I swallow back my fear that no one even knows I’m missing, that lies have been spread about the reason I’m unavailable.

If only I had my phone or a radio or any way to communicate to the outside world!

I eye the small interior of the room again, absently searching for some crack in this jail, something I’ve overlooked, and as I do, I wonder what is to become of me?

If no one other than my kidnapper knows where I am, then what if something happens to them?

My stomach knots, and I try not to think about how dire my situation is.

“You have to get out of here yourself!” I remind myself as outside the wind howls, mocking me. Involuntarily, I shiver, though, of course, I’m not really cold. Not with heat radiating from a propane fireplace glowing brightly in the corner. I wonder vaguely what will happen when the propane runs out or the generator I hear huffing away goes silent. What if my jailor decides not to come back or is incapacitated? What then?

“For the love of God, stop it!” I push that awful thought aside, but it keeps creeping back, a horrid little worm crawling through my brain, reminding me of how vulnerable I really am. “Go away!” I yell out loud.

Again.

Drawing my knees to my chin, I stare upward and out the windows mounted high overhead. Small, in a neat row, none large enough to slip through, the tops of snow-dusted fir trees visible as night descends. There are two larger windows, but they are now shuttered—“retrofitted” would be the right term—in other words, boarded over. Useless. Immovable.

I know.

I’ve tried to force them open and have the bloodied fingertips and broken nails to prove it. Of course, they didn’t budge. That’s one thing about a Cahill Tiny House: It’s built solidly.

This model, with its shimmering silver-gray tile backsplash, trendy stone counters, even a small, damned chandelier, is gloriously high end, but still a prison.

At first, I’d thought this was a sick joke.

That my “kidnapping” was all some sort of elaborate, misguided prank.

I should have known better.

I should have realized what I was dealing with. But after the first night, and the second, and the third, I’d come to realize the treacherous truth, that I was being held here, possibly left here to die, and I’d started to panic.

Now, throat dry, muscles tense, I wonder, will I ever be free again?

Or will I be trapped here forever?

Oh. God. No. No!

Certainly, if I were going to be killed or hurt, it would have happened already. Right? Why keep me locked in this remote, isolated cabin? Surely, if my death were the ultimate goal, it would have already occurred.

So, what then?

Ransom?

No.

A darker thought begins to filter into my mind, but I block it.