her fill. The fresh air was like eating a fully loaded chilidog and slugging it down with a cold beer on a hot day. Being cooped up had to have been the hardest ordeal to handle—that and getting repeatedly raped, despite his claiming they were making love. Pu-lease.

“Almost there.”

She scrunched up her toes, enjoying the cool, wet grass on the bottom of her feet. Man, she had missed the outdoors something fierce. When he pulled open a squeaky door, a foul odor blasted her. She was tempted to complain but kept her mouth shut. If she was good this time, he might take her on more outings, assuming she didn’t escape first.

Once inside, he removed the blindfold but not her wrist shackle. She blinked at the bright lights hanging from the ceiling. Three worktables, covered with clean white cloths, sat in the middle of the room. She choked. Did he plan to operate on her? Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest.

She glanced around as stealthily as possible. Two bales of hay were piled against the left hand wall. Leaning against the darkened wood was a shovel, a pitchfork, and a wheelbarrow. To the right were several bags of fertilizer. Maybe that’s what caused the stench. That or dead rats.

“I need you to help me,” he said.

He walked to a blue station wagon he’d parked on the left side of the barn.

She wondered what all the sheets were for. Halloween was months away. He turned his back, opened the back and fumbled with something inside. With his back to her, she debated strangling him with the plastic tie wrap he’d used for her wrists. If he weren’t so much bigger than she, she might succeed at stealing his breath.

“Come here,” he said.

She did as he asked and gagged at the still woman. “Is she alive?”

“I’m not sure. Here, help me carry her to the table.”

He wasn’t sure? Wasn’t he going to check? “What are you going to do with her?”

His body stiffened for a moment. “Make her beautiful and everlasting.”

Maggie didn’t understand, but that was all right as long as she wasn’t the one on the table. “Are you a doctor?”

“My credentials are not your concern. Just do as I say.”

At five foot one, she struggled to lift the tall woman, but she managed. All those push-ups had paid off. Sweat beaded her brow, but the exertion helped relax her bunched muscles.

After making sure the woman was positioned in the center of the table, he brushed the dust from his pants. “I want you to understand what I’ve been doing all the time you’ve been in the house. I know you’ll be impressed.”

She could hardly wait. Not. “Sure. Do your thing.”

He narrowed his eyes and flared his nostrils. A hint of regret stabbed her. She shouldn’t have used sarcasm. Too bad. If he wanted to kill her, he would have done so already.

Why couldn’t she suffer from Stockholm syndrome and think he was Mr. Wonderful? Because the monster had killed her husband, the only man she could ever love. Her lip curled, and she wanted to pound the shit out of the guy, but she restrained herself.

CG stepped over to one of the sheets hanging from the ceiling. Was he into theater or something? She always dreamed of being an actress, but she’d rather die than act for this monster. He pulled back the curtain to reveal some kind of stage set.

About ten statues huddled around an upright log. Weird. “What is it?”

“A tableau.” His nose inched up a notch. “I’m exhibiting a different one next week at the Tampa Art Museum.”

She knew he expected her to gush lots of praise, but the words didn’t form. The only thing that made it out of her mouth was, “Wow.”

He beamed. “I knew you’d like it.”

“They’re Native Americans.”

“Yes, like you.”

An imaginary knife pierced her heart. Like her. “Is that why you took me?” She looked closer at the figures. None looked like her, so he hadn’t used her as an inspiration.

He returned and ran a cold, clammy hand down her cheek. “At first. But you became so much more to me. I didn’t have the heart to take your life once I fell in love with you.”

He called rape and capture, love?

CG motioned toward the stool in the middle of the room. “Have a seat. I’ll tell you why these figures are so incredible.” He dusted his jacket again and strode back to the display. “Can’t you see how life like they are? So real, so perfect.” His bottom lips trembled.

As much as she didn’t want to encourage him or be in awe of his talent, she was impressed. “They’re amazing.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Want to guess how I made them?”

Her stomach soured as she shot a quick glance to the woman on the table. Her mind refused to think where his sick mind would go. “I have no idea.”

“They’re real. Isn’t that brilliant?”

She squirmed on the seat. “Real? I don’t get it.”

“Yes, real. As in I covered real people in plaster and wax. It was a stroke of genius on my part when I discovered the process. It’s rather simple really.”

Her heart thwacked against her chest. “You killed people so you could make realistic wax figures out of them?” Unthinkable. Horrific. Insane.

He stepped closer. “It wasn’t like I hunted all of them down and killed them just to put them on display.”

She bit her tongue to keep from lashing out. Nothing she could say would make a difference. The only upside was the longer he talked, the longer she could be out of the damned house.

“Are you an artist by profession?” Maggie forced enthusiasm in her voice.

“Of course, I’m an artist, but I’m also a historian of sorts.”

“You’re a teacher then?” Background information would be useful when she escaped.

“That’s none of your business, but you can think of me as someone who wants to preserve history.” He smiled and looked down at her like she was some small child in need of education. “I want to record the history of Native Americans; how they were treated; what they did to help America.”

