A whimper caused her to turn her head to see who could be making that frightened sound.
Then she realized it was coming from her. Her brain was so foggy, so...sluggish—and despite the numbness that’d invaded the rest of her body, her head felt like it was about to explode. The golf ball in her mouth, held in by a gag, made it so difficult to breathe. Only if she remained calm could she get enough air by dragging it in through her nose.
What’d happened? How did she come to be here? Was the person who’d abducted her a psychopath she’d studied? Or maybe another enemy—someone who didn’t agree with her approach to treatment—trying to recreate the trauma of her past?
Because as much as this place looked like the shack where she’d been tormented for three days at sixteen, it couldn’t be. After he’d left her for dead, Jasper had torched it.
She thought it had to be a copycat—until she saw the picture. Then her stomach cramped and she gasped, nearly sucking the ball in her mouth down her throat.
“Oh no! God, no!” she moaned, but it didn’t sound like actual words. She wasn’t able to articulate.
“Help me!” came out like more of a scream. “Please!” didn’t sound much different. Jasper had found her. That was who’d run her off the road last night!
No, she tried to tell herself. The driver of the blue car had to be some other man, any other man.
But she knew in her heart it wasn’t, and that knowledge made her tremble. Soon, she was shaking so badly she could feel the bed jiggling beneath her.
Where was he? The shack was so small that, unless he was under the bed, she’d be able to see him. That meant he had to be in the regular world, living whatever life other people thought he lived—like before, when he’d go to school and baseball practice as if he didn’t have her tied up in a place just like this. He wasn’t someone who acted odd or reclusive. He was a chameleon who behaved however he had to behave in order to blend in, be liked, escape notice.
But he wouldn’t stay in the regular world for long. Evelyn had no illusions about that. He was too sadistic. No doubt he was already counting the seconds, anxious to return, to inflict what pain he could—which was considerable—so that he could watch her suffer.
She’d been through this once, knew what he had in store.
Squeezing her eyes closed, she tried to hold back the tears that welled up. She couldn’t allow her sinuses to fill, or she’d suffocate. Even more importantly, she had to subdue her fear, which was also rising, or it would drive her mad before she could even attempt to save herself.
Concentrate! She had to put whatever minutes she had left to good use. Once Jasper returned, it wouldn’t take much time for him to rape her. That was where he’d start. And it would be brutal, would probably leave her so injured she wouldn’t be able to escape even if he left her untied. So, as impaired as she felt by fear and the aftereffects of whatever he’d used to drug her, she was at her strongest right now. She had to use that strength to her advantage; it was all she had.
Breathe. That’s it. In and out...
Despite this self-talk, tears rolled into her hair as she looked around. Had he left anything behind that she might be able to use to get free? Her wrists and ankles were tied so tightly, the situation felt hopeless, but she couldn’t succumb to despair. She’d never make it out of this alive if she did.
Honestly, it wasn’t the dying part that scared her. It was everything that would happen before.
She saw a wagon inside the sagging front door, which had a rope tying it shut. A small table took up one corner of the shack. The chair with the picture taped to it had been arranged in front of her. Jasper had gone to great pains to recreate the “hut” they’d furnished together at one time, she realized—the lover’s hideaway he’d turned into her torture chamber. There was even a throw rug similar to the one she’d once pulled out of a Dumpster so that they could make “their” place a little more comfortable.
She whimpered again, unable to help it. This was unbelievable, her worst nightmare.
Keep looking. Figure out a way to help yourself!
Besides the furniture, she saw a small refrigerator, just like they used to have for soda and alcohol, even though there was no electricity, piles of rope and cord, zip ties, a lantern, a few whips—Oh God, she knew what those were for—sacks filled with she couldn’t guess what, and two or three old, dirty blankets. One looked like it had blood on it already, which made her nauseous on top of everything else.
Don’t get sick! If she threw up, she’d choke on her own vomit...
Doing everything possible to gain control, to swallow the revulsion that caused the sickness, she tried to pretend as if she was just home and in bed. This was nothing but a bad dream.