But what could she do?

She asked herself that over and over as she stared at the ceiling. Her situation seemed hopeless. She didn’t have a door or window that could be breached. The walls were solid, too; there was no way to break through them. But once she quit trying to think of a way to break out and started looking for other options, she had an idea. She’d associated with prison inmates long enough to have learned that it was possible to make a weapon out of almost anything. And something Herculean—like digging a tunnel to freedom—could be accomplished with only a little progress each day, given enough time.

She had no idea how long she’d be held captive, but in case this wasn’t as simple as being kidnapped for ransom, she wasn’t about to waste the time she had lying on a filthy cot, worrying and waiting for the worst to happen.

So what were her options? She’d known inmates who’d heated up chocolate bars to throw on prison staff or rival gang members, causing severe burns; inmates who’d created shivs out of magazines or even toilet paper (strengthened with papier-mâché); and inmates who’d made spears from the metal framework of their beds. Most simply filed down the end of a toothbrush. With enough thrust, that could be lethal and seemed the easiest way to go. But she hadn’t been provided with a toothbrush, had only one roll of toilet paper and no magazines.

For that matter, she had no chocolate, either, let alone something to heat it with. Her cot provided the only hope she had of creating a weapon, and she already knew it wouldn’t be as fancy as a spear. She couldn’t remove part of the frame, not without a screwdriver. It might even be too optimistic to believe she could remove one of the springs, but she intended to try.

She pulled the mattress off and studied the interlocking coils. It wouldn’t be easy, not when she had only her bare hands to work with, but if she could untwist one of the thick steel wires, straighten it out and sharpen it by filing it on the floor, she could tear the lining out of her jacket and wrap the fabric tightly around one end to create a handle.

When she was finished, the weapon would look a lot like a screwdriver. And if she ripped out a short length of the seam in her mattress, she’d even have a place to hide it. Then, if her captor tried to torture or rape her, she could at least attempt to defend herself and her baby.

She squeezed her eyes closed as past memories assailed her and, once again, had to remind herself that this wasn’t Jasper. Yes, she was pregnant and physically compromised because of it, but she was also older and wiser.

Humming a song, so she couldn’t think too much while struggling with those coils, she fought to undo one. She’d been hungry for hours, it seemed, but focusing on something else, especially something so difficult, helped her ignore the pangs in her stomach.