The screws had come out easily, but the trapdoor was heavy, the lock holding it in place unforgiving. He’d worked feverishly, using brute strength to push against the inside of the hatch. Over and over again he thrust his palms against the trapdoor, shoving his weight and all his force upward. But the door would only wiggle a bit, push up an inch or two, then fall back into place. The long plate holding the lock didn’t budge.

Not good enough.

But there was movement. Progress.

He stopped to throw on his jeans, shirt, and boots, which gave him protection and extra height. Dressed, he’d be able to chase down that stupid Chloe. If he could find a way to escape!

Every time he thought of how she’d duped him, he saw red and felt the pain still throbbing in his crotch and face. Revenge burned bright in his soul as he scowled and paced the room, noticing the crowbar mounted on the wall. Would it work? Only one way to find out. He yanked it from its hooks and climbed on the table again. Wedging the curved part through the opening, he put all of his weight on the handle and shoved, hard.

Crreaaak. The wood and metal resisted, but started to give.

He tried harder. Pushing. Prying. Forcing the bar to move the door. And sweating. Oh, man was he sweating. In the dank cement room, one of the few basements in this area, the air was still and warm. Salty perspiration ran down his face, irritating his wounds.

But he didn’t stop.

With each straining thrust of the metal rod he thought of the Denning twins, how they’d outwitted him, played him for a fool.

That thought burned in his gut and inspired him.

Harder he pushed, screaming with the effort.

He’d become complacent, felt as if he could control the situation, and he’d been lulled into a sense of security, of his own infallibility. Stupid. Stupid. Fucking stupid! Was it possible that his bitch of a mother and Myra, sweet know-it-all Myra, were right about him? “No way!” he yelled through gritted teeth.

Again he threw his weight on the bar.

Metal groaned, bending.

Good.

He figured the screws holding the plate with the lock, or maybe the plate itself was giving way.

Once more!

All his force!

Hard on the damned crowbar!

Clenching his teeth, he drove all his weight against the crowbar. His muscles screamed, sweat poured down his face and, inside his gloves, his fingers clutched so hard he was sure the bones were showing through his skin.

Again the door moved, metal twisting.

His entire body was trembling with the effort, pain rocketing through his muscles. His legs shook, but he resisted the urge to give up. No, damn it, no!

Another eerie moan of twisting steel.