She had been at it for perhaps a couple of minutes when she heard an ordinary sound that was suddenly terrifying: the groan of the garage door opening.

Grace is back, no.

Trembling, she jerked at the rope. Still, it held. She positioned the blade in the deep groove she had created, pushed against it hard, and cut, cut, cut.

The garage door closed.

She tugged at her bond, and the damaged rope snapped free.

There was no time to celebrate her victory. She still had to free her ankles.

Noose dangling from her neck as if she were a convict who’d escaped a hanging, she bent forward.

Her legs were filmed with cold sweat. The perspiration acted as a lubricant. Using her hands, she was able to slip each knot off her ankles.

She didn’t hear Grace, but her mother had to be downstairs. Perhaps on her way up.

Monica swung her legs to the side of the mattress. She clutched the knife.

What if it’s Troy?

She didn’t dare to call out. If it was her mother, and not her husband, the only advantage she enjoyed was that her mother still believed she was bound in place.

Rising off the bed, she winced. Her knees ached. Hell, everything hurt. She was in no condition to run.

She only had to get out of the house.

The far side of the bedroom had a set of doors that opened onto a balcony, but that was not an option for her. The balcony was at least twelve feet above the ground. She’d have to jump off the railing, and in her current fragile state, that would be the equivalent of leaping off a ten-story building. The only way out was through the doorway, and to risk Grace seeing her.

She tipped across the room, knife held in front of her. Her nightgown hung limply on her slender frame, drenched in sweat. She slipped on a pair of house shoes lying near the bathroom door.

Faint noises downstairs. It sounded as if someone were in the kitchen.

Monica reached the door. Twisted the knob.

It opened soundlessly.

The hallway beyond the threshold was quiet, steeped in shadows.

She heard heels clicking on tile, downstairs. There was no doubt that it was her mother.

She tightened her grip on the knife handle.

She didn’t want to engage in a physical confrontation with Grace. She suspected she would lose that battle, armed with a knife or not. She wanted only to get out of the house without alerting her mother.

But if it came down to a fight, she wasn’t going to back down.

She crept along the long corridor. The hardwood floor masked the sound of her soft-soled shoes.

She paused at the closed door to her office, lips pressed together, thinking.