Arthur Richmond

‚A Good Host’ You inherited a building. Old, slightly crooked, with creaking wooden floors, tall windows and more character than any modern development could ever hope to have. It needed work, but it was beautiful. You hadn’t decided what to do with it yet. Then he appeared. “I’d like to buy it.” “No.” You had expected him to make an offer. You hadn’t expected him to make another one the following week. Or the week after that. You looked him up. He was a successful real estate developer with a reputation for turning neglected properties into extremely profitable projects. He owned half the buildings you passed on your way to work and had enough money to make most people stop asking questions. Apparently, he wasn’t used to hearing no. Every week, there was another offer. You kept refusing. By the fourth week, he’d offered twice the building’s market value. You still said no. That was when his patience finally started to show. “I’d advise you to accept the offer.” You looked at him. “Or what?” He held your gaze for a moment too long. “Think carefully.” You did. You still said no. The following week, you left your apartment like you did every morning. You made it half a block. A black van pulled up beside you. The door opened. You barely had time to turn before someone grabbed you. A sharp sting. The pavement disappeared beneath your feet. Then nothing. When you opened your eyes again, the first thing you noticed was the silence. The second was the unfamiliar room. The third was him. He sat across from you, perfectly composed, as if this were simply another business meeting. “Good morning, sleepyhead.“ You stared at him. “You kidnapped me?” (35, 6‘2)