Hey there! I really hope you enjoy this bonus chapter. Happy late Halloween and happy Thanksgiving in advance!

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~

Delaney Whitaker hated disorderliness.

One could attribute it the fact that she'd had strict parents who had made orderliness a do-or-die affair, or that she was an only child and had had to clean up after herself, most especially after her parents died. When she was seventeen, she'd been diagnosed with Obsessive-compulsive personality disorder and had had to take medications and see a shrink. Now, at twenty five, Delaney was a fine and normal young woman, but she still hated disorderliness.

It was not something that medication or meetings with a stranger could take out of her. She enjoyed being orderly. In the wake of being diagnosed with OCD, every single thing she did had been closely monitored under her parents' careful, loving eyes. But she never stopped. Who could hold it against a young girl for loving neatness to a fault? But they had seen it as an addiction and had been very worried. Could she blame them?

She smiled proudly at her folded clothes and gently shut the door of her built-in closet and walked to her bed and rearranged the pillows. Her bed had been laid very smoothly and without a crease. She gloried in the beauty of a wrinkle free sheet. She sat on a corner of the bed and looked up at the pictures of her parents hung on the wall and smiled.

She watched their smiling faces and vibrant eyes that had once been filled with life but was now frozen forever in eternity. The picture was taken months before they had passed. Another lifetime entirely.

"I miss you Mom, Dad. I wish you were here with me."

She imagined her mom laughing and stroking her hair and saying, "We miss you too, Del. Right Henk?"

Her dad would nod, grin and say, "We do, hunny bunny. We're watching you from up here."

"I have grown to be a fine, young lady." She continued and looked down at her neat fingernails. It would soon be time to wash them again until they were squeaky clean. Bacteria would have settled on them by now. It has been, after all, an hour since she had last washed. "You would be so proud of me."

"I'm sure they would."

The scream died in Delaney's throat before she could utter it. Her heart flew to her mouth in terror but she wasn't too startled to see what was going on, neither had the neurons going haywire in her brain shut the brain down. It was still able to register and interpret what she was seeing. Her eyes widened in shock when she recognized what it was.

"That's right, Delaney. That's the barrel of my nine-millimeter Luger. Blink and you're history."

Despite the fact that she was in a life threatening situation, all Delaney could think of at that moment was the dirt the intruder had tracked into her room. She looked pointedly at his scrawny boots which looked like one that had seen better days. Also, while he had probably been sneaking in, he had set some of her books askew. She itched to rearrange it until their spines were even and sweep the floors until one couldn't feel a pinch of sand.

She looked up at the intruder, from his malicious gaze, to his disheveled hair and to his thread bare shirt. One of his buttons had gone loose and looked like it would fall off. She still had her sewing kit handy. She wanted to tack it back on. She had to tack it back on. Nothing should be disorderly around her.

"Remove your shirt."

He was momentarily taken aback. "What?"

"Your button will fall off. I can sew it on for you." She made a move to stand but he shoved her back to her sitting position. He lowered the gun to her mouth.

"Move, and the next thing you'll be sewing is your flaccid lip."

She nodded slowly. He lowered the gun, eying her warily but still aimed it. She almost laughed. He must think she was a nut case.

"Now, here are the rules. I ask and you reply. Understood?"

One couldn't argue with his gravelly voice. She swallowed convulsively as he withdrew the gun from her mouth. The movement made the button wave from side to side. Poor button. Forgive me, poor, poor button. Soon, you'll fall off and skid into the dirt and be trampled on. Forgive me.

Inside, a storm was brewing. She was bemoaning the fate of the button as well as hers. Calmly, she said, "Go ahead."

"What's your name?"

"Delaney Whittaker."

"Originally from Wiscasset?"

"Yes."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a student at the University of Maine and I also do menial jobs."

"A student? Last I heard it isn't the holidays."

"I come and go."

"From here to UMO? That's an awfully long ride."

"It's one hour, fifty minutes to get here driving at one hundred and seven miles per second. I can handle that."

He looked away angrily as if to say, okay, you got me on that one.

"You do menial jobs. What kind?"

Delaney became sick of the questions. She was sweaty and uncomfortable as hell. "Look, mister, I don't know why you're asking these questions –"

He pressed the barrel of the gun to her temple. "Violating the rules already?"

She gulped aloud. "Sorry."

"Now, the last question, and you must give me an answer. My patience is already running thin."

"You really should let me help with that loose button." She murmured.

