DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 9, AUTHOR'S NOTE - 2/8/15, 1:43pm

Okay guys. So, lo and freaking behold, less than an hour after I posted the last chapter of Part 8, a knock came at the bedroom door.

The cop put me through the same idiotic routine as before: I had to cuff myself to the bed, then toss the key at the door, and as soon as he heard it clatter onto the linoleum, he apparently felt I was no longer a flight risk and stepped in.

He was carrying a plate, covered, just like last time, with a metal room-service lid. This time, though, when he removed the lid, he revealed a very fresh, very hot steak dinner with potatoes and roasted vegetables. I'm not going to lie. It smelled amazing. I had to make an effort not to literally drool. I hadn't eaten for days, and, by this point, I was dizzy with hunger.

He set the plate right on the bed and cut the steak into bite-size pieces. He gave me a fork, and I took it with my one free hand. Without a word, I started pitching the hot food into my mouth, barely chewing before swallowing.

I understood what was going on here. I'm not stupid. The cop had obviously read Part 8 and had taken note that it began with Ashley and Chris craving Ed's steak breakfast, and then when Ashley finally gets some food it's the Home Guard's tri-tip that she devours. He could tell that I was hungry while I was writing. And he was right. All I'd been able to think about was my dad's classic steak dinners, so I guess the steak theme kind of worked its way into the story. And the cop had obviously picked up on this. He wasn't stupid either. He'd even somehow managed to cook the steak just like my dad used to, medium rare, exactly the way anyone who's grown up in a small cattle town likes it. He knew I wouldn't have the willpower to knock this plate of annoyingly utter deliciousness to the floor, especially not after so many days of hunger. And he probably figured that this kind of gourmet treatment would keep me writing.

"Slow down." The cop handed me a napkin—a cloth napkin. "Let yourself enjoy it. You've earned it." 

I ignored him. He just sat there at the other end of the bed, an arm's reach away, watching me eat.

Once I'd slaked my hunger enough to eat less ravenously, I swallowed and said, "I know you know I ran away from home." I tried to sound calm and confident. "But you should also know that my dad hired a private investigator to look for me." I didn't know for certain that this was true, but my dad had threatened this. "So you won't get away with this for very long. Just so you know."

The cop nodded. "Oh, I know all about that."

He shifted his weight, took out his wallet, and showed me a check.

He was careful to keep his fingers covering the name of the payee, but the signature was clearly visible. So was the name and address printed in the corner: it was my dad's name, along with the address of my childhood home in Colorado. On the "memo" line, right before what was without a doubt my dad's signature, a note in his familiar handwriting read: private investigation services rendered.

"Your dad hired me, Bailey." The cop folded the check and slipped it back into his wallet. "How else do you think I started reading your story on Wattpad? I don't exactly fit the profile of your typical reader, do I?"

Once again, my appetite vanished. I set down the fork and covered my mouth, suddenly nauseated. My dad was behind this. He couldn't have known that the private investigator he'd hired to track me down would end up kidnapping me. Still, however unwitting, my dad's actions had lead directly to this nightmare. And now here I was, trapped in a tiny bedroom, pretty much just like I'd been when I was living at home. . .