Page 103 of The House Swap

He huffed out a sigh, seeming reluctant, but then he said reluctantly, ‘I’ll call her mum in the morning.’

‘Please let me know what she says?’

‘Yeah, yeah. Night, Poppy.’

He ended the call and for a moment she didn’t move, staring at her phone.

Logging back into Facebook, she checked Keira’s profile, but there were no new updates.

Was there anyone else she could contact?

There were a couple of friends they knew from the gym. She sent them messages asking if they had seen Keira.

Both of them were quick to respond, confirming that they hadn’t.

At a loss and needing to do something, Poppy pulled up Keira’s number, trying her friend again. The call went straight to voicemail.

Instead, she sent a message.

I’ve just spoken to Greg. He says you never flew home. Where the hell are you, Keira? This doesn’t make any sense.

33

KEIRA

Keira had never been good with silence. She appreciated the hustle and bustle of life, the sound of traffic and laughter, the clinking of glasses and noisy chatter. And music. The radio or one of her playlists was always on at home. It drove Greg nuts.

But this was different. The silence here made every tiny movement sound loud. Every breath, every cough, every swallow.

It reminded her just how alone she was.

She shifted on the thin mattress, trying to find a comfortable spot, but the concrete beneath it was unforgiving, and she winced as the movement sent a dull ache through her hips. She had tried curling up, stretching out, lying on her side, her front and her back. Nothing helped.

How long had she been down here? It was impossible to tell.

Days, she thought. It had to be days. But she had no idea how many. Time dragged so slowly, stuck here in the darkness with absolutely nothing to do.

The only time there was light was when he came down here, the overhead bulb flickering briefly on and off, but it wasn’t frequent enough to mean anything. Sometimes, it felt like hours passed between visits. Other times, it seemed much longer.

Or maybe it was shorter. She honestly didn’t know any more.

He never spoke. Not once. Not to explain or threaten. Nothing. And that was the worst part. Not knowing why she was here or whether she was ever going to escape this hellhole.

Her throat tightened and she tried not to go there.

That was the worst bit about all this time alone, all she had was her imagination and it had taken her to some very dark places. And the worst thing of all was the realisation that he had never hidden his face. She could identify him as the maintenance man who had serviced the villa. Martin, she was sure Poppy had said his name was. So why would he ever let her go?

He had her phone too. On the first day, he had forced her to give him the passcode. Not shouting or threatening in any dramatic way. Just standing over her until she understood what would happen if she refused.

She pushed herself upright, ignoring the protest from her body, and wrapped her arms around herself. It was cool down here. She was in a basement, she assumed, as she occasionally heard him moving around above, and there were no windows at all in the room. She had checked.

Her clothes were a state. She knew that even without seeing them. The white oversized shirt she had thrown on over her bikini would be creased and dirty. It was clinging to her in all the wrong places. Her hair was even worse. Tangled, greasy at the roots, and she could feel it sticking to the back of her neck, the ends knotting together.

And she stank.

God, she would kill for a shower.

Still, it wasn’t as bad as the other stench in the room.