"Without everyone else, it's clear now, isn't it? That we've always been destined?"

He finishes the thought, so late that we've already past the first exit.

I raise an eyebrow, trying to wrap myself around the words. My body is taped but my mind isn't. Everyone is a lot of people.

"Who?" I ask.

He cracks a grin, "Luc and Stéphane. And your new idiot too."

The profile. Spencer was in danger because he was perceived as a threat to our relationship. Luc would have been a threat too. We were dating, when I wound up in His basement. Stéphane though, he knew He liked me. Stéphane wasn't thrilled about me dating Luc, since they were on the same hockey team. They actually got into a row at a party when he saw Luc and I kissing. But I mean, Stéphane admitted to egging Him on, before I got with Luc. Stéphane shouldn't be a threat.

"What did Stéphane do?" I ask.

He looks over at me, before looking back at the road, "he took you away the first time."

Me, naked and taped to the basement floor. Stéphane bursting the door nearly clean off the hinges. Tangling up with Him. The duct tape at that point was barely pinning me to the floor, loose from my sweat. Finally, I was free of His hands and I realized I could move. I curled my legs into my chest to cover myself as best as I could.

I clasp at the seatbelt. We've driven even further. Well, by the clock on the radio I do the math. It's been thirty minutes since we passed the bookstore. Over thirty-five minutes since the abduction, with the time in the parking lot unaccounted for.

"You're right," I say. "Stéphane did keep us apart."

Don't challenge His delusion. I want Him to feel calm too, unagitated, so I can understand him. That's the first priority. The more I push Him, the more likely He is to try to drug me unconscious. He didn't like me fighting last time, forced me unconscious a second time. And then-

Don't dwell on that either. Second priority: staying sane. Stay sane so I can understand Him, so I can beat Him.

"My French is out of practice," I manage, making each word slow. "Can we switch to English?"

He glances at me, hands tightened on the steering wheel.

"My English isn't good."

I swallow, "but you sent me notes."

He glances at me and nods, "you knew they are from me?"

I nod slowly, shifting in my seat. Duct tape isn't like in the movies, and just like last time my sweat and vomit are wearing the adhesive thin. It's not meant for bodies. I'm lucky that He didn't bring rope.

Of course, He wouldn't bring rope.

"At first I didn't," my voice croaks out. "Because you don't speak English. It took a few letters before I recognized you."

"I hired a private detective!" His knuckles squeeze the steering wheel. I imagine them around my throat. "Google translate is really helpful. It would've saved me so much work in school."

I nod back to Him. Professional photos, letters. He was paying people to do it, though with what money I'm not sure. Certainly, as a condition of parole He would have had to get a job. Unfortunately, it didn't just pay for His housing and food.

He won't be able to stay here long. Likely, He has some American cash on Him, though how much I'm unsure. I should act like money is of little obstacle to Him, though obviously of some. Surely, He'll have thought ahead enough for gas to wherever we are going.

Then again, He's clearly delusional. I don't know how much thought has gone into this.

After another ten minutes on the highway, He turns down the music. Fewer eyes will peel over to us. I can only hope that some of Luc's blood is smeared on the back bumper, and I bite back to keep myself from throwing up. I didn't eat before going over to my brother's and my stomach is absolutely turning in on itself.

"I'm hungry," I say to Him, no intention of eating anything that he has touched.

With a furrowed brow, He looks at me.

"I need to eat," I lie.

He twists over, looking at the back seat.

"You'll have to wait," he says.

I swallow, "how long?"

He doesn't answer.

Maybe He doesn't want us stopping again. Here is a problem I run into with profiling. There could be a plethora of reasons. Our destination could be close, though I can't imagine He has somewhere near DC to go. With what funds would He find a property? People will hear me screaming in a hotel or a motel.

"I have cards in my-"

"They can track those," He snaps.

I don't argue with Him. I try to make my voice even, give him something so that He thinks the issue is settled. Build trust, "I also have a granola bar."

As always, I'm thankful I'm a workaholic. My purse is properly stocked to deal with my insane schedule. Well, thanks to Spencer. I assume anyway, since I often forget to refill my purse and yet I never run out. Otherwise, my purse doesn't have many supplies in it. My wallet, chap stick, a hand mirror, and some hair elastics are usually all I carry.