“How are you going to do that?”

The moment he looked away, she searched the table in front of her for something to steal, something that would help her escape. Damn. A bag of powder, some plastic knives, and a small can of paint were the only items present.

He paced in front of the tableau and waved a hand at the display. “It’s a long story.”

“I have time.” Boy did she ever.

He dragged another stool from behind the table and sat in front of her. “My mother is, or rather was, a Seminole Indian.”

“You’re kidding.” Whoops. Maybe she shouldn’t have said that. What she was really thinking was what a disgrace he was to her race.

“No, I’m not.” His jaw clenched.

Sore subject. “What nationality was your father?”

“German.”

Did he have issues with being of a mixed race? “So was George!” Not. Try half Mexican, half American.

“That so?”

“Yes.” He didn’t show the excitement she’d hoped. Back to his pride and joy. “How did you pick your first subject?”

Maggie stole another glance at the woman on the table. Her wide cheekbones hinted she was Native American too. Dear God.

She didn’t really care to know how he’d picked them, she just wanted him to focus on his pet project and not on her. Maybe he wouldn’t notice her memorizing every detail of the place as she looked for a way out.

“Let me show you.” He eased off the stool and drew back the second curtain from the left. “This man right here was my first.”

He pointed to a short, stocky statue that stood next to what she guessed was a chief, if his big, feathered headdress was an indication.

“How’d he die?” Keep him talking.

“I shot him.” He dragged a handkerchief down his face. “The fucker was trying to kill me! He deserved to die a more painful death, but I didn’t want to mar his beautiful face.”

“Did he call you a half-breed or something?”

She waited for him to rush at her and punch her, but his body remained rigid.

“No.”

Stop baiting him. “So what did the bastard do to you?” Better. More calm. Less threatening.

“I had made a tableau that showed how the Florida Native Americans lived during the time of Osceola.” His nose rose in the air. “It wasn’t very good, but that wasn’t the point. He and one of his friends laughed at my attempts—actually laughed. Then the two of them jumped me. This one,” he said, pointing to one of the statues, “waved a knife and came after me.”

Maggie knew the ending. “You used a gun.” How fair was that?

“I had no choice. Both men were stronger than me.” He touched a one-inch scar on his cheek. “See this? I nearly lost an eye in the fight. I had to defend myself.”

That’s what all criminals said. “If it was self defense, why didn’t you go to the police?”

He eased his way toward her, his lip contorting into a sneer. “I didn’t want the bad publicity.” He straightened and brushed off some imaginary lint from his suit.

“So what happened to the second guy after you shot the first one?”

His lips hardened. “He got away, but I found out who he was. He’ll pay. Big time. Just you wait and see.”

It was time to change to subject again. “To get rid of the body, you decided to hide him in your figurines?”

His jaw clenched. “They aren’t fig-ur-ines.”

Whatever. “Smart. Real smart. No one will ever catch you.” His shoulders relaxed. “Didn’t the guy’s friend ever come back to see what happened to his buddy?” Maybe he’d report the death to the authorities, and they’d be looking for this guy, whoever he was.

“Yes, but I told him if he told anyone, I’d say his friend attacked me first and that I’d turn him in for assault too. The man knew he was guilty of striking me first. That’s why he never told anyone.”

Okay, so maybe it was self-defense. She nodded to the others. “What about them?” There had to be a good ten men and women in the display. “They come after you with a knife too?”

Quicker than the flick of a blade he had her in a choke hold. Air. She needed air. With her wrists still bound, she grabbed his wrist and tried to pull his hands away. He let go and stepped back.

She rubbed her throat. “Sorry.” When would she learn to keep her mouth shut? Her mama always said it would be her downfall.

“You better be. You can’t begin to understand what I went through. My father’s family rejected me because I was a half-breed.” A dab of saliva dribbled down his jaw.

So that was his big issue. “I totally get where you’re coming from. My folks hated George because he wasn’t one of us. That’s why we had to elope. They forbid me to marry him.” Liar, liar.

They loved George more than her, only they worried George wouldn’t be willing to have his children raised in the Ottawan way.

He closed in on her space. “So you understand why I have to prove myself to them?”

“Totally.”

He ran a hand down her cheek. Gross. Creepy. A large shiver took hold of her. He stepped back and narrowed his eyes. Oh shit. Then his face softened as though he actually thought about what she’d said.

“That’s why I have to show the world how great I’m going to be. The Natural History Museum in Washington, DC commissioned me to create this tableau of Pocahontas and John Smith.”

He looked like a little kid begging for parental love. Pathetic really, but in a way she felt sorry for him. A little. Okay, that did impress her. “That’s great.” She forced a smile.

“It’s not complete, mind you, but it will be soon.” He nodded to the table woman.

She swallowed hard. “I don’t even want to know.”

“Yes, yes. You must. You have to help me. Together, we can show everyone the real Native American.”

As in commit murder? She’d never kill anyone. “What would my part be?” She swallowed, fearing the worst.

Please don’t let him say she’d be Pocahontas.