Stolen Lust Page 6

  “Did he—”

  “He didn’t hurt me.”

  He flinches at my forceful tone.

  Softening my voice, I ask, “How did you get back?”

  “I caught the Sun City courtesy shuttle. I was lucky it came by when it did. You have no idea how I felt, running next to the road and staying in the shadows while going out of my mind with fear. People kill each other on that road for fun.”

  I rub my hands over my arms. “Focus on the positive. You’re safe.”

  “Yes, but my car. Do you have any idea what that car is worth?” When I don’t validate the question with an answer, he glances toward the detectives and lowers his voice. “Where did he take it? I want that car back in one fucking piece or there’ll be hell to pay.”

  I doubt he’ll get his precious car back, but before I can say so, Detective Wolfe cuts in.

  “Through here, please.” He indicates the office Mint has left.

  The female officer holds out a pen to Mint. “I need you to sign your statement before you can go.”

  Ducking his head, Mint follows her to the front counter.

  The lanky man closes the door behind me when we’ve stepped into the office. The interior smells like stale apples and ink. It looks like a classroom from my high school with a wooden desk and a black board. Post-it notes litter the board, and a task list is scribbled on it in chalk. A metal filing cabinet stands in one corner with a sad-looking potted plant on top. The window overlooks a courtyard with a yellowed patch of grass and a wooden bench.

  Detective Wolfe indicates the chair facing the desk. “Sit.”

  I follow the instruction, balancing on the edge. Detective Wolfe takes the swivel chair behind the desk while the lanky one perches on the corner.

  The desktop is a mess of papers and files. An ink pad with a stamp sits on the side. The stamp has been dried on a piece of paper, the date repeated in a rectangular frame countless times on the wasted paper. My gaze slips to the one at the bottom. It’s Wednesday, a normal working day, yet nothing about the world feels normal today.

  Detective Wolfe interlaces his fingers on the desktop. “Mr. Visser claimed you were hijacked early this morning on your way home from Sun City. Can you tell us exactly what happened?”

  My throat tightens. Ian’s threat rings in my mind. I can still feel his fingers around my neck. The gentle, possessive touch is burned into my skin, and the latent strength underneath has been stamped into my memory. A man like him doesn’t make idle threats.

  I have to clear my voice to say in a normal tone, “If he told you, you already know everything.”

  His smile is patient. “We have your boyfriend’s statement, but why don’t you tell us in your own words what happened this morning?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” I clench the strap of my handbag to prevent myself from fiddling. “It was just a date.”

  The men exchange a look.

  “I see,” Detective Wolfe says. “Noted. Please carry on, Ms. Joubert.”

  My heart races a mile a minute as I rehearse the lie in my head. The trick is to lie as little as possible.

  I start with the truth. “We left the casino just after two. I noticed headlights in the rearview mirror that were advancing fast and told Mint to let the driver pass. It was obvious he was in a hurry.”

  The lanky, dark-haired detective crosses his wrists over his knee and leans toward me. “Did Mr. Visser—Mint—pull over?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t get your name.”

  “My apology. Matt Hackman.”

  “At the first opportunity, Detective Hackman.”

  “What happened then?” Wolfe asks.

  “The driver cut us off. We couldn’t reverse as there was a ditch at the back.”

  “Did you get a look at the vehicle?” Hackman asks.

  “It was a red Hilux.”

  “Carry on,” Wolfe says.

  “The driver came over and told Mint to get out of the car.”

  Wolfe leans back in his chair. “Did you get a look at his face?”

  I swallow. This is where it gets tough. “Not really.”

  He raises a brow. “Not really? Does that mean yes, a little, or no, not at all?”

  Giving him a level look, I say, “He was tall and broad.”

  “Tall and broad.” He smiles, clearly mocking my vagueness. “How tall?”

  “I’m not good with guessing people’s height, but I’d say one meter ninety maybe.”

  He nods. “So you got a good enough look at his vehicle to identify it as a Hilux and specify the color, but you didn’t get as much as a glimpse at his face?”

