She swallowed back her fear. She was certain she had to be doubly careful because, now that his sick twin birthday was off, there wasn’t anything preventing him from killing her on the spot. Right? With their birthdays over, would he wait for Zoe? Who knew? He was such a freak, anything might set him off. She decided not to provoke him. Not to utter a single word that might make him go ballistic. Better to lull him into thinking she was a complete rag doll and wimp.

Then, she would attack.

With her pathetic shard of glass.

She prayed she could find the guts to kill him.

Surprisingly, she had come to realize that she wasn’t the total coward he believed her to be. Now, with her situation so dire and with the realization that she couldn’t rely on Zoe or anyone else, she realized she could do it. She could attack.

If he came close and faced her, she’d give him a sharp, hard knee to the groin; she knew she could drive her leg upward with tremendous force.

Chloe, like her twin, had been a soccer player for years in junior high and high school. Hence, she’d developed thighs of steel. On the playing field she’d been much more aggressive than in day-to-day life, so she knew she had it in her. Hell, she would summon all her aggression and fear, and rocket his balls into the back of his brain. Bam!

Just give me the chance.

Guts grinding, nerves tight, so scared she wanted to fall into a million pieces, she clutched her bit of glass and decided after kicking him hard in the nuts, she’d find a way to gouge his eyes.

Oh, Jesus, she thought she might throw up as she watched him work.

After he’d tidied up, if that’s what it was, he began to fuss with their clothes again, patting and primping the items on his workbench. With an almost religious zeal he placed the thongs on the dresses, carefully making certain he’d placed hers on her red dress, then Zoe’s on the black one. The bras were next, hooked, lacy pushup cups pointing toward the grimy ceiling. He eyed her bra and clucked his tongue a bit before gently placing it over her thong. “Naughty girls,” he said.

Oh, yeah, wearing sexy underwear was “naughty,” but kidnapping, hog-tieing, and probably murdering a person in some sick ritual was okay? What kind of fucked-up thinking was that?

Anger sizzled through her blood.

Who was this guy?