Under the foam blanket is a skinny tube, maybe five feet in length, with one flared end and the other straight. Sitting in little niches are conical objects a bit smaller than a football, with tubular ends that look like they slot into the big tube.

Gingerly I lower the lid back in place and latch it shut. There's another crate. The lid is nailed down, but I don't need to open it. On the side, stenciled, it reads, DANGER: HIGH EXPLOSIVES.

"What the fuck?" I whisper.

I make my way through the boxes, breathing harder now. High explosives? Why high explosives? What does Quentin need with high explosives?

Construction? No, that makes no sense, if he used them for construction he wouldn't keep them in the basement, and that other thing was some kind of a weapon.

I think it was a grenade launcher.

I should leave. Now. Get out, Rose. This is too weird.

The stairs creak under my foot and I freeze, listening. There's no sound but the happiness of children outside, faint music, and cheering. I take another few steps up, watching each step as I put my foot on it. They're bare wood bolted together, like the stairs in my basement. There are two staircases, one at either end. One goes to the kitchen.

This one goes to the garage.

I push the door open lightly and watch for movement, expecting to see him inside waxing his car or something, but the big Impala sits there alone, dominating a full half of the garage.

Creeping out into the garage proper, I take a look around. There are two big, heavy safes, each taller than I am. More like vaults, really. It dawns on me as I touch them that I don't need to open them to know what's inside. These are gun safes.

I should leave. I should leave right now. I should not open the garage door and walk up into the kitchen.

I open the door and walk up into the kitchen.

It's empty. I'm not sure what I'm expecting. What will Quentin do if he catches me in here? I can feel the walls closing in around me.

The kitchen is empty, I mean empty. Bare cupboards, no pots or pans, just a pile of canned food on the counter and a fridge with nothing inside but beer, bottles of bourbon, and what appears to be a half-eaten key lime pie.

As I close the fridge I hear something, a movement upstairs. It must be him. I should go. Really, I should get out right now, the way I came. I take a step toward the staircase and pull back.

Go home, Rose. There's something going on here and it's a lot bigger than you.

I creep back down into the garage, stopping to slow my breath. I can feel my heart pounding in my neck. I tug on the basement door, but it doesn't budge.

Oh God.

It's stuck or locked. I don't know, but I need to get out. I head for the garage door. It'll make a racket but it's a door, and I can go.

Except, I can't. The car is locked. I can see the remote inside, but that's no use to me. There's a switch on the wall but there's a clear plastic panel over it, with a padlock. I don't even know where to begin to look for the key.

What am I even doing here?

It doesn't matter now.I can kick myself in the butt later. Having no other choice, I slip back into the kitchen, walking lightly, testing my footing so I don't make a noise or let out a creak. The living room is still empty.

I make my way across. When I glance over my shoulder there's no one behind me. I'll just go through the front door, lock it, and pull it shut. No harm, no foul. Mrs. Campbell will probably see me coming out of the house, but the hell with her.

As I touch the doorknob, powerful arms snap closed around me, trapping mine against my sides. A hand closes roughly over my mouth, fingers digging into my cheek and jaw.

Quentin growls in my ear.

"What are you doing in here?"

"Mmmph!"

Gingerly he lets his hand off my mouth and grazes his thumb along my jaw.

"Answer me."

"I was just... I don't know. Let me go."

His breath is hot on my neck. I feel his lips, then his teeth. He moves up and pinches my earlobe between his teeth. I jerk in his arms and squeak.

"I don't want to let you go."

Excitement floods through my body, mixing in a strange cocktail with fear.

"You're shaking," he says, his hand trailing over my stomach. "Are you scared of me?"

"No," I lie.

"You should be," he murmurs in my ear. "I am."

"I didn't see anything..."

He laughs softly, and his fingers stroke over my throat. It sends a flutter through my body and I go rigid, trying to hold still like a scared rabbit, wary of a stalking fox.

"You're lying," he says, very softly. "I know how to sniff out liars, Rose. I'm very, very good at it. Do you know how I know you're lying?"

