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.
Please let it not be underground.
The thought of being buried alive made every inch of her skin itch. Panic hovered around her, buzzing like a swarm of insects.
She pushed it back and felt it fade into the background, lurking, waiting to pounce.
Another flashback slammed into her.
It felt almost like a hallucination, but she knew it was a hazy memory, real in a physical way that a dream couldn’t be.
His shoulder jams into her stomach. She can barely control the muscles in her neck, and her head flops against his back. The smell of his sweat clogs her nostrils. He carries her, fireman style, through the darkness.
The second flash ended as quickly as it began, and with the same rush of nausea. She still had no recollection of exactly how he’d abducted her or when he’d brought her into this room.
Maybe the rest of her memories would come back. Maybe they wouldn’t. What mattered now was trying to escape. Her family needed her.
The night she’d left her house, she’d been excited about a few hours of adult conversation with Fiona. At the time, an evening free of wiping chins, changing diapers, and explaining to a three-year-old girl why her little brother had a penis and she didn’t had seemed glorious.
But now all she wanted was to see her family.
She yearned to walk the floors with William pressed to her shoulder. To inhale the scent of baby shampoo. To snuggle in Bella’s bed at nap time and read a picture book while her sleepy daughter’s eyelids sagged. To watch her daughter race through a pile of raked leaves or practice awkward, crooked somersaults in the backyard.
To tell her husband she loved him.
Images of her children brought tears to her eyes. She had to get back to them. As long as she drew breath, she would do everything possible to return to her babies. She wiped her face and sniffed. No wasting energy on crying.
Picking up the battery-operated lantern, she walked to the end of her chain. She lifted the light and inspected the far walls and corners of her prison, just out of reach.
A gallon-size plastic jug sat in one corner. A bucket occupied the other.
She dragged the chain behind her as she crossed the space. She picked up the jug, removed the lid, and sniffed. Water?
She was suddenly incredibly thirsty, as if her body had come alive at the scent of the water. She shouldn’t dare drink anything he gave her. It was likely drugged. But dehydration would kill her.
She set down the jug and continued her search, moving the light to carefully examine each wall.
On a positive note, she didn’t see any obvious cameras.
As terrifying as the situation was, she had to think. She had to find a way out. No one was coming for her. She was on her own.
It was her only chance.
The interior brightened suddenly, and a beam of light shone from the ceiling. Sunlight. Chelsea walked under it and stared up. Rust had eaten a hole in the roof the size of a bowling ball. Through it, she could see the sun, patches of blue sky, and a canopy of branches. Clouds drifted in front of the sun, dimming the light.
The knowledge that it was daytime grounded her.