She glanced at the curtain, which gaped open enough that she caught the odd glimpse of their driver. His concentration was on the winding road. Lauren had no idea where he was taking them, but the road was on an incline, with turns and switchbacks.

Into the mountains. Somewhere remote. Somewhere he and Greg Hewitt could feel free to do whatever they wanted—rape them, torture them. Ballencoa would take photographs, recording their degradation and their deaths.

How many times in the last four years had she imagined what this monster had done to Leslie? Thousands. Now she would know firsthand. In a strange, sick way, she would have satisfaction. She would have the closure she had prayed for. The not knowing would be over.

At the same time, the idea that she would have to witness Ballencoa do those things to Leah was more than she could stand. She was willing to pay a price with her own life, not Leah’s.

She glanced again at the curtain, then put her attention to her task, trying to cut through the zip ties without slitting either of their wrists.

One gave way, and then the other.

“Don’t move,” she cautioned Leah.

Even with Hewitt partially incapacitated, they were still two men against two females much smaller than they were. She and Leah would need the element of surprise on their side.

Lauren worked the screwdriver from beneath her and passed it discreetly into her daughter’s hands.

“If you get a chance to use this, go for the head, go for the eyes,” she instructed. “If you get the chance to run, you run. Do you understand me? Don’t worry about me. If you can run, save yourself. Promise me.”

Big crystalline tears welled in Leah’s eyes. “But, Mommy—”

Lauren stared hard at her child. “Promise me.”

Leah nodded.

“I love you,” Lauren whispered, fighting tears of her own. “I’m so sorry, Leah. I’m so, so sorry.”

The van slowed and turned and lurched over rough ground, eventually rolling to a stop.

Ballencoa got out. Lauren’s heart was lodged in her throat. She heard another car door and the unintelligible voices of the two men.

How could she not have seen Greg Hewitt for what he was? Why hadn’t she questioned who he was when he had come to her?

Because she hadn’t cared. He had been a means to her end.

Literally, she thought.

The back doors of the van swung open.

Lauren turned her head and looked out, seeing sky and scrub and rocks. They were truly in the middle of nowhere.