Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2)(11)

She’d been abducted.

A vague sense of déjà vu lingered. How many times had she woken, confused and groggy? A memory surfaced.

She stares at her rearview mirror. A streetlight shines on a knife. The blade touches her throat, a sharp, biting pain that vanishes immediately under the numbing onslaught of rushing adrenaline.

“Drink or die,” he says.

Her hands shake as she lifts the fast-food cup he hands her. She sucks on the straw. Though initially sweet, the cola has a bitter aftertaste.

Darkness. A clear night sky. Cold air on her face. Wood smoke in her nose. The waving silhouettes of dead cornstalks in the moonlight.

The flash of memory faded, but not before Chelsea gagged.

She ran her tongue over her teeth. Her tongue was dry enough to stick to the roof of her mouth, and she could taste the lingering sweetness of the drugged cola. Vaguely, her brain registered that this was the first time her head had been this clear since she’d been kidnapped. She knew without a distinct memory that the previous times she’d woken, he’d forced more of the cola mixture into her mouth before she was strong enough to object.

How long had she been here?

It felt as if several days had passed.

What else had he done to her while she was unconscious?

Her brain rejected that line of thought and turned to her family instead.

William! Was he eating? He wouldn’t actually starve himself, would he? No. Surely hunger would force him to accept a bottle. Right?

There was nothing she could do about it from here. Tim might have his faults, but he loved his children. Bella adored him right back. Tim hadn’t quite bonded with the baby yet. In his defense, William had wanted no one except Chelsea since the day he was born. A sliver of guilt wormed its way past her fear. She had to accept part of the blame for that. Bella and Tim were so close that Chelsea had felt jealous at times. When the baby had come along and preferred her, she’d enjoyed it.

She’d been selfish and stupid, and William and Tim were no doubt paying the price.

Forgive me.

She took comfort in the fact that her husband was smart, and he would do whatever it took to take care of their baby. William wouldn’t starve.

Chelsea closed her eyes for a few seconds, replaying their brief argument Friday night before she’d left. Sure, he’d been late. Tim had no sense of time, and she’d been cranky. She’d wanted to have time to do her hair and put on some makeup. She’d wanted a break. But she regretted her snub of his goodbye kiss. When was the last time she’d told him she loved him?

Tim, I love you. I’m sorry I’ve been such a lunatic. Sleep deprivation was used as a form of torture for a reason. If only she could get a do-over of the last few months.

Too late now. He couldn’t hear her. Would that be their last goodbye? Would she ever get a chance to make it up to him? To tell him that despite her recent exhausted insanity, she loved him.

And there was only one way she was ever going to get back to him.

Putting a hand to her forehead, she lifted her shoulders from the narrow cot. Her head swam with the change in position. She slowed her movements, slowly rising until she was sitting up.

She took stock of her physical condition first. Her body was stiff and cold. A wool blanket was draped over her, but her shoes and coat were gone. She stretched her legs, testing their strength. Something clinked and metal bit into her ankle.

She was chained to an upright barrel that stood next to the cot she lay on.

Her mind reeled.

Chained!

Like a dog.

Terror constricted her throat, the weight of the manacle on her ankle a solid manifestation of the horror of her situation, and the potential that it would get much worse.

This is not helping.

She took two deep breaths and then scanned her body. She was still dressed in the jeans and sweater she’d worn for her evening out with Fiona. Her sweater was damp. Her breasts had leaked, and she smelled of sour milk.

But other than being filthy and uncomfortable, she didn’t feel any major injuries. She moved her arms and legs. No broken bones.

Moving on to her prison . . .

The cot was a simple folding type common for camping. A single camp lantern shone weakly from the barrel she was chained to. Her room was about eight feet long and maybe ten feet wide. Corrugated metal walls formed a rectangular box.

Keeping one hand on the cot for balance, she eased to standing. Her feet landed on a plywood floor. When the initial dizziness had passed, she stretched her arms overhead, but couldn’t reach the ceiling, which was made of the same corrugated metal as the walls.

Cold, strong steel.

A shudder raced through her.

A shipping container?

She’d never been inside one, but it felt right.

No way to dig or burrow or force her way out. There were no windows, and the space held a persistent chill, a dampness that suggested the container was outside or underground.