Chloe found a piece of glass. Small and jagged, it was probably part of the light fixture that had shattered in the struggle when Zoe had escaped. Unnoticed by the brute, the bit of glass had skittered to a dark corner and wedged into a crack in the wall where water seeped through, the very spot where he’d left the bucket that he expected her to use to pee. She had used the plastic pail, of course, because her bladder could only hold so much, but it was gross. Messy. Smelly. And so wrong. She had to escape. Had to.

The entire situation was dire, but she’d bolstered herself, silently prayed that Zoe had gotten away and found civilization, that she’d alerted the police who, any second now, would burst through the door upstairs and find the trapdoor. She waited, hoping to hear the wail of a siren, the whir of helicopter blades, the rumble of an engine. And then the awesome sound of a locked door being forced open, wood splintering and boots pounding overhead.

Instead she heard nothing but her own breathing, the drip from a leak somewhere and the god-awful ticking of the clock, counting off the remaining seconds of her life. She shuddered knowing it all might end here in this dank underground cell. Unless somehow, she found a way to make this little shard a weapon. Zoe had already sliced the prick’s throat. Somehow he’d survived, so obviously she hadn’t cut the jugular or carotid or whatever it was that needed to be severed. An artery would be best. The femoral would do.

Only a week ago Chloe had watched a YouTube video about a guy who was killed when his femoral artery was sliced by a beaver that he was filming. The beaver had been lumbering down the roadside; the photographer had seen it, gotten out of his car, and started videoing the beast, never expecting it to attack. But it had. The beaver had gotten spooked or irritated or scared or whatever and had lunged at the photographer with long teeth that were meant to chew through wood. Those teeth had ripped skin, muscle, and the artery in the guy’s thigh and he’d bled out. His footage was found by a friend and posted on the Internet with an “RIP Brian” footnoted at the end.

Chloe had been sickened, grossed out by the footage, but the information stuck with her, and now it might come in handy. Well, maybe. Actually severing the femoral artery was a long shot. The guy’s thighs were thick pillars of muscle. How deep would she have to plunge the glass? Even then, would she hit the right spot?

Maybe she would be better going after his throat again, or aiming for his eyes to blind and disable him.

If she had the guts to do it.

You have to do it. You can’t wimp out.