Free Into the Devil's Underground by Stacy Green

lilies mean celebration.” The words lodged in Emilie’s throat. She swallowed hard. “He said they were a perfect flower for today’s occasion. That today was just the beginning.”
    “Do those specific lilies mean anything to you?”
    “Definitely not celebration. They were on my grandmother’s casket—her favorite flower. So I don’t like to have them around.”
    Ronson’s sympathetic smile seemed sincere. “I understand. For me it’s roses. My dad. He used to bring them home once a week. He said their smell made the house seem like spring.”
    Heat lit up Emilie’s cheeks the way it always did during any high emotion. “At least I’m not the only one.”
    “Not at all,” Ronson said. “What about the Blake poem? Was it special to you?”
    “It’s one of my favorites, but no one knows that. I’ve never told anyone.”
    Curiosity flickered across Ronson’s face. Emilie waited for her to ask why the poetry was such a secret. Instead, Ronson made a note and said, “Can you remember anything else?”
    There was nothing she could forget. “After the hostage was picked, the partner said not to worry, that he’d take care of me.”
    “What else did the partner say?”
    Emilie told Ronson about Creepy’s strange ramblings. His voice echoed in her head as her exhausted body began to shake. She wrapped her arms around her chest.
    Ronson handed her the thin hospital blanket draped over the end of the bed. “Did the partner ever mention anything about the tunnels? Something that may not have specifically related to the bank but to the storm system in general?”
    “No, just what I already told you about the devil’s underground. I never dreamed he meant the storm drains.” Her skull felt like vice grips trapped it. “When can I get out of here?”
    “Soon. Can you give us a better physical description? In comparison to my coloring—was he lighter or darker?”
    Emilie looked at the agent’s mocha-colored skin. It was smooth and glowing, with very little makeup except a dab of color on her lips. “Lighter.”
    “How much lighter?”
    She tried to envision the brief glimpses of skin, but every image brought a flash of his haunting, watchful eyes. “I don’t know. Quite a bit.”
    “Is there anything else you can remember?” Ronson asked.
    “Did Detective Avery tell you about the partner’s…err…excitement?”
    “Yes.” Ronson tapped her pencil against her cheek. “I don’t know if the reaction came from direct physical contact with you or because he thought the two of you were about to make a great escape. But clearly there’s a sexual component to his fascination with you.”
    Ronson didn’t need to say more. Emilie knew what would have happened had Creepy Guy managed to succeed with his nefarious plan. She imagined being forced down into the filth of the tunnels and his hands all over her. He would have no doubt continued his strange commentary, as genteel as ever while he violated her. And then what? Death? Another go?
    “Anything else?”
    She tried to quell the shaking. It only got worse. “He was just…different.”
    “How so?” Ronson leaned back in the chair and closed her notebook. “Tell me whatever impression you can think of.”
    “He was polite, almost formal. He even called me Miss Emilie. Joe was constantly agitated, but the partner never got upset, except…”
    “Except what?”
    “I asked Joe if I could go to the bathroom. I just wanted to get away from the other guy for a few minutes. Creepy offered to take me. I knew I couldn’t let him get me alone, so I said no.”
    “What did he say?” Ronson asked.
    “Nothing. He didn’t have to. His eyes said enough. He was furious.”
    Ronson nodded her head, as if she’d expected the answer. “When did this happen?”
    “Not long before SWAT came in.”
    “Other than the flowers today, have you had any other weird things happen?” Ronson asked. “Other strange gifts or notes? Weird calls?”
    “No.” The