When I stopped retching, I opened the medicine cabinet in search of a toothbrush. I did find one, a small travel-size one, but no way was I going to brush my teeth with a used toothbrush. And before he made me do it, I flushed it down the toilet. At least there was a tube of toothpaste. Squeezing some on my finger, I brushed my teeth as best as I could.

I needed to focus. To find some way out.

Using the night-lights, I searched both rooms again, and like the first time, found nothing. The chest where he’d kept the crop was locked tight, but I knew if I could get in there, there might be something for me to use, some sort of weapon. Something to use to escape, or at least to hurt him long enough to get out of here. He had to have a phone. I would take it and make the call to David Lazaro, Mateo’s contact. I’d memorized his number. But was he in on it too? Had he set Mateo up?

It didn’t matter, not right now. I needed to get out of here first. He had to have a car. I mean, if we were in some remote location—and I knew we must be—he’d need a car to get here. I could take the car. The rest I’d figure out. I just needed to get out of this room.

I didn’t know how much time had passed, but I tried the door for the hundredth time, growing so frustrated that this time, I pounded on it with both fists, screaming out for him to let me out.

A light went on in the outer room. I scrambled backward to the bed, climbed on, and waited, my back pressed against the headboard.

The lock slid, and I found myself hugging my knees, hiding my face behind a curtain of hair. When the door opened, I lifted my head. Death stood there without the mask, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. His damp hair told me he’d recently had a shower. I guess he’d built up a sweat whipping me.

My ass hurt, and I shifted my weight.

He didn’t close the door.

Without a word, he entered. I studied him.

He watched me, his gaze as effective as chains keeping me locked to the spot.