“Now,” he yelled. She heard him shift in the stone, felt his hand grab her pajamas. She took a chance, fell backward.

Her shoulders hit the loose stone first, her head a second after. She did quick math from her twentieth step, added her height. Thirty steps from her cell door and she still hadn’t hit a wall.

He dropped onto her chest, knees first, took her breath.

“Don’t fucking move.”

She gasped through her bag. “What happened?”

“When I say stop, you stop.”

She panted. “I can’t breathe.”

“You can die in this place, Caitlin. Today, right now.”

His weight shifted, doubled the pressure. She spread her feet as wide as she could, touched walls on both sides, maybe four feet across.

“Can’t breathe,” she repeated.

The bag came off her head. She blinked twice, but still doubted what she saw towering over her. His body blocked the overhead light, but she could tell he’d changed his hair. Still short, but feminine, familiar.

“If you try something like that again,” he said, “I will kill you.”

“The drugs made me dizzy.”

Jesus, he’s wearing a wig.

“I’ll bury you right here. No one will know the story of Caitlin Bergman.”

The realization set in.

A wig that looks like my hair.

“I’m so high.” She panted harder. “I just fell. Please, help me up.”

He held her face, squeezing her cheeks against her teeth. “When I say stop, you stop. Understand?”

She let out a garbled yes, and he let go. She rocked onto her side, dropped her head back, and gasped. The bag returned, and he pulled her to her feet.

“Accidents happen,” he said, his voice back to an untrustable calm.

He marched her to the playroom, shoved her inside, undid the cuffs, locked the door, and left her alone.

She raised her hands to remove the bag, winced at the pain in her arm. One more bruise would be a small price to pay for what she’d learned from her brief glimpse down the hall. Ten feet further, the hallway ended at an exposed rock wall, but five feet away, on the right, there was another door.

“Caitlin?” The crackle of the speaker turned her around. He didn’t appear in the window this time. “I’m leaving. There’s food, water, and drinks on the table, and towels near the shower. If you behave, I’ll have a special treat for you tonight.” Another quick burst of static ended his announcement.

Caitlin looked around. Scrambled eggs, bacon, and a plastic cup of orange juice waited on the right-hand table next to a stack of granola bars and bottled soda. She ate the world’s worst continental breakfast, then cried her way through a shower. She needed to recover soon.

She might die in Branford’s underground lair, but she’d die fighting.