But my heart aches. In the time I’ve been held here, the only person I’ve ever seen was my captor.

Someone I trusted.

Someone I’d been waiting for all my life.

But did my jailor have an accomplice?

Maybe.

What if the person who did this told a careful lie, explained away my absence? How long would it take for anyone to realize that I’m really gone, truly missing?

Panic rises again, my heart fluttering, my hands beginning to shake uncontrollably.

“Get a grip!” I order myself over the soft hiss of the fire.

I have to be calm.

Forceful.

My only chance is to keep my wits about me.

“Don’t give in!”

I scurry down the ladder and cross to the minuscule bathroom, where I stare at the fixtures, all bolted down tight. I know they’re steadfast. I’ve tried every damned day to pry them off with my bare hands. And failed. But there has to be a way out! I can’t believe this box—wooden sides, some Sheetrock, metal, and glass—is impossible to escape from.

I know that there are vents, and holes where plumbing is connected to some kind of water source and septic tank . . . right? And there is electricity from the generator.

Think!

There has to be a way out of this!

Use your brain!

There’s a chance I could start a fire with the propane stove, but then I would probably be trapped before anyone saw the blaze. I’m not ready to die yet. Not that way.

And I need to feed my vengeance.

The only visible way out is the door, so the most likely scenario is to distract my keeper the next time I’m visited to replenish my supplies.

If that happens.

There is always the chance that I could be left here alone to die, a slowly painful death from hunger or dehydration should my water give out, or from going psycho completely and utterly bat-shit crazy.

Is that the ultimate plan?

That someone I trusted, someone I held dear would be so cruel?

Rather than dwell on that excruciating thought, I go over the prison again, inch by upscale inch.

For what seems the millionth time, I eye ceiling and walls, loft space and living area, and the ladder that slides like a barn door from one side of the loft to the other. Nothing there.

I’ve checked every screw, nail, and bolt in the entire house, trying to pry free the tiniest of weapons, anything with which to attack my kidnapper, but every damned thing is screwed down tight, and I have no tools, not even a plastic knife or fork or friggin’ spoon to try to pry my way to freedom.

Damn, damn, damn!