Finding Claire Fletcher by Lisa Regan

his desk, thinking about home, his bed and a blanket smelling of lavender, and soft skin lying where Claire Fletcher should be.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1995
     
    My captivity didn’t take place entirely in that dark, windowless room. I don’t know how long I was there, but at some point he saw fit to move me.
    I was so excited the day he arrived carrying a tee shirt and pair of shorts. I had been naked, uncovered, without so much as a blanket or sheet for so long that the prospect of clothes made me weep. After nearly starving me to death, he had left me handcuffed by only my right wrist. That day he unbound me completely and ordered me to put on the clothes. Before I could think of anything besides the luscious feel of fabric against my skin, he cuffed my right hand again and left, returning moments later with a bowl of soup and a plain piece of white bread.
    “Eat,” was all he said before leaving once more.
    I ate hungrily, slopping the soup onto the floor and mattress. I subsisted on soup since it was all he ever brought me. The bread was new and tasted like rich chocolate cake to my starved tongue. I curled into a ball when I was finished, my body nearly purring over the treats.
    Minutes later drowsiness, heavy like a winter coat, seeped into every limb and finally into my center. My heartbeat slowed. I tried to keep my eyes open, but my eyelids too felt heavy, weighted. Sleep came. I dreamed of my mother.
    What seemed like days later—and for all I know it could have been—I woke disoriented to find that I was no longer in that room. The weight of sleep hung on me. I had to think about my arms and legs to get them to move. My eyelids were pasted together, my mouth parched.
    When I opened my eyes, I was temporarily blinded by the daylight streaming through a single window in the room. It had been so long since I saw natural light that I wanted to open my mouth and drink it in.
    The room was barren except for an empty closet which stood open. I was lying on the hardwood floor, both hands bound together above my head. I was still wearing the clothes he had given me, and now I had a blanket, although it lay beneath my body.
    I looked up over my head to see what I was tied to. It was an old cast-iron radiator, and my hands were tied to one of its claw feet with heavy rope. I squirmed and rolled side to side, using my feet to pull the blanket from beneath me and cover myself as best I could. I watched the daylight filter through the curtained window.
    He came later, closing the wooden door behind him. He smiled at me benevolently.
    “You’re up,” he said softly. “Well, I hope you’ll like it here. I haven’t got all the furniture yet but don’t worry, Lynn. I’ll have your room fixed up in no time at all.”
    “My name is not Lynn,” I said. “Where am I?”
    “You’re home, darling.”
    “This is not my home.”
    “Oh, Lynn,” he scoffed, the painted smile never leaving his face. “Your home is with me now.”
    “Let me go,” I tried, although I knew he would not.
    He made a tsk tsk noise and shook his head. “Now I can’t untie you until I know you’re going to be a good girl.”
    “That’s not what I meant. I want to go home.”
    “Oh, I know it doesn’t look like a home now, but once I get some furniture—”
    I cut him off, shouting, “I don’t care about furniture. This is not my home. My name is not Lynn, and I want out of here.”
    He looked at me for several minutes, silent. Then he arched his eyebrows and his smile grew. “I know what you need,” he said.
    “I need you to let me go.”
    He went on as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “You just need some attention.”
    I began to squirm, and my shouts were so loud they bounced off the walls and ceilings, echoing back to me. When he knelt beside me, I began kicking at him.
    My legs worked furiously, hitting his chest like a drum roll and knocking him back onto his behind. I kept kicking. He got back on his knees and grabbed for my legs,