Cynthia? Paul moaned and pushed himself onto his elbow, but Richard was already up, reaching for the phone on the bedside table, fumbling with it. Shite. Shite. Shite. Bloody Shite.

"So, this ma..."

"Hullo?" Paul listened intently, trying to hear what Cynthia was saying, but her voice was low. "No, this is Richard, his life partner."

There was a pause and then the light of the display came on, indicating that Cynthia had hung up. Richard blinked and looked at the phone for a minute before flipping it closed and setting it back down. "Who’s Cynthia?"

Paul scowled and laid back down, ignoring the question. A moment later, a hand fisted in his hair, pulling his head back up. "Who. Is. Cynthia?"

"Chick. I met. At the club."

Richard smiled lazily, and kissed him firmly on the lips. "See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?" He got out of bed and ambled towards the bathroom, leaving the door open while he took a piss.

Paul rolled over and sat up, leaning against the wall. The past three weeks had been utter hell. He’d always thought he knew Richard. No matter what anyone said, he knew Richard, but the truth was, he didn’t. He knew absolutely nothing and after these last three weeks, he was beginning to understand. Richard was fucking crazy. That was all there was to it.

The cell phones had both been locked with new passwords. Not that it mattered, because Richard never left him alone - eating with him, sleeping with him, driving with him. When they were on the set he insisted that they always be there together and Richard never allowed him to take his wallet with him, so even if he did try and make a run for it, he had no money and he certainly didn’t have a car. What made it worse was that Paul was terrified to even try to leave. Not because he thought Richard would hurt him, but because if he was out of his sight, Richard might skip town as well, heading back to England to take care of his 'little problem'.

The shower turned on and Paul sighed, pushing himself off the bed. He’d barely taken two steps towards the bedroom door when he heard Richard calling for him. "Paul, get in here, you need a shower."

‘I need sex’ was left out, but it was there, none the less. That was another thing that Paul had never realized about Richard. He’d known that he liked it hard and rough, but he hadn’t realized the sheer sadistic pleasure that Richard took from his victims and that was what Paul felt like now. He was just another victim, just another one of Richard’s boys and the worst part was he had no doubt that if Richard thought he was losing control over him, Paul really would be another one of his boys, dead in an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere.

He sighed and shrugged it off. He’d had enough sex with Richard that he could deal with this. No matter how vicious and rough, he could grit his teeth and take it. The only thing he had trouble with as he braced his palms on the wet tile of the oversized standing shower and accepted the feel of Richard’s hands on him body, opening him with spit and a finger, was the realization that Mitch had been in his place. Little, sheepish Mitch with the hesitant smile and heart stopping laugh had been pressed against a shower and fucked ruthlessly and without care until he’d bled.

Fifteen minutes later, he cringed as he pulled on jeans over his still wet legs. It was four in the morning and they had an hour before they had to be on set, but Richard figured that since they were up, they might as well get an early start. It was going to be a long three hours for Richard and him in makeup.

Richard came out of the closet, pulling his jumper on over his head. "We’re leaving."

Paul grabbed his t-shirt, shoving it haphazardly on as he followed Richard to the door, pushing his bare feet into his shoes and cursing heavily as he half tripped out the door and down the hall. "Richard, hold up!"

With a backward glance, Richard hit the button for the lift. "Hurry, love."

"Bloody hell." Paul locked the door and hopped the last few steps, pulling his left shoe the rest of the way on as the lift's doors closed behind them, glaring at Richard. "You could have bloody well waited for me."

Richard smiled at him unconcerned, "Careful now, the walls have ears."

Paul looked over and saw a woman standing in the corner, watching them in the reflective surface of the wall. He sighed, "Bloody hell."

Since they’d been in America, he had been constantly under scrutiny. He had thought the paparazzi in England was bad, but at least they were obvious, with camera’s flashing in your face at every turn and questions being shouted at you. Here, there were spies everywhere and you could never quite tell what they were going to do. Sometimes there were cameras and microphones and sometimes it was Harry bloody Normal who managed to overhear the right thing or pull out his camera at the right time.

Smiling at the civilian, Richard wrap an arm around his ‘life partner,’ "Cranky lovers, hazard of waking up at this ungodly hour."

She smiled a little and he breathed an inward sigh of relief. Anything to keep the people oblivious. They walked in silence, keeping a foot between them. He would have made it more, but he couldn’t chance that someone would see it and flash a picture of them. If that happened, the citizens of the greater United States would be reading about their lover’s tiff before the day was up.

