Then she felt the knife resting in her palm. Slowly, painfully, she closed her fingers around the handle and craned her head to the right to see. It was a sturdy kitchen knife—black plastic handle, serrated six-inch blade. And it was almost certainly not a dream.

Why hadn't Constanza simply cut the rope?

The answer wasn't hard to discern. Alison had already experienced Griswold's power and lack of caring for human life and pain. He was a patient master at bending subjects to his will. In less than forty-eight hours he had all but broken her. What had ten years of manipulation, chemicals, and abuse done to Constanza? It seemed highly likely that the poor woman couldn't bring herself to go through with such an act of rebellion against the man who had taken her from her home before she had even reached her teens. Setting the knife in place was simply the best she could manage.

Now it was Alison's job to go the rest of the way.

For a while, she lay still and listened, preparing herself. There was only stillness—an intense silence. The house was empty. She felt certain of it. Constanza and Beatriz were gone. Slowly, desperate not to let the blade slip away, she turned the handle in her swollen, stiff fingers until the serrations lay against the rope. Then, no more than a fraction of an inch with each stroke, not worrying whether she cut rope or flesh, she began to saw. There would be no resting, she vowed, no taking the chance that sleep would overcome her. Her muscles ached terribly, and she had little strength. But Treat Griswold had given her the power to cut through the cords. He had given her the hatred.

Twenty minutes? Thirty? An hour?

Alison would never know how long it took. She would only know that she never stopped. A fraction of an inch with each awkward stroke. The blade cut through her skin, but the pain was nothing compared to what she had already endured. Her biggest fears were that she would saw through a tendon or hit an artery. At the moment when it felt like even her hatred for Griswold wasn't going to be enough to keep her fingers moving, the cord snapped apart.

She sat on the edge of the cot for a long time, waiting for the dizziness to subside and for her legs to give her some sort of a sign that they were ready to bear her weight. Then she cut several strips of pillowcase and stanched the blood flow at her wrist. Finally, using the bed frame for support, she pushed to her feet. Just as quickly, her legs buckled at the knees, her quadriceps muscles all but spent. A second try again dropped her awkwardly to the concrete floor. The third time, her legs wobbled, then held.