Free Deadly Captive by Bianca Sommerland Page A

wide-eyed. Joe seemed ready to rebuke her, but her tearful gaze melted him. Forcing a smile, he patted her arm. "Take it easy. Lydia just woke up. Just give her some time."
    "But if I . . . ." Mary grabbed his hand with a look of entreaty. I started to feel bad for her. The kid really just wanted to help.
    "My memory is gone for good, Mary." I almost groaned at her and Joe's shocked looks. The horror in their eyes told me neither would let the issue go easily. I fought to bring a semblance of order to my thoughts. "I need to leave it all behind me." I lifted my hand to stop Mary's protest. "I don't expect you to understand. But I need you to accept it."
    Joe clenched his jaw, features set hard. He gave a curt nod. "If that's what you need."
    I took a deep breath. The air felt heavy with the grim topic, and I desperately needed to clear it. "So, what have you guys been doing to pass the time?"
    Predictably, Mary leapt on the opportunity to talk. "Not much. Joe tried to get me to exercise. He does it all the time. Can you believe it? Me doing pushups! Not likely.
    Do you do pushups?" She didn't wait for my answer. "Anyway, he was with you like every other second. He took really good care of you."
    I felt my eyelids grow heavy as both Joe and I let her ramble. Joe put his arm around me, and I snuggled against him, lazily letting myself drift away. It was very clear now why Joe didn't mind Mary. She made very pleasant background noise.
    After a few days, I realized there was more to Mary than I'd assumed. And that I'd been right about her talkativeness being a nervous habit. Not to say she stopped filling the silence with conversation, but once she got past her fear, she proved a better listener. And less of an airhead.
    Particularly rapid spills of words came with sudden bouts of nerves. Which was never more obvious than the night we were served a thick, rich, beef stew.
    Mary was singing, which I enjoyed much more than her idle chatter. She had a beautiful voice and a range that amazed me. Despite her claims of only liking R&B, she knew a vast array of songs, some moving, some haunting. The one she sang that day was sad, so sad I had to fight back tears.
    My emotional discipline didn't stand a chance against the heart-rending sound of Mary's voice.
    The song was called The Christmas Shoes . Mary said she'd decided to sing it because she had been captured around Christmastime. I wondered why she couldn't choose a happy Christmas song, but, on second thought, I wasn't sure I wanted to know. At just the mention of the holiday, darkness that passed through her eyes like a ghost. Joe and I did our best to avoid the topic.
    The slight tightening of her tone at the word "mother," as though it was hard to get out, clued me in. Tears were spilling down her face by the third time she sang the lyrics "Daddy says there's not much time." Her voice faltered and faded away.
    Poor thing , I thought to myself, she must miss her parents .
    Probably very true, but that wasn't what had stopped her singing.
    When Mary had been silent for a while, Joe sat up from his slouch on the bed. I followed his gaze. His eyes narrowed. Two large bowls of stew sat on the table, steam rising from them, letting off a mouth-watering aroma that made my skin grow cold.
    "Beef stew." I made a face, not out of distaste for the food, but from my awareness of why that particular meal had been chosen.
    "Not stew. It's boeuf bourguignon ." Mary took a hesitant step toward the table.
    "My mom used to make it."
    I watched Mary stand there, looking like she wanted to sit but was too afraid.
    Then I looked at Joe, standing just a step from the bed.
    "I take it they haven't come since she's been here?" I said.
    He shook his head. "No. I guess they were waiting for you to recover."
    I shivered at the lifeless words. I bent down, grabbed a random bottle from under the bed, and approached the table. Then I froze.
    "Mary—"
    Mary bit her lip and looked at me.
    "I hate to ask, but