And then the stable lights went out.

Jill stopped marching and stood very still. She could feel her heart beating. The sound of it in her ears made it impossible to hear if someone was coming. As her eyes adjusted she could make out shapes, but the stall she was in was too far to the back of the tent to get much light from the big light pole out by the road.

Some of the horses turned around in their stalls. Some nickered-nervously, Jill thought. She felt around the wall blindly, trying to find the pitchfork. She'd left it on the far side of the stall. She turned her back to the door as she groped for it.

It happened so fast, she couldn't react. Someone rushed in behind her. She heard the rustle of the stall bedding, felt the presence of another person. Before she could scream, a hand was over her mouth. Her own hands closed desperately on the handle of the pitchfork, and she twisted around, trying to wriggle from her captor's grasp, breaking the hold, stumbling backward, swinging the pitchfork in a wide arch, hitting something. Her grip on the handle was too near the end of it, giving her little control or strength in her swing, and it flew out of her hands and thumped against the canvas wall.

She tried to scream then, and couldn't. As in a nightmare, the sound died in her throat. In that split second she knew she was going to die.

Still, she tried to run for the door. Her legs felt as heavy as lead. Her feet tangled in the clothes on the floor of the stall. Like a lasso around her ankles, the clothes pulled her feet out from under her. She fell forward, heavily, knocking the wind from her lungs. Her attacker came down on top of her from behind.

There was a sound-a voice-but she couldn't hear it above the pounding in her ears and the wrenching sound from her own throat as she tried to breathe and sob and beg. She felt the miniskirt being pulled up over her butt, a hand digging between her legs, tearing at the too-small thong.

She tried to pull herself forward. There was a terrible pressure in the middle of her back, then against the back of her head, forcing her head down, pushing her face into the manure she was supposed to have cleaned out of the stall that day. She couldn't breathe. She tried to turn her head and couldn't; tried to suck in air and her mouth filled with shit; tried to vomit and felt a terrible burning in her chest.

And then she didn't feel anything at all.

The Seabrights' neighborhood was silent, all the big lovely homes dark, their inhabitants blissfully ignorant of the dysfunction next door. There were still lights on downstairs on one end of the Seabright home. The second story was dark. I wondered if Krystal really was sleeping.

Bruce had "sent her to bed," Molly had said. As if she were a child. Her daughter had been abducted and her husband told her to go to bed. He would handle it. If Krystal hadn't seen the tape, I wondered if Bruce would have simply thrown it in the trash like a piece of junk mail.

Molly let us in the front door and led the way to Bruce Seabright's home office, the source of the lights. The office door stood open. Bruce was inside, muttering under his breath as he searched the bookcases near the television.

"Looking for this?" I asked, holding up the video.

He spun around. "What are you doing here? How did you get into my house?"

His glare hit on Molly half hiding behind me. "Molly? Did you let this person in?"

"Elena can help-"

"Help with what?" he said, choosing denial even while I stood there with the tape of his stepdaughter's kidnapping in hand. "We don't need her help for anything."

"You think you can handle this on your own?" I asked, tossing the tape on his desk.

"I think you can leave my home or I can call the police."

"That threat doesn't work with me. I thought you learned that lesson this morning."

His mouth pulled into a tight knot as he stared at me with narrowed eyes.

"Elena used to be a detective with the Sheriff's Office," Molly said, moving out of my shadow. "She knows all about those people Erin worked with, and-"

"Molly, go to bed," Seabright ordered curtly. "I'll deal with you tomorrow, young lady. Eavesdropping on conversations, coming into my office without permission, bringing this person into my home. You've got a lot to answer for."

Molly kept her chin up and gave her stepfather a long look. "So do you," she said. Then she turned and left the room with the dignity of a queen.

Seabright went to the door and closed it. "How did she know to call you?"

"Believe it or not, the people living in your house do have lives and minds of their own, and allow themselves to think without asking your permission. I'm sure you'll put a stop to that, now that you know."

"How dare you criticize the way I run my house? You don't know anything about my family."

"Oh, I know all about your family. Believe me," I said, hearing an old bitterness in my tone. "You're the demigod and the mortals revolve around you like planets around the sun."

"Where do you get off speaking to me this way?" he asked, advancing toward me, trying to get me to back away literally and figuratively. I didn't move.

"I'm not the one who has explaining to do, Mr. Seabright. Your stepdaughter has been kidnapped and Molly is the only person who seems to care whether she's ever seen alive again. What do you have to say about that?"

"I don't have anything to say to you. None of this is any of your business."

"I've made it my business. When, where, and how did this tape arrive?"

"I don't have to answer your questions." He walked past me as if to dismiss me, going back to the bookcases to close the doors on his television.

"Would you rather answer the questions of a sheriff's detective?" I asked.

"They said no police," he reminded me as he moved a bookend two inches to the left. "Do you want to be responsible for the girl's death?"

"No. Do you?"

"Of course not." He straightened a stack of books, his eyes already moving in search of the next piece of his kingdom out of place. Nervous, I thought.

"But if she simply never came back, you wouldn't exactly mourn her loss, would you?" I said.

"That's an obnoxious thing to say."

"Yes, well…"

He stopped rearranging and put on a face of high affront. "What kind of a man do you think I am?"

"I don't think you'd really like me to answer that right now. When did this tape arrive, Mr. Seabright? Erin hasn't been seen or heard from in nearly a week. Kidnappers usually want their money ASAP. It's rather the point of the thing, you see. The longer they hang on to a victim, the shorter the odds of something going wrong."

"The tape just came," he said, but he didn't look at me when he said it. I was willing to bet he'd had it for a couple of days.

"And the kidnappers haven't called."

"No."

"How did the tape arrive?"

"In the mail."

"To the house or to your office?"

"The house."

"Addressed to you or to your wife?"

"I-I don't recall."

To Krystal. And he'd kept it from her. He probably screened all her mail, the controlling prick. And when she'd finally seen it, he'd sent her to bed and gone out for a drive.

"I'd like to see the envelope," I said.

"I threw it out."

"Then it's in your trash. Let's go get it. There could be fingerprints on it, and the postmark could provide valuable information."

"It's gone."

"Gone where? Your trash was at the curb yesterday. If the tape arrived today…"

He had no answer for that, the son of a bitch. I heaved a sigh of disgust and tried again.

"Have they called?"

"No."

"God help you if you're lying, Seabright."

His face flushed purple. "How dare you call me a liar."