“No one’s in here,” Mendoza said, frowning. “The place looks almost abandoned.”

He agreed. “Probably only used in the summer.” They walked along a snow-covered path to the detached garage, which was little more than a shed. Its door too was locked tight, but there was a window in the side door, and the shade was broken, falling at an angle that left a long, uneven sliver of the pane unobscured. Using his flashlight and ignoring the blinding reflection from the beam reflecting on the glass, Rivers peered inside. The beam swept over a stack of wood and a few garden tools to land squarely on the hood of a small black sedan.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered as he stared at what he firmly believed to be Megan Travers’s 2010 Toyota.

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 38

The Isolated Cabin
December 15

It’s now or never!

I hear the vehicle approach, engine whining as the car climbs the hill, tires crunching through ice and snow.

With difficulty, I swallow back my fear. My nerves are jangled, my emotions strung raw. I have to do this. And I have to do it now!

This is my one shot. If I fail now, I’ll never have another chance. If I fail, I could be signing my death warrant.

You can do this, you can.

But my confidence wavers. Even though I’ve got the plastic bits in one pocket and the metal hook rack in the other, I feel my determination start to crumble as I envision the scene, sense the imminent attack.

But. Oh. God.

My stomach clenches.

I’ve played and replayed the scenario in my mind for hours on end. While struggling to get to sleep in the loft, I’ve imagined it often:

A sharp rap on the door.

A familiar voice.

The jangle of keys.

The door being flung open.

“Hello?” will be called out.

One step inside.

And then strike!

Swift as a cougar leaping from a mountain ledge, I spring from the loft, weapons extended like claws.

My adversary looks up.

Too late!

With deadly aim, I gouge eyes, ripping flesh and ocular matter as I blind my jailor.

Then I go for the throat.

Slashing.

Blood spurting.

Gurgling air rasping through a severed trachea.

I feel sick at the thought.

Bile rises in my throat.

The whining engine is nearing. I climb the ladder, as I’ve done dozens of times, peek through the row of impossibly small windows near the ceiling. Headlights flash through the trees, illumination splaying on the frozen trunks.

“Give me strength,” I pray, then feel disgust at my weakness, my supplication to a deity who has abandoned me. I don’t need God’s help in crippling and killing my captor.

Nor do I need Satan’s.

I only need to remember who did this to me and why.

And then I’m ready.

I can do this.

But I’m thwarted.