Every time he used the word, she hated him a little more.
The computer had gone dark long ago. But she didn’t dare move yet. Whitney had no way of knowing if the freak lived on the premises, but if he did, she wanted to be sure he was deeply asleep before she started working on loosening the barre. The clanking of the chain would be difficult to avoid. She couldn’t risk waking him.
She was already taking a big enough chance without adding to it.
Maybe this place was soundproofed. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? Screaming and crying for help had been one rule she hadn’t broken. She was afraid he might always be close by, even though he usually entered early in the morning and the evening. And when the computer was on, he’d know.
According to her mental calculations, it was time, or close to it. Ice crept up her spine, and that had nothing to do with the chilly temperature in the dungeon. She didn’t think she could handle it if her plan failed, shattering hopes of escape. Without hope, what would be the use of going on?
Kelsey had, though. The memory gave her strength. The other girl had mentioned she’d been kept close to a year. And although Whitney hadn’t finished reading all the pages under the floorboards, it helped her to know someone else had been through this. Maybe survived.
With newfound resolve, she got up and retrieved the screw. Hauling in a deep breath, she made her way from memory to the back wall. To the barre.
The metal was cold to the touch. Whitney slid her fingers along it until she came to the end nearest the window, where the bracket secured it to the wall. The narrow strip of light edging the curtain didn’t make a dent in the shadows this far across the stage. She ran her fingers over the bracket, lingering on the screws that held it firm.
She chose the first screw in the lower facing of the bracket. Flat head. Single groove in the center. Tipping the one she’d retrieved from the shower, she fit the top edge inside that groove. Exerted pressure. The screw in her hand slipped, the point gouging her palm. Whitney brought the injured area to her mouth. Sucked at the sting before trying again. In theory, the screw could be used like the flat tip of a screwdriver. Without the handle and shaft, it would be difficult to apply the needed force to turn the stationary screw.
But hopefully not impossible.
An hour into the task, Whitney was becoming frustrated. The threads of the screw she held dug into her fingers, making them swollen and sore. She solved the problem by wrapping the extra fabric of the flannel nightgown around the screw shaft for cushioning. When she tired, she alternated actions by bracing her feet against the wall and yanking outward on the barre, trying to loosen it. The movement sent the chain rattling, so she didn’t dare repeat it for long. And then she switched tasks again. With very little result.
She reached up an arm to wipe her forehead on the sleeve of her nightgown, discouraged. The screws in the bracket were tight. The freak probably checked on things like that before he brought a new victim here. The thought was accompanied by a wave of bitterness. There was no reason her idea wouldn’t work. She just needed to keep trying. Or like Mrs. Zaner used to say in math class, work smarter, not harder.
But what would be smarter? She considered for a moment. Then she refit the screw edge to the groove again, taking care to keep the contact as tight and close as possible. Pressing forward to exert as much force as she was capable of, she wrenched at the stationary screw again.
And was rewarded when it moved, ever so slightly.
Thrilled, Whitney promptly tried it a second time. In her haste, the screw she was wielding slipped and gouged her palm again. Grinding her teeth, she repeated the action more carefully. And there was another minute movement in the bracket screw.
Panting with exertion, she grinned in delight. Without an actual screwdriver, her range of motion was limited to small half circles before she had to stop, refit the screw in the groove, and restart.
But it was progress. She didn’t waste time wondering what she’d do when she got all the screws free, or how long it might take. For now she was going to enjoy the thrill of anticipation. The first step was freeing herself from the barre.
Then she’d figure out how to escape.
Janie Willard
November 15
11:00 a.m.
Cole Bogart parked next to her in the parking lot of a small coffee shop, Home Brew. Janie’s pulse skittered as she watched him get out of his car and dash over to her passenger door, pull it open, and slide into the front seat. “Damn, it’s cold.” He leaned forward to turn her heat up and scrubbed his bare hands in front of the vent where the air poured out. “Would you believe my heater wouldn’t work this morning? Piece of shit. It’s, like, stuck on defrost or something. I had to stop and scrape the inside of my windshield twice on the way over.”
“Gloves might have helped.”
He grinned at her. “Your text didn’t give me much time to get ready. What’s up?”
In answer, she dug into her purse beside her and handed him an envelope. “It took two trips to the ATM to get enough cash. I want to pay you back for the listening devices.”
He made no move to take the money. “No, no, I told you we’re cool. I’m going to return the whole box; the purchase will be credited back to my mom’s account. All I need is for you to give me back the . . . oh.”
“Yeah.” She didn’t know him well. Still had the tightness in her chest whenever she talked to him. But she could talk to him. Janie didn’t know exactly what that meant. Maybe it was easier because they’d texted a few times over the weekend about what had gone down in the cabin. But more likely, it was because he’d barged into her house a few days back and made it impossible to avoid him.
“So . . . you gave the recorder to the cops?” Slowly he reached out a hand for the envelope.
“I don’t know when we’ll get it back.”
He thought for a minute. “I’ve got to get the charge taken care of. But if you do get the recorder back within thirty days, I can still return it, and you’d get this money back.”
“Yeah, I don’t know if that will happen.” Janie had no idea how long it would be before the sheriff’s office would return it. If they did at all.
“Me, either. Sorry you got stuck paying for it.” Cole folded the envelope and shoved it into his coat pocket.