Absurd, she could never hurt another person. Not Abigail R___! She had neither the will nor the strength.

He was not to be blamed, perhaps. As blameless as she. As confined.

But she was trembling with excitement, adrenaline flooded her veins like liquid flame. So long as the man slept, she had a chance to escape. So long as he possessed no consciousness of her, she was free of him. In a closet she discovered women’s clothing, she snatched at a jacket, at slacks, a soft jersey fabric that would be warm against her bare legs, a pair of shoes sturdy for running.

On the bed, amid rumpled sheets, the white-haired man continued to sleep heavily. His breathing was irregular and hoarse, painful to hear. In his nose, the thin whistling sound that grated against Abigail’s nerves.

For some minutes, as in a curious trance of lethargy, Abigail regarded the imposter-husband with mounting rage. Obviously he was the one who’d undressed her. Apart from Abigail, he was the sole actor in this preposterous, haphazard drama in which she’d been confined. He had gazed upon her naked body, he had dared to touch her, commandeer her. He had dared to lock her in this room, and he had dared to overwhelm her with his superior weight, his very anguish, he’d dared to force her to lie docile in his arms, too weak to resist. All that he’d done he had done to her.

Waking from her trance as if someone had snapped their fingers to rouse her, Abigail stealthily lifted the heavy cut-glass vase and carried it into the bathroom, removed the flowers, and, as quietly as she could manage, poured out the water; breathing calmly, thinking calmly, silent on bare feet, she returned swiftly to the bed where her captor lay sleeping, and not giving herself time to think, she raised the vase high over her head and brought it down hard on the skull of the slumbering man, who wakened instantaneously, gave a high, shrieking cry, thrashing, bleeding profusely as with fearless hands Abigail again lifted the vase as high as she could and brought it down a second time against his skull …

Wanting to cry in triumph—It isn’t my fault. You took me captive. I didn’t choose this. You will survive.

Quickly then, Abigail dragged up the comforter to hide the ruined, blood-glistening face. The body had convulsed and had ceased twitching.

She knelt beside the man’s discarded clothing. Searching pockets, frantic to find a key.