Casey lay on the floor, her body numb, her lungs greedily drawing in air. He had come to her, masked, his dark eyes glaring at her with laser focus. When he’d told her to undress, she had refused. He’d hit her hard, knocked her to the ground, bound her hands, and put the bag over her head. Slowly, the lack of air had robbed her of will, and when he’d reached for the waistband of her pants, she had not fought. She had lost count of how many hours he’d toyed with her.

Finally, he had left her, hands bound and half-naked. She had grabbed her pants, pulled them on, and pressed her back against the cinder block wall.

Curling her feet up, Casey hugged her knees close and let her head fall back against the concrete wall behind her. Tears welled in her eyes, spilled down her cheeks, and then she wiped them away. Crying would not get her out of here.

She practiced a deep-breathing exercise she had learned in counseling. Inhale two breaths. Exhale four breaths. She tried to imagine the rolling hills to the west and the beaches of Galveston Island to the east.

Remembering her second cell phone, she hurriedly checked her pockets. He had taken one cell phone but not the second one hidden in the folds of her jacket.

On a floor above her, she heard a door open and keys jangle. She sat up, knowing he was coming. She had a good idea of what was going to happen. Living on the streets almost ensured it.

With a trembling hand, she fished out her phone. She noted the missed calls. Several were from her mother. The other number was not familiar. She listened to her mother’s message and teared up again. Her throat tightened.

“Mommy, I’m sorry.”

The footsteps grew closer to her door. She shoved the phone back in her pocket and wrapped the folds of her jacket over her breasts. She held her breath as the doorknob twisted and the door opened.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Wednesday, April 14

11:30 p.m.

Jordan sat in her dark living room, staring at the stone fireplace and the painting of the wild horse above it. She had repointed the fireplace herself, and the picture had cost her an arm and a leg at an art gallery in Fredericksburg. She did not regret the scars on her fingers from the stonework or the months of brown bag lunches that had paid for the art. Both were a source of pride.

She checked the time on her phone. Avery had said she was spending the night here again. She was due in a half hour, and Jordan was not sure why she was waiting up for her twenty-four-year-old sister, who was perfectly capable of getting herself home.