  “The headlights were shining in my eyes, and I was panicking.”

  “Under the circumstances, of course,” Hackman says.

  “If the vehicle cut off Mr. Visser’s car,” Wolfe continues, “the headlights would’ve shined at a forty-five-degree angle away from you, toward the bushes.” He narrows his eyes a fraction. “Isn’t that right?”

  “The nose of his truck was pointing toward us.” More or less. If we get technical about angles, Mint’s testimony will definitely contradict mine, so I keep it as vague as I can. “I can’t remember exactly. It happened so fast.”

  Wolfe flicks a hand in the air. “Go on.”

  “He told Mint to get out, and then he told him to walk.”

  “What did Mr. Visser do?” Hackman asks.

  “He walked, and when the man didn’t shoot, he ran.”

  “So, the man had a gun,” Wolfe says.

  My tone is harsher than I intend, my nerves getting the better of me. “Yes.”

  Wolfe smiles. “He had a gun, yet you forgot to mention that detail?”

  I give him a cutting look. “It goes without saying, doesn’t it?”

  His smile widens. “We’re just doing our job, Ms. Joubert. There’s no reason to get upset.”

  “I’m not upset.”

  “You’ve been kidnapped, but you’re not upset?”

  My heart is pounding faster. My breath stutters, and it takes everything I have not to show it. It takes even more not to let it sound in my voice. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

  “Let’s get back to the facts,” Hackman says. “What happened after Mr. Visser ran?”

  “The man blindfolded me.”

  The lanky one’s gaze drops to my wrists. “Did he tie you up?”

  I follow his gaze and notice the chafing marks of the handcuffs. “He handcuffed me.”

  “Then what?” Hackman asks, his voice a little more compassionate.

  “He left me alone for a while. He drove the truck away. I heard an explosion, so I gathered he blew up his truck to destroy any evidence that could be traced back to him.”

  Hackman nods like everything I’m saying makes sense. “Did he tell you why he wanted Mr. Visser’s car?”

  I lick my dry lips. “He said he was running out of gas.”

  “What did he do then?” Hackman asks.

  “He drove for a long time. I tried to count, but I lost track. We stopped at a house and stayed there for a while.”

  “Were you alone in the house?” Wolfe asks.

  “Yes.”

  The detective scrutinizes me. “You sure?”

  “I didn’t hear anyone else.”

  “Did he remove the blindfold or the cuffs?”

  I glance at my wrists again. If he’d kept me cuffed all night, the marks would’ve been more pronounced. My palms turn sticky, and I’m sweating under my thin jacket despite the fact that my skin feels freezing cold.

  The lie doesn’t come easily. “He uncuffed me but kept me blindfolded.”

  “You didn’t try to fight or run?” Wolfe asks. “Or take off the blindfold?”

  “He had a gun,” I bite out. I blink, and blink again, blinking away the unease of the untruth.

  “Did he speak to you while he kept you in the house?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing,” he sa
ys with obvious disbelief.

  “No.”

  “All right.” He folds his hands over his stomach. “Then what?”

  “Then he drove me home.”

  “Just like that,” he says with that infuriating, disbelieving smile still intact.

  “Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. “Just like that.”

  Even Hackman now looks at me like I’m spinning tales, the compassion gone from his expression. “Where did he drop you off?”

  “A block away from my apartment building.”

  Wolfe’s eyes tighten a fraction. “How did he know where you live?”

  “He took my bag. I assumed he checked my ID book.”

  Wolfe studies me. “At what time did he drop you off?”

  “Just before you got there.”

  He rubs a thumb over his chin. “Most people in your situation would’ve called the police the minute they were free.” He pauses, letting the weight of his implied meaning sink in. “Yet you didn’t.”

  “He took my phone. All I wanted was to get safely inside my apartment.”

  Hackman takes a paper from the desk and scans over the print. “You don’t have a landline.”

  “No,” I say.

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “Landlines cost money. I don’t see the point when I already have a cellphone with a more economical plan including free dialing.”