"Shut up." He ground out and pressed the gun harder against her temple. He gave her a malignant stare. "Now, tell me, where the hell is my wife?"

~

Devlin expected her to put up a front so he was not surprised when confusion crossed her features.

"What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you hear what I said?"

"I did and it's absurd. Why will I know where you wife is? I don't even know who she is."

"Yes you do."

"I swear I don't."

He watched her face closely as he said, "Pamela."

Her expression was that of surprise. "Pamela's your wife?"

"Why do you sound surprised?"

"I didn't know she was married."

"She is married. And now we can't have marital bliss because she's missing. Where is she?"

"I don't know."

"Liar."

"I don't!"

"Yes you do." He said angrily, his teeth was ground against each other in a bid to be calm. He didn't want to lose control. "And you're going to tell me."

"I swear I don't know." Her voice was brittle, like she was about to cry. "All I do is assist your wife with whatever she needs. Event planning mostly. I don't know anything about her kidnap."

He regarded her quietly for a few seconds. "I never said she was kidnapped."

Her cheeks turned red. "Well I – I just assumed – you shouldn't read meaning into that, it was only an assumption." She made an annoyed grunt as if realizing that she was stuttering and if anything, it made her look as guilty as sin. She dragged her palms down her face. When she looked back up at him, her eyes were sad, mellow and could melt stone. "You're accusing me of hideous things. Why will I know where your wife is? Last I heard, we were together at the fund raiser."

Her quiet voice didn't fool him. He'd seen worse. "So you've not seen her ever since."

"No."

"Liar."

"I'm not a liar."

"No?"

"No. Why would I lie about the whereabouts of your wife?"

Devlin watched her very carefully when he said, "Maybe because you're working for Marcel Deaton?"

At first she looked like she wanted to voice denials but changed her mind. Her physiognomy changed from a fearful, unjustly accused girl to a cool, reserved woman.

"How did you know?"

"I went to Marcel's. Saw a scarf forgotten on a coffee table, the same scarf you had around your neck on the day of the fundraiser. Floral printed, chiffon maybe."

"That's right." She looked up to meet his direct gaze, her voice dead, unremorseful, detached. "It's mine."

Devlin swore under his breath and started to pace in anger. He had hoped he was wrong, prayed and hoped that Pamela hadn't fallen victim once again. She wouldn't be able to bear it, not after Marcel's betrayal. She would be devastated and distraught, not only because she'd once again lost a friend but also because every single friend she made seemed to have ulterior motives. Tears smarted his eyes and his heart broke for his wife.

Would she ever be sane after this? If they survived this, would she be able to bounce back? He doubted it. Pamela would be wary of everyone. She wouldn't be able to trust. Devlin blamed himself. He wished he had been more open about his past and the people that brought him into this world. If he had, they wouldn't be in this situation.

"Why will you choose to work for that bastard?" He said, his back to her, his voice sounding like that of a foghorn. "Pamela trusted you! How could you be so manipulative and –"

Devlin turned around just in time to catch the graze of a switchblade against his arm. Delaney fell forward but regained her balance and lunged at him again, the switchblade held high. The light glinted against the knife as she ran forward with a high-pitched scream but Devlin caught her hands just in time and wrestled the knife from her. He gripped her wrist so hard she cried out in pain. He whipped her around and thrust her hand up between her shoulder blades and placed the knife across her throat.

"Tell me where my wife is."

"No."

He pressed the knife harder against her throat that it started to bleed. "Talk or I'll slit your throat."

Calmly, she placed her hand against his and slowly lowered the blade from her throat. She turned around calmly. Devlin let her. He had a gun and a knife. She was outnumbered.

"No you won't."

He was shocked by her confidence but didn't show it. "You're that confident?"

"Yes." She said simply. "You see, Mr. Devlin, when they say love makes one weak, you should believe it. Your love for Pamela will not make you kill me. The highest you'll do is to shoot my legs or slit a place that doesn't have any major arteries. You won't kill me. You can't kill me."

He took a hulking step forward and said gravelly, "Don't be so sure."

"Oh but I am. You don't want to be away from her or go to jail, especially now that you're supposed to be dead."

She was right, dammit, but he would die before he showed it. He was so lost in thought that he didn't expect the kick that almost knocked the wind out of him. The knife and gun fell away from him and skidded across the room. She came at him again and caught him in the jaw with her fists.

Damn she was strong.

He regained his balance and ducked out of the way when she raised her foot at him. He caught the foot but didn't expect her to twist the leg, hook it behind his neck and push forward. He stumbled and fell forward and was met with blows against his back and kidneys.

