CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

She was done.

Without even the energy to slide her foot off the back of Xander’s head, Jessie slumped down, no longer aware or even interested in whether her arms were attached to her body. She breathed in slow, labored heaves. She could hear the blood dripping from various places on her body and splattering softy on the floor. Her eyes drifted lazily around the room as she flirted with unconsciousness.

They eventually settled on the girl in the chair, resting on its side on the floor. She was inching slowly toward the knife, which had landed near her. As she moved, the only sound in the room beside the continuous splatter of Jessie’s blood was the scraping of the wooden chair as the girl moved. She scooted over until she was able to grip it with her right hand and angle the blade back toward her wrists. She began to saw back and forth at the duct tape.

It was a slow process and she cut into her own wrist as often as she cut the tape. Jessie heard her muffled cries through the rag each time she nicked herself especially hard. Eventually, she had snipped through enough of the tape that she was able to extricate her hand. She moved on to her left wrist, which came loose much quicker now that she had the full use of her right hand. After that, she pulled out the rag and looked up at Jessie.

“It’s going to be all right, Junebug,” she said reassuringly.

Jessie chuckled despite the pain. Of course, the girl had no idea what her real name was. She’d only ever heard Xander call her Junebug. So that’s what she called her too.

The girl interpreted the laugh as a sign that Jessie was losing it, which wasn’t far off. As quickly as she could, the girl cut her legs free and, with much effort, got to her feet. She shuffled over to Jessie, carefully avoiding the body of the man who’d tortured her and killed her family. Despite the blood oozing liberally from his head, she gave him a wide berth.

When she got close to Jessie, she wrapped an arm around her to help support her weight as she cut the cord attached to her left arm. Jessie slumped down hard and the girl had to adjust her position to hold her up. Then she cut the second cord and Jessie collapsed into her arms.

The girl had been expecting it and caught her before easing her gently to the ground. Jessie smiled up at the girl with the concerned look on her face.

Free of the restraints and the gag, she looked surprisingly composed, all things considered. Without the mask of fear contorting her face, Jessie pegged her age as about seventeen. Her sandy-blonde, shoulder-length hair clung sweatily to her neck. Her green eyes, puffy and red from crying, exuded intelligence.

“My name is Jessie,” she mumbled, not sure if the words she tried to form were actually coherent.