  “You spoke to your neighbor before you entered your apartment,” Wolfe says.

  Ah. So Mrs. Steyn called them. She must’ve been watching through her window and dialed the minute I set foot in the building. “Yes.”

  “You could’ve asked to use her phone.”

  “As I said, I was freaking out. I just wanted to go home. I would’ve dialed if you hadn’t shown up.”

  After a shower. After washing away the evidence of what I did. To be honest, I’m not sure what I was going to do. I was too busy surviving to harbor strategical thoughts. I wanted to check on Mint. I knew I had to drop by the police station, but I was imagining going there after I’d gathered myself somewhat to make a statement. I never expected them to interrogate me. Not like this.

  I want to ask if I need a lawyer, but I can’t afford one. I want to say I’m the victim, but am I? Did I let Ian fuck me because deep down I hoped if I did, he wouldn’t kill me? Or did I want it? I enjoyed it, didn’t I? I came. Hard. I let myself go because I thought I might die. Coming like that, when you’re making the last seconds count, is powerful. That’s all there was to it. Wasn’t it? My mind is a mess, and my body is shaking in the aftermath of the shock. I’m not thinking straight.

  “Ms. Joubert?” Hackman says, drawing my attention to the fact that he’d been asking me a question.

  I look up. “What?”

  “If it’s easier for you to talk to a female officer, we could arrange that.”

  My heart stops. My breath catches painfully in my throat. “What?”

  “If he hurt you—”

  “He didn’t.”

  Wolfe watches me like a hawk. “You’re entitled to a medical examination.”

  “I don’t need one,” I say, my voice cracking on the last word.

  Hackman goes through the document in his hand again. “You’re on a private medical aid plan since your employer doesn’t offer a company scheme.” Mistaking the reason for my reaction, he says, “You won’t have to fork out a cent. The costs are covered by the state. If you prefer, we can arrange for you to see a female doctor.”

  “I’m fine,” I say more forcefully, my stomach doing a somersault at their insinuation. Yes, I’ve had sexual intercourse, and a medical examination will show that without doubt. Only, it wasn’t with force, and that’s something I won’t be able to explain.

  “We can’t force you to undergo an examination,” Wolfe says, “but I highly recommend that you do. A doctor may prescribe psychiatric treatment for PTSD, or you may need medication to calm you and help you sleep.”

  “I don’t need more pills than what I’m already taking. If there’s nothing else, I’d like to go home. I haven’t even informed my employer why I’m not at work.”

  The men look at each other.

  Wolfe pushes a form and a pen over the desk. “We need you to write down your statement. After that, you can go.”

  As I pick up the pen with a shaky hand, he asks, “Did the man who abducted you tell you why he took you? I mean, it’s strange that he took you with Mr. Visser’s car seemingly without any motive.”

  “He needed a getaway car.” Stammering, I add, “Maybe he thought if he kept me hostage, he’d have a bargaining chip if he was caught.”

  “He needed Mr. Visser’s car, right?” Wolfe asks, scrutinizing me. “As his truck was empty?”

  “That’s right,” I say through dry lips, trying not the think about the hole I stitched up in Ian’s shoulder or the way he looked at me through his messy fringe when he told me it’s been a while.

  Leaning forward, Wolfe places one hand on top of the other. “That’s mighty strange, seeing that the forensic report I just got confirmed that with the size and intensity of the fire, the truck’s tank would’ve been pretty much full.”

  Chapter 6

  Cas

  I nearly choke on my shock.

  Ian lied.

  Why?

  Because he needed a nurse. But why not take me in his truck? Because he needed it to look like a hijacking. I can only assume he didn’t want the cops to know he needed a nurse and not a car. He didn’t want them to know he’d been shot.

  What has he done? What crime did he commit that earned him a bullet?

  The detectives watch me as I drag the form closer and start writing. I’m aware of their stares even as I hide behind my hair. All the while, my heart hammers between my ribs. My handwriting is shaky at best, but I sign the form and hand it to Wolfe.

  “Can I go now?” I know nothing about civil rights or what I’m entitled to, but I pray as I get to my feet.

