Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
I wasn’t silly enough to hope to find a tire iron or anything like that, but even just a nail or… oh.
It wasn’t just my laces I had with me when I’d gone into the trunk. It wasn’t in my pocket where I’d left it. But it had to be in the trunk somewhere.
My fingers felt around with renewed determination.
Then I felt it.
Small and long that and wedged tightly between the cage and the wall of the trunk.
It took a moment to work it free, but I was determined.
In the dark, I let my fingers trace down it, finding the point.
A pen.
Did my stomach completely turn over at the idea of stabbing someone in the eye? Yes, yes, it did.
Something about the eyes really got to me.
Goosebumps rose up over my skin as my mind raced through it. The trunk opening. The cage opening. The hands reaching for me. Me coming out with a pen tucked in my hand, and stabbing it into his eye.
Then again, my research into the Silent Sadist had given me details a part of me was almost upset I’d learned about. The things he’d done to those other women before they found the sweet release of death.
They’d been through unfathomable hell. And that was only the details that had trickled out to the press. There was no doubt in my mind that there were many details not released, details about the torture they’d endured that I still didn’t know.
If it was between stabbing a man in the eye, or hesitating and enduring rape and other torture, I was going to drive that damn thing into the man’s brain.
A part of me wanted to put my faith to rest in Wells rescuing me.
I did have every confidence that he was actively looking for me, that he was turning over every stone to try to find me.
That said, the police had been working on this case for years. They had no real leads. And, sure, this guy had screwed up. He’d broken pattern. Which meant he might have screwed up, left crumbs for the police to follow.
For example, I had cameras now.
His car and he would be on them.
Sure, his face was disfigured from the stocking and the car could have fake plates. But there could be something. Like the police could catch the make and model on traffic cameras, figure out where he was going.
The thing was, there wasn’t going to be enough time for that.
Clearly, this guy had been planning this.
The cage alone must have taken planning and time to install.
Had he been working on this since I’d stabbed him? Fueling his project with his pain and anger and frustration at not being able to complete his “job.”
He wasn’t going to waste time once he got me wherever we were going.
I could be half-dead, and fully wishing I was, by the time the police tracked down this guy, and came to try to save me.
I debated the best thing to do with the pen.
My instinct was to put it in my hand, to use it immediately when the cage opened.
But what if I didn’t have an opening?
And he saw the pen?
And took it from me?
Then I was left with just the laces, and my utter lack of faith in my ability to use them effectively.
But I also couldn’t put it anywhere that it might break or be too hard to get to.
Weighing my options, I decided on slipping it lengthways under my bra strap.
Hidden, safe, and easy to reach.
Happy with a plan, I sucked in another deep breath, only for it to rush out as the car finally slowed, stopped, and turned off.
Okay.
Alright.
It was going to be alright.
I had two weapons.
I was aware what the stakes were.
I was going to make it out of this, damnit.
I refused to be his third kill.
The car shifted slightly as he climbed out.
The door slammed, and I swear my heart jumped with that sound, but then… nothing.
Seconds ticked to minutes as my skin grew clammy and my heart started hammering, despite my valiant efforts to stay calm and collected, to keep my head on straight for what was to come.
I started counting to sixty over and over, trying to keep track of how much time was passing.
Three minutes.
Five.
Ten.
What was he doing for so long?
My stomach dropped as my mind answered.
Setting up.
Preparing.
For the hours and hours of torment he had in store for me.
Knives. Pictures. Assaults of every single kind.
My saliva was acidic, each swallow burning down my throat as I continued counting, and trying hard not to think of the things that could happen to me.
I didn’t hear any footsteps, but the trunk clicked.
Reaching down, I wiped my sweaty palms against my pant legs, knowing a pen would be useless in them if they were wet.
I sucked in a breath so deep it burned to prevent myself from gasping or crying out when the trunk was wrenched suddenly open. The last thing I wanted was for him to know how bone-achingly terrified I was.