Fighting the blinding headache, she told herself she had to find a way out of this dark, stone hole.

A tomb, Kristi, you’re in another tomb.

Her skin crawled at the thought, the memory of the last time she’d been sealed away, certain of her death.

Don’t give up.

It hadn’t happened before and it damned well wasn’t going to happen now. At least not without a damned good fight.

She eased across the cold rocks, moving slowly, feeling with her bound hands. She listened for any noise over the drip of water, but heard only the scratch of tiny nails, as if rats or mice were scurrying out of her way.

Inching her way, she finally ran into a wall. It, too, felt made of stone. There had to be a way out, she reasoned, her mind clearing bit by bit. Somehow she’d been placed in here and unless she was in some huge reservoir with only an outlet in the ceiling, there had to be a door. She just had to find it.

Don’t give up. You’re not dead yet.

She was just getting her bearings when she heard the footsteps, coming closer.

She scooted back and lay down again. She wasn’t strong enough to fight, not yet. She’d have to feign that she was still unconscious.

This was it.

Her chance.

A key rattled in the door.

Kristi closed her eyes. Give me strength, she silently prayed, and help me kill this son of a bitch.

CHAPTER 28

S o it had all come down to this, Dominic Grotto thought as he sat, cell phone in hand, the ice cubes in his untouched drink melting. Even the Vivaldi drifting from the hidden speakers mounted on the bookcase of his study could not soothe his soul. What had begun as a unique way to get kids interested in all kinds of literature had ended up in death.

Four girls dead so far.

Probably more. No doubt Ariel O’Toole and Kristi Bentz had died and would be found in the river as well.

He knew it now. The blind eye he’d so willingly turned could now see perfectly. No more did he delude himself into thinking that he was doing the right thing and helping girls whose lives were a shambles start over.

Since returning from his own personal performance, his last performance to his private audience, he’d switched on the television and caught news reports of bodies being pulled from the Mississippi. There had been few details, no names listed until next of kin were notified, but he knew. Deep in his heart he knew exactly what had happened to those girls.

And it was his fault.

Even now, he tasted the blood of Kristi Bentz upon his lips. All part of the show. All part of the plan. All for the greater good.

Like hell.

All part of your own personal aggrandizement.