She was so close.

Although she tried to slam the door behind her, something was in the way. It bounced back, but she didn’t dare stay long enough to figure out why.

The building outside the cooler smelled of rotten eggs and nearly turned her stomach. She could barely keep the bile down. It wasn’t only the smell—she’d just stabbed a man!

She’d never forget the feel of that sharpened wire sinking into his flesh or the feel of the warm blood that spurted out onto her face.

But none of that mattered, she told herself as she looked frantically for a way out. This guy, whoever he was, shouldn’t have taken her captive in the first place. What she’d had to do was his fault.

Until she reached the makeshift living room, which was down a short hallway, she believed she was going to escape. But the first door she rushed to was boarded up on the outside.

What kind of place was this? A factory?

The musty smell in the air wasn’t industrial.

An out-of-business store?

Hard to tell, and the dim light didn’t help.

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” She had to get out.

A sudden sound made her whirl around. He was staggering toward her with blood running down his neck and her shiv in one hand. The purposeful gleam in his bloodshot eyes made it clear he meant to use it.

She tried to run, to dodge him, but it was no use. Her legs were so unsteady, she ran into the sharp edge of a table. She caught herself so she didn’t fall, but before she could get around the couch she felt his hand fist in her hair and drag her down.

Emmett could barely breathe, and his T-shirt was soaked with blood by the time he had Evelyn Talbot locked in the cooler again. The shiv he’d dropped in the break room when he grabbed her was only a thick wire. That couldn’t have done too much damage, he thought.

But only seconds later, he changed his mind. He couldn’t recover, had no idea how much blood he’d lost. He had to get to an ER.

Intending to get help, he dug his cell phone out of his pocket. But then he realized, somewhat belatedly since he wasn’t thinking clearly, that he couldn’t call for an ambulance, couldn’t bring anyone here, not unless he wanted to get patched up at the hospital only to be taken to jail.

He’d have to drive himself to the closest med clinic and lie to the staff that someone had jumped him for his wallet. They’d probably still call the police. The type of injuries he’d sustained had to be reported. But as far as the police would know, he hadn’t done anything wrong. They’d get the same story plus a made-up description of his attacker. Without evidence to contradict his story, they’d be off to hunt down an imaginary perp and leave him there.

That was the way it should play out—as long as they didn’t run the license plate on the van he’d stolen.