Grady stared out the window, then back at her with moist eyes. “I’m afraid Inga passed a few years back.” His Adam’s apple bobbed in a hard swallow. “Terrible thing—she went out hiking one morning and didn’t come home. Fell off a cliff and broke her neck—I lost the love of my life in a freak accident.”
Chapter 6
Afternoon
Somewhere in the Rocky Mountains
She had to get out of there.
On shaky legs, sometimes grabbing the cool log walls for support, Laura made her way around the cabin’s perimeter, searching for her clothes and more importantly, her shoes. If he came back, and she had to make a run for it, she wouldn’t make it far in bare feet. Then she spied her pumps and willed her legs to carry her toward them. Over in a corner, stood her favorite navy blue high heels, side by side, toes perfectly aligned. Next to them, the green dress she’d worn to her dinner with the editor from the Mountain Times lay neatly folded, her bra and underwear on top, all very ladylike.
Though she had little time to lose, she was too weak to move quickly. She lifted her dress, preparing to slip it over her head and cast her eyes down at the soiled sheet draped across her shoulders.
She froze.
Her torso was stained with blood. Her skin was pale and cool to the touch. And though it seemed to her that her heart might stomp straight out of her chest, when she pressed her fingers to her wrist, her pulse was strangely weak—barely detectable.
A painful, wet breath rattled out of her chest.
She could barely stand.
It hurt to breathe.
Her stomach seemed to be cannibalizing itself.
Why was she so very sick?
The cuts on her neck couldn’t have bled much, or else she’d be dead by now.
She hadn’t taken any meds . . . yet she felt as though she were in a trance.
At dinner on Monday, the last clear thing she could recall, she hadn’t even had a beer—only tea. She swiped her tongue back and forth across her teeth, trying to scrape away the bitter flavor embedded in her taste buds. Had he used a knockout drug on the rag he stuffed in her mouth?
Her head tilted up and just that slight stretching threatened to rip the skin on her neck apart. Still, she kept her gaze upward, as if the answer might descend from above—but in her heart, she knew heaven would not save her.
She had to figure a way out of this on her own.
She brought her chin level again, easing the pain. Her feet rooted themselves to the floor, and she gazed helplessly out the window like a ruined mannequin, waiting for someone to come and either mend her broken body or dump her in the trash.
Move!
She took a step forward.
She refused to leave her fate to someone else. If only she could get her thoughts together, she could make a plan. She blinked rapidly, and somehow, it helped jolt her mind back into gear.
Think!
Her gaze settled on the windows, some of them cracked.
If he knew she was alive, if he was coming back to torture her, he would’ve tied her up or locked the door and boarded the windows. And if he didn’t plan to return, surely, he would’ve finished her off. In either case, he wouldn’t risk letting her escape. He must have believed her dead, or at least so close to death there was no point wasting any more time with her. The longer he stayed in the cabin, the greater the chance he might be caught.
He thought she was dead!
She was absolutely sure of it.
And that meant he wasn’t coming back.
Her mouth formed a wobbly smile. Wind sang an Ode to Joy through the cracked, glass windowpanes. She could see God’s beautiful, green world outside. She crossed to the door as fast as her unsteady legs would take her. With only a gentle tug of the handle, it sprang open, bringing to her the fresh scent of mountain air and the sound of birds warbling. But then . . . she looked back over her shoulder.
From the corner of the room, her pumps stared at her accusingly.
Kidnappers don’t carefully fold their victim’s clothes.
She let the dress she’d been holding fall to the floor.
Kidnappers don’t line shoes up toe-to-toe and heel-to-heel.
Her hand flew to her heart, as bit-by-bit, her newfound happiness faded.
She was the one who had the habit of arranging her shoes just so—it was almost a compulsion if the truth be told.
She shook her head violently.
As if she could’ve done all this.
As if she could’ve cut her own throat.
No!
She did not!
True, at the age of fifteen, she’d sliced similar, shallow cuts into her neck in a so-called “cry for help” that had landed her in a mental hospital for months. But help was the last thing she’d wanted at the time. She’d longed for death’s repose. She’d been desperate to put a stop to the nightmares, to the blackouts, and yes, to the therapy sessions with Dr. Webber that had only left her more confused.