On that thought, he stepped closer to Richard and took his hand. Richard squeezed it back and he felt the moment approaching. He’d taken it at least once every day, sometimes twice. Even if he’d known it wouldn’t do any good. "Richard..."

"We’re not discussing that, Paul."

"He hasn’t said anything, he’s not going to. Let it be..."

"Don’t be an idiot, Paul."

"He’s only fif..."

Before he could finish that, he found himself pressed against a chainlink fence, his hands on either side his head and Richard’s hot breath against the side of his face. "I am aware of his age, have been since his name came up on my bloody television, love, and you’ve made bloody sure I didn’t forget it. If I hear," he raised his voice mockingly, "‘he’s fifteen’ one more bloody time, I will tie you to a tree and make you watch while I gut him. Do I make myself clear?"

Paul closed his eyes and concentrated on breathed. "Yes, Richard." He just had to hold on. Just one more week until they were on their way back and any day now he could get his fabulous opportunity to get away and maybe he really would, because he wasn’t giving up on Mitch and he wasn’t going to sit back and watch Richard kill him.

*****

Henry Dearing stared at the report in front of him blankly. They’d searched through everything in the bags, absolutely everything and come up with nothing. Not a single shred of evidence connecting them to anyone who could even possibly be the kidnapper. Nothing in there had any kind of serial number or identifying mark. Well, there had been some school books registered to a Jeremy Gerring, who went to a private school in Kent but a quick search and it turned out that Jeremy Gerring was only sixteen and he’d sold his school books to a local shop some months ago.

He looked up at his son through the dining room window. Mitch was in the backyard with Cynthia. They’d spent a lot of time out of doors recently, a stark contrast to the way things had been before his son disappeared. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the sounds of Cynthia, Mark, and Mitch sitting in the living room, elbowing each other while they played video games, slinging half hearted insults in low tones to avoid getting in trouble for using language that was strictly prohibited in the Dearing household.

That wasn’t how it was anymore and he didn’t need years on the force to know it would never be that way again. What had happened to his son... god, it made him physically ill to think about. He’d rarely seen cases where that kind of thing had ended in the child coming home safely, not without police intervention. So, what, or more precisely, who had brought his son home? There was, of course, the possibility that he had escaped on his own and hitched a ride, but somehow, Henry doubted that.

Mitch gave a half smile and kicked the little swing back, letting it sway. With a sigh, Henry got up from the table and went back down the hall, stopping in front of Mitch’s bedroom door. He hadn’t been in the room since Mitch had come home. For two and a half months it had been kept in perfect, pristine condition, like time had stopped, and he’d gone in it at least once a day and sat on the bed, crying. Not that he’d told Margarete that. Not that he’d had any delusions she didn’t do the same.

Slowly, he opened the door and stepped inside. Frank had told him what Mitch had done, ripping the posters down. He should have known his son was gay. It didn’t mattered to him, but if he’d known, he could have done things differently - the lecture on date rape would have been quite a bit different. Henry looked at the bare walls spitefully. The boy’d had pictures of half naked men plastered all over his room, but for every two boys on the wall, there had been at least one girl draped between them and he’d deluded himself into thinking Mitch was putting them up for that girl.

Deluding himself. It wasn’t something Henry did often, he couldn’t afford to. As a detective, he needed to look at the facts and accept the truth at face value so that he could assess the situation clearly. Sitting on the bed, he looked at the night stand and picked up the little iPod on it, turning it over in his hand with a bemused smile. Hell, if the posters hadn’t been a dead give away, the pink iPod should have been.

Wait, Mitch didn’t have an iPod. He stared at it in shock. Mitch had asked for one for his birthday, but Margarete had said that it was too expensive. Three hundred pounds plus a subscription to a website where he could download music legally and he’d probably need a new computer, because his was so old it wouldn’t run the programs. If Mitch hadn’t had an iPod before he’d left, then whoever had him must have given it to him and iPods, unlike DVD’s and books, had traceable serial numbers.

Quickly, he grabbed a pencil from Mitch’s desk and a piece of paper, scribbling down the number on the back of the iPod before carefully placing it back where he’d found it. Dr. Chang had said that Mitch was secretive to the point of paranoia about the identity of his captor, rarely even referring to him by any name at all, let alone giving up a last one, and as much as Henry wanted to wring the truth out of his son, he didn’t want to scare him into running away. He had just shut the door to Mitch’s room when he heard the backdoor open. "Mum? Dad?"

He rushed down the hall, shoving the paper in his pocket and wiping the guilty, excited expression off his face. Mitch was standing in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge. He looked up when he heard his father come in. "Dad, are we out of Coke?"

"Your mother went to get some more. She should be back soon."

