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news had obviously knocked Mickey clear out of the ballpark.
    “I’d love to see your face right now. I’m sure it’s a picture.”
    “It’s a fucking Van Gogh.”
    “Look, Mickey, why don’t you just let me go? You’re not a killer. You’re not even a very good kidnapper. Break even while you still can. Drive me into the wilds and dump me. Let me find my own way home. Like Lassie.”
    Her words where met with silence, though she could have sworn she heard the unlubricated cogs in Mickey’s brain rustily turning as she tried to come up with an alternative strategy. So the kidnapper had no contingency plans and was now confused.
    Holding back a smile, she put her considerable powers of persuasion to work. “Please, Mickey. No one is looking for me.  They’ll all think I’ve dropped out to nurse a broken heart.” She paused for effect before croaking out, “No one misses me or cares enough to pay a ransom.” Damned blindfold. She could have squeezed out convincing tears, given half a chance.
    “Shit, I’ve got to think,” Mickey finally muttered. She rose and released the cuffs from the headboard, then locked them to the front, as was becoming her habit.
    “C’mon. Dinner time. I can hear your belly gurgling already.” Mickey sighed, mumbling absently as she led her from the room.
    “I made us a nice casserole for tonight.” This time she was led to the kitchen by a large hand cupping her bound ones. It felt warm and secure, and it brought a small smile to her lips. Hmm, holding hands now, are we? Isn’t this cozy? Cozy and interesting. So, someone had no backup plan, and someone was hanging on to her now? The tide was finally turning.
    Out loud she asked, “What kind of casserole? Chicken?”
    ❖

    “You sound remarkably cheerful about breaking up.” Mickey’s glum voice drifted over the table toward her. “Sounds like you’re glad to be rid of her.”
    “Trust me, I have never missed Victoria Gresham’s checkbook so much in my entire life, thanks to you. Ever thought of couples therapy? You’d make a fortune with your uniquely radical approach.”
    “What was it like?” Mickey asked.
    “Are you asking about the experience of being kidnapped?  Let me see—”
    “No, what was it like being with her? Victoria Gresham.  I mean, she’s one of the top five hundred wealthiest women in the country. They say negotiating with her is like walking a high wire over your own open grave. So what was it like being her partner?”
    Tonight’s meal was hands free, a hard-won victory. The other bonus was the obvious froth Mickey was in at the news of her single white female status.
    “It was like any relationship. We slept, ate, worked, relaxed together. Money doesn’t make people love each other any better.  Sure, we could afford whatever we wanted, but work always came first. It has to, to have that sort of income, so there’s no quality time, and your relationship suffers.” She grew flustered as she felt pushed to defend…what? A privileged lifestyle? Another failed relationship? She’d worked damn hard to feel this empty.
    “Sounds real romantic. Money and love—the American dream.” Mickey snorted.
    “Well, you seem invested for at least fifty percent.”
    Mickey ignored the jibe. “So why did you split up?”
    “You know, I was joking about the couples therapy thing. I really don’t want to talk about it.”
    “No, tell me. What happened?”
    “Why are you asking this? No answer I give is going to get you your money. Give it up and let me go. You suck at kidnapping.  Just accept it.”
    “Tell me.”
    She sighed, deciding to plow on and answer the questions, unsure where they would lead or what Mickey hoped to learn.
    Maybe her captor just needed to accept the inevitable: it was over. All of it was over. Her relationship, along with Mickey’s glorious revenge plans, had spun out, derailed, and now lay in a ditch, smoking. Now she had to somehow persuade Mickey to think about