  “Sure.” The way he looks at me tells me I haven’t seen the last of him. “Do you need a lift home?”

  “No, thanks.” I don’t want to spend a minute longer under his piercing stare. “I’ll just get a cab. Do you have a phone I can use?”

  Hackman walks to the door. “Through here.”

  I follow him back to reception, where the woman hands me a cordless phone. I dial the Yellow Pages for the number and ask them to connect me. After requesting a driver to fetch me, I leave the station and wait outside.

  My mind is all over the place. I need a new phone. I need to call in and tell my boss why I’m late. I can’t afford to lose this job. I’m in arrears with my rent as it is. I don’t have more than a few bucks left, certainly not enough to buy a new phone. My job pays all right, but my chronic medication is expensive and not covered by my private, basic, medical insurance plan, which is the only one I can afford.

  When the cab pulls up a few minutes later, I take out my wallet, only to remember I paid for my meal last night and left the last of my cash as a tip.

  Crap.

  I get that sick feeling I always do when I’m embarrassed, ashamed, or in deep shit. Even if I don’t take the cab, I have to pay a call-out fee. I have no choice but to go back inside and beg a few bucks from Detective Wolfe. No. I’d rather die than do that.

  I’m about to count out my coins when I notice the brown corner of a two-hundred-rand-bill sticking out from the back compartment. Grabbing the corner, I pull out the bill. Sure as hell. It’s there. It’s real. There’s only one way it could’ve gotten there. Ian must’ve slipped it into my wallet.

  “Ma’am?” the driver asks, leaning over to look at me through the open passenger window. “You comin’ or what?”

  I get into the back, trying to process the fact that Ian has left me with enough money to get a cab. What is he? A gentleman criminal? I can’t make sense of anything, and I’m more unsettled than ever when the driver stops at my apartment block.

 
I pay with Ian’s money and dash up the stairs, only to slow as I near my apartment. A white piece of paper is stuck to the door. I drag my steps, my stomach dropping, but I can’t put off the inevitable forever. Coming to a stop in front of my door, I feel sick as my worst fear is confirmed.

  A termination of lease contract notice.

  It’s painful. My failure to fulfil the most basic life task of providing myself with a roof over my head is shameful. I force myself to read every word. The words form sentences, but they don’t make sense. I read them again. The landlord is giving me a calender month to vacate the apartment. If I fail to vacate, he’ll start the eviction procedure at the court.

  Tearing the paper off the door, I crumple it in a fist. Fighting instinct kicks in, sending me down the stairs in a flurry to bang a fist on the landlord’s door.

  Mr. Davis opens the door a crack.

  I wave the ball of paper at him. “You said I could have until the end of next month.”

  He wears a guilty look on his face. “I don’t want trouble in the building.”

  “Trouble?” The light bulb goes on. Mrs. Steyn must’ve run straight to him with her gossip.

  “I don’t want the cops coming around here,” he says, confirming my suspicion.

  “I can explain.”

  He sighs. “Save me the explanations.”

  “You said—”

  “I know what I said.” He drags a hand over his vest-clad stomach. “Let’s face it. You’re always late with the rent. It’s a risk I’m not prepared to take any longer.”

  “I’ll get the money.”

  He grips the door. “I’ve heard that before.” Mumbling, he adds under his breath, “One time too many.”

  “No, wait.” I flatten a palm on the door, but he closes it in my face.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he calls through the wood, his voice fading out as he continues with his life inside, uncaring that mine is falling apart. Not that he owes me anything.

  I stand frozen as the sickening feeling intensifies. It’s a horrible feeling, knowing I won’t have a roof over my head by the end of next month.

  While fear immobilizes me, my mind runs ahead, imagining the terrifying consequences and simultaneously searching for solutions. Visions of myself living from the back of my car and washing with stolen water from someone’s garden tap ties my stomach into a knot. Only, that feeble solution isn’t an option, as my car is at the workshop. The mechanic is holding back on ordering the parts needed to repair it until I can pay.