I walk back through the squad room, looking for Joe, but I don’t see him. Everyone is hard at work, heads down, and I feel unnerved at my own uselessness, so I go back to my office to read through my notes for the thousandth time.

I settle into my chair, drum the desk with my fingers as I shuffle through my notebook, adding random doodles, trying to think, trying to elicit some overlooked fact that might help. My phone rings on my blotter, startling me. Unknown caller. My heart starts to pound as I answer, “Detective Myers.”

“I’ve got Melinda.” The voice is gravelly, distorted. “She’s back in the cellar where she belongs.” He ends the call, and I jump up from my desk and run down the hall.

CHAPTER 68 - Molly

CHAPTER 68

Molly

I DRAIN THE WATER BOTTLE BUT LEAVE THE COOKIES. THE WATER sloshes in my stomach, making me feel slightly seasick. My head still throbs, but anger keeps me focused.

I won’t pee myself like I had to when I was six years old, so I use the ancient toilet. It doesn’t flush, so I remove the tank lid and peer inside. There’s a tangle of metal parts, but it doesn’t look as though any of it works. Doesn’t really matter if my urine sits in the bowl. Who cares? At least I’m dry.

I’ve been digging my fingers into the wall along the pipe all day, looking for a weak spot. Luckily, the concrete is old and crumbly. There’s a loose fitting on the pipe, and if I can pull it far enough away from the wall, I might be able to work it free and slip the chain off. My fingertips throb, and my nails have broken off at the quick; blood trickles down my left hand, and I have to keep wiping it on my jeans. But at least my fingers are going numb, and the pain is subsiding.

Then I hear a door from somewhere up above and the creak of floorboards overhead. My heart hammers. He’s back. I sit and slide over so that my back rests against the spot I’ve been digging, and wait.

The ladder scrapes from above, and he’s climbing down.

“Melinda?” he calls, although with less gusto than before. Maybe he’s getting tired. I hope so. Somehow, I’ve got to get the upper hand. It’s just Cal, I say to myself, trying to pump up my courage.

He makes his way across the basement floor. “How’s my girl?” He sits against the wall, a little farther from me than before, as if he’s afraid I’ll punch him again. “I brought you more to drink.” I hear him chuckle in the darkness. He rolls a bottle toward me. It thunks against my leg. “Go on, take a sip. You’ve got to be thirsty.”