He wanted to fight back but couldn't. She was a woman. He'd sworn off beating women. All he could do was try to dodge her strong blows. She came at him again, this time with more force and aimed for his torso. He caught it and twisted her arm. For the moment he was going to hit her. She wasn't a woman anyway, she was a beast.

As he was about to push her away and reach for his gun, she raised a can of pepper spray and aimed directly at his face.

"Move and you'll be lumbering out of here a blind bat."

His heart hammering frantically, he stood still and contemplated struggling with her for the aerosol can but thought against it. Before he reached out, the contents would be out and on his face.

The can still aimed at him, she used her leg to kick the pistol within reach and gently bent to take it with one hand while the other held the can. Now holding the gun, she lowered the spray and aimed at him.

"It'll be an honor getting rid of you."

Devlin knew this was not a person that made empty threats, so milliseconds before she fired, he jumped out of aim. The gun scattered a flower pot. She aimed at him again and kept on firing. He ducked in a zigzag motion then an idea occurred to him. He wasn't sure it would work but he had to try. The crazy girl seemed hell bent on finishing him off.

He raced to her closet and yanked the doors open.

She laughed sneeringly. "You want to hide in there? I can't believe you would be so cowardly."

He smiled back. "Oh I would."

He then reached for her folded clothes and yanked them apart. He reached for a shirt and tugged at the buttons.

"Why don't you come sew this up?"

Her aimed hand went limp. Her eyes clouded like she was in a trance and she gaped at the shirt, as if watching a revelation from heaven – or hell, considering she was the daughter of the devil.

He pointed at his shirt. "Oh, look at that button. It's barely hanging on by a thread. Come sew it on. I know you want to." He turned to search for more buttons as she seemed to have a thing for them.

"Don't scatter them!" She shirked.

Ah! It became clear to Devlin. She was a neatness freak. Who knew OCD would work in his favor? He walked to a table that had books that were arranged so neatly and so straight that the edges could be used as a ruler and not one bump would occur. He scattered the books.

"Stop!" She screamed again and flung the gun at him. She raced to the table and he shrank back and picked up the gun, not believing his luck.

With shaky hands and tears in her eyes, she started to arrange the books. "Don't scatter them. They're my babies."

There was no time but Devlin couldn't help but watch as she neatly arranged each book. When she was done with the table, she smiled up at a framed picture. "Look Mom, Dad it's neat. I'm a good girl, aren't I? I clean up nicely, don't I?"

She stood and headed for the broken flower pot. She sank to the floor and started to gather them with her hands.

"Nary a spec of dust. Nary a grain of sand. The floors will be clean, squeaky clean." She chanted with a smile. "Nary a spec of dust. Everything must be perfect."

Devlin had seen enough of her mental display. The poor thing was probably suffering badly. He hunched beside her.

"You need to see a therapist." The words were out before he said them. He didn't want to care, but watching the girl like that made him pity her. She was a conniving and mean bitch, but he couldn't help his pity, and it made him mad.

If his pity showed in his voice, she gave no indication of it. She was studiously picking up each piece of the ceramic vase. She lifted a shard and raised it, smiling at it.

"Such a beautiful piece. It's such a shame you have to end this way."

Devlin gritted his teeth against the fresh wave of pity that doused him. "What do you have against Pamela?"

She froze and looked up at him. Her eyes looked distant, glassed-over. "Her father killed my parents."

"Rob was no killer." Was it she or her madness talking? He couldn't be sure.

"He was. He stole my parent's health insurance. The had an accident and would have survived if the insurance company hadn't gone bankrupt. I found out it was Rob that pilfered the money and several other organizations to give his daughter the biggest trust fund." A tear slipped down one side of her cheek and she squeezed the piece that was in her hand so hard that it bled. "I want revenge."

"If you want revenge, go dig up Rob's grave and leave Pamela alone."

She looked away from him and starred into space. " "The iniquity of the fathers will be visited upon the sons even to the third and fourth generation." "

She was crazy. Undoubtedly so. And it was sad. "Take me to my wife."

She snapped back to reality. She turned to face him and smiled. "OK But let me clean up first. Mom would be mad if I left the house in a mess. Right Mom?"

Devlin wrestled shaking her until her teeth rattled and her brain reset itself, but thought better of it. She was a lost cause and he hoped he could get what he wanted before she finally went bonkers.

"Knock yourself out. But don't try any thing funny or I'll blow your head into pieces. You better focus on cleaning."

~

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