Mitch smiled, but there was no mistaking the waver in it. "Okay. Thanks."

He went back outside and Henry moved back to the dining room, watching them again. Mitch was so much more fragile than when he’d left. Physically and emotionally. When he laughed, it was almost always forced, when he smiled, it never quite reached his eyes. He responded to some things with violent withdrawal and others with placid detachment. He always had to have a window open in whatever room he was in, even at night. He still wasn’t eating nearly enough and even with weight-gain pills it was slow going.

The doctors had only given Margarete an overview of what they’d found, but Henry had read the details in their reports, outlining the various forms of tortures that they either suspected or knew for a fact had been performed of Mitch. He’d find the man that had hurt his little boy and he’d make damn sure he could never hurt anyone else again. If the justice system failed, then he’d hunt him down and whoever it was had better pray it didn’t come to that.

*****

Cynthia watched Mitch on the swing and smiled. In the past few days he had become a lot more relaxed at home. He’d started to occasionally pick up a snack or eat more than a few bites of his food. He still didn’t like to stay indoors and she’d noticed that whenever they were inside, he made a point of opening a window, but still, it was progress. Of course, the aborted attempt at going to school had been disappointing, but Cynthia had said that she refused to go back until he did and her mother hadn’t wanted to fight her on it.

Her mother had given in on a lot of things recently. Cynthia was still grounded, but she was permitted to go to the Dearings as long as she was home by dinner. She could watch television, but only after she’d done all her chores. Really, it was like she wasn’t grounded at all, but she wasn’t about to point that out.

"Do you want to take a walk?"

Mitch shrugged and got off the swing, waving at his father through the window. Mr. Dearing waved back and the two of them set off. They couldn’t be gone very long, or someone would come looking for them, but they’d have at least fifteen minutes before that happened.

"I, uh, I took a pregnancy test."

Mitch came up short. "What did it say?"

She cringed. "I am one hundred percent knocked up at the age of fifteen."

"What are you going to do?"

She shrugged and they walked on in silence for a little while. Cynthia had gone over every option she had very carefully and she liked none of them. There was abortion, but she didn’t like the idea. If she kept it, though, how would that affect Mitch? He’d said that Paul had been nice to him, helped him, but Cynthia wasn’t foolish enough to believe that made Paul innocent of all wrong doing. He had left Mitch there for two and a half months, he’d seen, if not participated in the rapes and the torture and she remembered very clearly what Paul had said.

Richard does these crazy drugs, I don’t even know what they’re called or what they do, but they make... they make me want to have sex.

Most likely, those were the same drugs that they had forced on Mitch and as much as she wanted to believe that Paul wouldn’t have done anything, it just made more sense to think that he had. Especially the way Mitch looked hurt and confused whenever he was mentioned.

So, if she kept it, she was keeping the baby of one of Mitch’s rapists. Would that mean that Paul would want to come around? That he’d want to see it? That would make things even worse - bad enough to have the baby around, but to have the rapist himself popping in once a week... that was just unthinkable.

"Are you going to get rid of it?"

She sighed and resisted the urge to put her hand over her stomach. "I don’t think so. I’m just not sure what to do."

Mitch nodded knowingly. "Have you told Paul?"

She didn’t miss the slight flinch in her friend’s face as he said the name, but she ignored it. "I called him, but Richard answered." It took her a minute to realize that Mitch had fallen behind again. "Mitch, are you...?"

"Richard answered?" His face was pale and he was shaking.

"Mitch, it’s not that big a deal. He doesn’t know who I am and I hung up right away."

Mitch took several deep breathes, but his chest was so tight it hurt to breathe. He could hardly count the number of times Paul had been over and his cell phone had gone off while he was out of the room. Richard had never picked it up. He always scowled at it and yelled at Paul to hurry, but he never picked it up. "You don’t understand. They don’t pick up each other’s cell. They throw them at each other, or they let them ring, but they do not pick them up."

"You never know, Mitch, Paul could have told him to, or..."

"No. He never picks it up." But he had. Richard had picked up Paul’s cell and that meant that something had happened to Paul. Was he hurt? Dead? Had Richard locked him up somewhere and left him? The only thing Mitch knew for sure was that it meant Richard wasn’t happy with what Paul had done and that meant... that meant that he would be coming back for Mitch, didn’t it?

"Cynthia, I want you to do something for me." She looked confused, but didn’t argue with him, "Your mum has a gun, right?" Now she opened her mouth to argue, but he plunged forward, "Get it and keep it with you. I need you to trust me on this. I know them better than anyone else, okay? And if I’m wrong, then I’m wrong, but at least you’re safe."