When He tries to bend over to grab my purse from my feet, He veers out of the lane. Someone honks behind us, loud and sharp, and He jerks back and the car narrowly misses us, blowing past on the right.

"You're not supposed to pass on the right," He grumbles, ripping the bag into his lap. He digs through it with one hand.

I snort, "you're also not supposed to tape federal agents to chairs in cars."

He throws the granola bar in my lap and then shoves the purse back at my feet.

"Car seats!" He yells. "Why can't you remember?"

So, my lack of French angers him, or maybe my lack of memory. I keep my head straight, focusing on his tone rather than on reading his face. If I look at his eyes, I'll go crazy.

"I haven't been back to Québec in years," I admit, heart racing. "It's not... I don't..."

A smile slowly creeps on His face, "you think about it often, is that right?"

There's no safe answer. If He wants me the way I was, I should be explosive. There was never a point in my life where I wasn't hot-headed. Earlier, He seemed uncomfortable at my panic. He didn't like me conscious, fighting back.

That's what it is. The pleasure He gets is from when I am conquered, a powerful person sprawled out. He doesn't want me to resist or to fight. He wants me to cower. So that's what I do.

So, I sit in the car, watching the minutes tick by. The granola bar still in my lap, since my arms are bound. Whenever He twists His head to switch lands, I try to pull my arms up. The sweat has made the tape slicker, but I still won't be able to sneakily rip it discreetly, not even with the blanket covering me.

We pass through Baltimore as the sun is dipping to the bottom of the horizon. He continues up 95 toward Philly. North and further still, and that settles it. He's heading to Québec.

Tilting my head back, I can barely make out the fuel gauge. Before leaving, the tank was half empty, and it's getting lower. We're going to have to stop before we leave Philly. Never before have I made the drive to Québec, but I know it is eight hours to my brother's place in New Hampshire, and that's three hours south of the border. It's got to be somewhere around 10 hours without the detour. I don't know if He's paid someone to smuggle us over or what, but we won't be in Québec until tomorrow morning, if He can manage to stay up through the night.

Unlike him, I have no choice. My life depends on it.

"We aren't going to make it," I explain, edging out the shaking of my voice. Establish trust. Establish trust so I can get out.

He twists His head to look at me. I keep my eyes firmly on the road.

"We need gas," I tip my head toward the front panel.

With one finger, He flicks the glass over the dial as if the sheer force will somehow trick the car into having more gas than it does.

"We won't make it as far as Philadelphia," I look forward.

"We will," he decides. "This is destiny."

Well, He will find out sooner or later, though I'd rather it be within three minutes of a gas station rather than on the side of a highway, with rage in His eyes and me at His fingertips.

It takes another thirty minutes, just before the border between Maryland and Delaware, for the fuel light to check on. He taps the dash again before smashing the heel of His hand into it. The car swerves on the road and I swallow bile. The car still smells of my sick.

"The sign says there is a gas station at this stop," I explain to Him.

Grumbling, He jerks the wheel to the right. The tires screech underneath us, and a car honks, swerving past my eyes as He cuts across two lands of traffic to speed off toward the exit of the highway. He spins off through the exit ramp, and I feel the bump of the brakes locking and locking as He forces the car too slow down quickly. He stomps down to stop us as a car runs through the intersection and I slam forward.

The tape has come off.

Tilting my head down, I catch the metallic shock blanket and pin it to my neck. It threatens to slip from my shoulders, but I can't relax.

"It's okay," He whispers, leaning a hand toward me while the car is still halfway through the intersection.

I jerk to the side, shaking my head.

"Do you know how to drive?" I whisper, my head tilted against the glass of the car. I hope he can't tell that it's too much movement.

He starts to drive again.

"I'm learning."

I swallow. This is the last stop. The way we've been swerving has been drawing attention, but it won't matter when we die before He gets to the Québec border.

~~~~~

Forgive me I forgot today is Tuesday.

Also, forgive me for what I'm about to do next chapter. Spencer won't oop.