Again she studied the oar. Wooden, with narrow red, white, and blue bands painted near the blade, it looked heavy enough to knock a five-foot-six woman to kingdom come. And that was exactly what Olivia planned.

If she could just figure a way to reach it.

She felt the rock of the boat on its moorings and knew they were in some marina. She’d been told no one could hear her if she made a ruckus, but that was a lie. She heard seagulls crying and people shouting, engines catching and rumbling, but all the sounds were muted and it was probably because she was alone, aware of every little scrape of a rodent’s claws, or anticipating the sound of footsteps on the ladder.

She had cried out earlier, after the psychopath woman had left and she was certain she was going to be burned to death. She had removed her shoes and banged on the bars of her prison, creating a dull clang. But no one had heard her. No one had boarded the boat, the Merry-Anne if the faded name scrawled on the life jackets could be believed.

Now, her throat raw from screaming, she sat in a corner of the cell, watching the sunlight fade and the hold become dark again. It was unnerving. Creepy. And she refused to let her imagination run away with her.

Instead, she tried to figure a way out of her dire situation. There had to be a logical solution to the problem of how to save herself as well as her unborn child.

As a psychologist, she had studied the human mind. She had learned various therapeutic approaches for people who were losing a grip on reality. That was what she needed: a plan.

Right. She would have laughed aloud if she had the energy. Psychologists did not treat unwilling patients; at least, not with any degree of success.

She pulled her knees up and hugged them to her chest. How do you deal rationally with someone who has lost touch with reality? Someone lacking in sound moral judgment? Someone inherently evil?

“God help me,” she whispered as night fell and, once again, she was alone in the thick, stygian darkness.

“I’m sorry about your wife,” Corrine O’Donnell said as she finished with the Missing Persons report. Bentz had already spent several hours with the FBI and had ended up here, in Missing Persons. The paperwork was necessary, but he was crawling out of his skin, watching the minutes tick by.

“Yeah.” “Sorry” didn’t begin to describe the fear that slithered through him, the cold, stark terror of knowing that Olivia was in the hands of a madwoman.

“Try not to worry. We’ll find her.” She offered a smile and he remembered fleetingly that he’d cared for her, more as a friend than a lover, but they’d shared a lot in their on-again, off-again affair.

“You happy with Hayes?” he asked.