"How?"

"You just admitted it," he whispers. I can almost feel him grinning.

"I didn't-"

"Shhh."

He cups my chin in his hand.

"I knew you were lying because you volunteered unnecessary information. It's a very basic mistake. You learn these things when you study the art of interrogation."

"Interrogation?"

"Asking questions," he purrs in my ear, "sharply. I can make anyone tell me anything I need to know."

"You're scaring me, Quentin."

"I know, and it's turning you on. I can feel it here."

He slips his hand between my legs, pushes his palm against me, and holds his hand there, soaking in the heat from my arousal. It is turning me on. I like it.

I like losing control, don't I?

"What are you going to do to me?"

"What should I do with you? You were trespassing in my house."

"I'll scream."

"You promise?"

I shiver.

"I like that."

He pulls me tighter against him. I can feel his cock in his jeans. He's hard as a rock. He steps forward and pins me against the door.

"You still want me to fuck you, don't you?"

I press my lips shut.

"Oh, the silent treatment, eh?"

His arms slip around me and pin mine against my sides, hard, squeezing the breath out of me. He tips back and lifts me bodily from the floor, my toes dangling above the carpet, and carries me like that up the stairs. I struggle but only weakly.

"You shouldn't struggle in the jaws of a predator," he murmurs in my ear. "It only makes him want his meal more."

He's carrying me into the bedroom.

Quentin kicks the door closed and lowers my feet to the floor.

He doesn't let go. I'm still trapped, my heart pounding. He buries his face in my hair and breathes deep.

"You smell like tea."

"Quentin, let's talk about this."

"We're going to talk," he says. "You're going to tell me all sorts of things."

"Quentin..."

"Hush. I need you to be a good girl now. I'm going to put you on the bed and you're not going to try to get away from me. If you do I'm going to have to punish you. Do you want to be punished, Rose?"

"No."

He laughs. "I can smell your lie."

Quentin drops me on the bed and immediately falls on top of me, straddling my legs. I start to squirm and he grabs my wrists.

"Don't try to fight me."

My heart pounds as he reaches over and pulls open a drawer in his nightstand. I start to shake as he reaches inside, and blink as he draws out long lengths of silk. Scarves. What's he going to do with scarves?

I know the answer when he knots the scarf around my wrists, tight.

"Try to get loose."

I do but I can't. The more I pull, the more the knot tightens around my wrists.

"Don't fight it. It'll just get tighter."

He pitches forward and pulls my arms back, over my head, pulls the other end of the thick scarf around a heavy wooden post in the headboard, and knots it.

He sits back, still pinning my legs, and pulls his shirt off. I can't help but stare, watching his muscles bunch and ripple, distorting the dragon tattooed on his chest that winds around his body, its tail disappearing into his jeans.

"This is going to be sweaty work."

Leaning over, he pulls out more silk and ties each of my ankles to the corners of the footboard, spreading my legs. They're just loose enough that I can squirm a little, but pulling them only makes them tighter.

There's one more, but it's not red, it's black. Quentin slides it behind my head and wraps it around, covering my eyes. I can't see.

"You're blindfolding me?"

"Shhh," he says.

I feel the bed shift as he kneels between my legs and runs his hands up my sides, over my breasts, where he stops to squeeze, and then up to my throat. He doesn't choke. He just holds my neck in his hands.

"I can feel your pulse."

I swallow, hard.

"Felt that, too."

"Quentin, please, don't hurt me..."

"You keep saying that. Why are you afraid I'm going to hurt you?"

"I-I-I-I saw downstairs," I stammer. "There was weapons and things and...and bombs..."

"Yes. Tools of the trade."

"What trade? What are you?"

He runs his thumbs along my jaw then strokes my bottom lip with the tip of his finger. It makes my whole body go rigid and I involuntarily pull against the bonds holding me to the bed.

"I'm a bad man," he says, very softly. "I do bad things. That's why I have to go away."

I want to ask what things, but I don't.