Her wrists would be next. Once she could stand, she’d be able to get enough leverage to break the plastic.

She’d also been stripped of her coat and the fleece she’d worn underneath it. A distant part of her mind recognized that she was freezing, but even the slight chattering of her teeth didn’t make the reality of it sink in. Her blood was on fire, laced as it was with adrenaline.

Barefoot. She was also barefoot, her boots nowhere near her. That was smart of her captor. It would make it harder for her if she did escape.

Had she been out long? Was she still on St. Lucy’s? If she was, that meant several feet of snow outside. Dressed as she was, she would be risking frostbite even if she made it out of the room.

The alternative wasn’t appealing, either.

Pain sliced through her head, a spike that came out of nowhere. Tentatively, she brought her bound hands up over her shoulder to feel along her hairline for the bump. Her knuckle nudged it and then came away sticky. Blood. The hit had been hard enough that it had broken skin.

What had happened after the picture?

Cash. A quick flash of his face in shadows was followed by a bolt of agony that left her panting. She tried again.

Cash. Shadows. Dead eyes. The picture. Each time she grasped for more details, though, they faded only to be replaced with that piercing ache.

Time passed. She wasn’t sure how much, but she started measuring it in the waves of pain that ebbed and flowed with her attempts to figure out what had happened.

Move. She had to move.

Mia maneuvered into a position where she could tug at the knot at her ankle without jarring her head. Two nails broke off, as she worked the rope, the skin around her fingers burned raw, but she kept going. Whoever had tied it had known what they were doing.

They’re all lying.

It came like a breath, the memory, so that she almost didn’t notice it. It came when she’d been distracted, when her mind had emptied.

They’re all lying.

She paused. Who were all lying?

The more she pushed, the more it skittered away. Frustration built, threatened to turn into something more, something that was frantic and wild. It gathered in her chest, pressed against her tear ducts.

It’s okay. It’s okay. Just keep working. Focus.

Mia dug into the thick threads of the rope once more, her determination costing her another nail. She let her thoughts go static once more.

No gun. No shoes. Rope on ankles. Bound wrists. Head wound. No other pain that she could identify. No broken bones.

The checklist ran on a loop, a manic whirl that she didn’t even try to control.