Читать книгу Ricochet - Jessica Andersen - Страница 8

The collector unlocked the door with fingers that trembled, not from the cold but from excitement. He eased the shed open and let the cold winter sun splash across the soiled floorboards, let it touch the girl’s bare, chilled foot.

She stirred and her dusky-blond eyelashes fluttered as though she still fought the drugs that swam in her bloodstream.

His lips curved into a smile and he whispered, “Perfect.” She was perfect. Young and scared and too weak to run away, just the way he liked them. “She’s perfect.”

But you can’t keep her, a voice said nearby, or maybe inside his head. Stick to the plan.

The collector scowled. “I don’t want to. I’m going to keep her. She’s mine. I picked her out. I took her. I can keep her.”

No you can’t. Stick to the plan—or else.

It wasn’t the tone of anger—whether real or imagined—that changed the collector’s mind. It was the slice of fear that slipped into his chest, colder than the Colorado winter, reminding him of what would happen if he disobeyed.

“Okay, fine. Never mind. I’ll do it.” He opened the shed door wider and shook out the blanket he’d carried from his van. He leaned over and wrapped the girl, not to keep her warm, but to cover her from view, just in case. Then he lifted her off the dirty floor and carried her out into the light. He felt the snow crunch beneath his boots, heard the others calling to him from their sheds, and smiled.

Everything was going according to plan.