His desperation was unnerving. He really believed that this meant something and he did know them better than she did. What if he was right? If Richard was going to come after anyone, it would be Mitch. "What about you? If you really think he could come after you, you have to tell someone. You have to..."

"Cynthia, I can’t." Mitch was shaking worse than ever and his eyes were brimming with tears. He was desperate and scared.

Cursing, she nodded and did the only thing she could think of. She lied. "Okay. Okay, let’s drop it for now. I’ll get my mum’s gun and... and you’re home all the time anyway, right? Your dad’s got plenty of guns you can use to protect yourself until we figure something else out."

It killed her a little watching Mitch sniff back tears and force a smile onto his face. It was like watching a five-year-old child, but this was her fifteen-year-old best friend. She couldn’t let this go on any longer. Mitch had said the only way to keep him safe was not to tell, but obviously that wasn’t true. Besides, Richard Carter needed to be behind bars and if she had to break her trust with Mitch to see it done, she would.

First chance she got to speak with Mitch’s father alone, she would tell him everything. Mitch may never speak to her again, but at least he’d be safe.

*****

Any day now. That’s what he’d said, but he sure as hell hadn’t believed it.

"Mr. Zalinsky?"

He blinked and looked at the little girl with her notebook again, like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. "Excuse me?"

"I said, do you need a ride back to your apartment?"

Glancing over his shoulder, he watched Richard on set, arguing with the director on what he probably thought was a pivotal moment for his character. That was one of the few things about Richard the Paul could still say was good. He took his job very seriously and he put everything he had into what he did.

So far, there hadn’t been a single scene that they weren’t both in, as the director had been trying to make up for the lost footage they’d shot with the other supporting actor. Paul still wasn’t sure what had made him quit, but he hadn’t felt like speculating on it. Mostly, because he thought he had a fairly good idea already. He watched Richard glare at a young girl that had gotten too close and she moved quickly back to stand with the other extras.

"Am I... am I done for the day?"

She looked around the set nervously. "Yes?"

He looked back at Richard, who was setting back up for the shot, a stern scowl on his face. "Does he know that?"

She opened and shut her mouth for a moment before finally looking at Richard and back at Paul. "No, I don’t think so. The director decided that he wanted to focus on Richard for the rest of today. He may need you later, but I doubt it."

Paul stared at Richard for a minute, ignoring the hopelessly confused girl in front of him. Finally, he felt his stomach drop at the realization that this was his opportunity and he’d have to take it, because he wasn’t going to get another one.

"Can you do me a favor, love?" She blushed, but nodded and he gave her his most winning smile. "If Richard asks, I went back to the flat, okay? If he doesn’t ask, doesn’t notice, don’t say anything." He dropped his voice, "We’re having a bit of a tiff and I wouldn’t mind a few hours to myself to think it over."

If there was one thing Richard had taught him over the years it was how to manipulate people. She nodded hastily and he winked, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "Thanks, love."

Paul took one last, dark look at Richard, who wasn’t paying him any attention. He had no delusions that he’d be able to get a full days head start, but a few hours, maybe, and that was all he needed.

*****

Mitch'd had nightmares before, Cynthia had seen them when he used to sleep over at her house some years ago. They’d always included him kicking and hitting the air, and yelling wordlessly. This was somehow worse. Mitch was curled up on his side, breathing heavily, his fists tightly clenched, murmuring ‘no’ over and over, but he wasn’t really moving and he wasn’t trying to get away from anything. He’d told her that Richard had made it clear to him that there was no getting away, but for it to have gone so deep that it affected even his dreams...

She shuddered a little and lifted herself over his windowsill, tumbling into his room gracelessly. It was just past midnight, but she hadn’t been able to sleep. She was determined to tell Mitch’s father, but after countless hours agonizing over it, she’d decided that she owed it to Mitch to tell him what she was going to do before she did it. So, she’d gotten dressed and walked the two streets in the pitch black, freezing weather, to Mitch’s house and snuck up to the window she knew would be open.

Reaching out, she gently shook Mitch... and found herself flat on her arse on the floor, a sharp thudding pain in her chest. Pressing a hand to the ache, she looked up and saw Mitch cowering in the corner of his bed, panting harshly with his unfocused eyes staring through her.

Her breath caught in her throat and she couldn’t force out a single word. She’d never seen anyone look so completely terrified, she wasn’t even sure how to describe it now, because the look was slowly fading as Mitch’s eyes came into focus. "Cynthia?"

She put a finger to her lips and sat up, rubbing her chest pointedly, whispering, "You told me you were having nightmares, you didn’t tell me you were attacking innocent bystanders."

Mitch flushed, but she smiled, "It’s okay, my fault for being here at this hour, actually."

Scooting over, he motioned for her to sit down, which she did. "What are you doing here?"

It was clear that all thoughts of sleep had been forgotten and she thought maybe that was for the better. In fact, she was also going to suggest that his parents start giving him sleeping pills, because the trouble with his appetite might also have to do with his inability to get a good night’s sleep.

"I’ve decided on something and I wanted to let you know before I did it."

"You’re getting an abortion?"

She looked over sharply, but Mitch was looking at the floor. "No, Mitch, that’s not it."

He lifted his gaze and saw the strangest thing in it. Hope. "Really?"

"Of course."

A smile spread over his face. "Good, because... you know, I don’t think I told you this before, but I like Paul. A lot, actually. If it wasn’t dangerous for him, I’d... I dunno. The doctor says it’s not healthy. He calls it Stockem Syndrome, or something like that - where you identify with your captors - but that’s not it, because I don’t identify with Richard or any of the others and Paul was never one of them, not really. I’m just saying, you don’t have to get rid of it because of me. I think I’d kind of like it, actually."

He paused and the smile changed, turning into the wicked kind of smile that Cynthia hadn’t seen since before his disappearance. "If nothing else, it’ll take the attention away from me."

Playfully, she punched his arm and couldn’t hold back the little chuckle in her throat. He was getting better, he really was. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, here they were, in the middle of the night and he was laughing and smiling and joking around and for once there wasn’t anything forced about it. Of course, that just made what she had to say more difficult.

"Mitch, I wanted to tell you that... I’m going to tell your father everything."

Instantly, the color drained from his face. "You what?"

"Tomorrow. I’ll be coming ‘round first thing in the morning."

His mouth opened and closed, unable to get any sound out, and when he finally did manage to talk, it sounded like his throat was closed. "Why?!"

"Because you’re not safe..."

"I am, I told you, as long as I keep my mouth shut, I’m perfectly safe. If you tell..."

She grabbed his shoulders, "You are not safe, Mitch. You said it yourself, they don’t answer each other’s phones. I’ve been thinking about it and that means that something’s probably happened to Paul and if Richard’s the one answering his line, then he’s the one who did it. If he’s hurt Paul, then it’s because Paul let you go and he’ll hurt you next!"

Mitch pulled away from her and his look of betrayal was heartbreaking. "I can handle Richard."

"You can’t handle Richard, that’s why I’m here! Look at yourself, Mitch, you’re shaking all over at the mere mention of him. You’ve got me carrying around," she let go of him and pulled the little revolver out of her waistband, "this to keep myself safe. You obviously think he’s going to try and hurt you and I’m not going to let that happen."

He stood up from the bed, backing away from her defensively. "Then go ahead. Tell anyone you want, because I obviously can’t stop you."

Standing up as well, she put the gun back in her trousers and tried to touch Mitch’s arm, only to have him jerk away. I couldn’t stop him. Anything he wanted to do, he just did it and there wasn’t anything I could say or do to make a difference. Oh, bugger. "That’s not fair, I’m not doing this to hurt you."

"But you are. I’m telling you that I’m safe as long as no one knows and you don’t care. Leave." She reached out again, but he jerked back, violently this time, slamming his shoulder into the wardrobe. "I said, leave!"

The sound echoed through the room and Cynthia wondered if it had woken anyone up. Not that it mattered. Reluctantly, she went back to the window and slipped out, looking at her shaking friend with watering eyes. "I’m sorry, Mitch, but it’s for the best. You can’t hide from him forever."

"Go?" The energy had drained out of it, leaving it more of a request and she sighed, obeying it.

The night seemed even colder now and she wrapped her arms around herself as she started down the path. This was ridiculous. Why had she ever thought that telling him what she was going to do would make anything better? She knew Mitch. She knew him better than she knew herself at times and she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wasn’t going to listen to reason on this. He was always hiding from everything. When they were seven and the teacher had said she was going to call his parents about a bad test score, he’d gone to Cynthia’s and hidden under her bed. When they’d been ten and one of the bullies kept stealing his lunch money, he’d started going to school late to avoid him. When they’d been thirteen and Mitch had first realized Mark had a crush on him, he refused to be around the other boy without Cynthia with him so he could hide behind her.

She stopped and cursed, looking back at the road she’d just crossed. He was always hiding and that’s what he’d do this time, too, wasn’t it? He’d run away if he had to, just so long as he didn’t have to face this and she couldn’t let that happen.

Turning around, she started back towards Mitch’s street. That was when she noticed the car.