Page 6 of Hell and High Water

“Food. Definitely need food.”

The few groceries in the fridge and the pantry are nondescript, basics. Not anything specific enough to identify the buyer. The only clue is the fact that there isn’t much here, telling me that I haven’t been here very long, or my captor lives on a tight budget.

“Maybe that’s where they are. Out buying snacks.”

Digging through the cabinet, I snatch a bag of bread, some dried fruit.

The movement makes me wince, tight pain lancing along my side.

I can’t have been out for that long, but I haven’t mustered up the courage to check my wound yet. Besides, the bandages are tight and helping me stay up and about.

Sipping more water and snacking on a piece of wheat bread, I let my mind drift, trying not to fixate on anything.

Is Rachelle even alive?

Where are Gavin, Evan, and Tell?

The drag of fatigue pulls at my eyes, and I realize I’ve settled onto one of the stools at the island, leaning heavily on my arms. I need to lie down. I need a nap.

But the tight grip of fear still lingers, keeping me alert.

I need to escape, or find out if I can. Which means I need some form of communication.

“Phone. Duh! Use your head, Hellena!” I grumble, dragging myself back up to my feet and scanning the room. There doesn’t appear to be a landline, but my things must be somewhere. Maybe there’s a computer, an office…

I make it around downstairs, checking the counters, the living room, and back through the little hallway that leads to the laundry area and the back door. Nothing, only one outlet in the kitchen with nothing attached.

There is a modem plugged in next to the TV, though. Which means there should be Wi-Fi or something. Not that I have any devices to link to that…

Which leaves another trek up the stairs to try and find my clothes, my purse, and my cell.

Assuming they brought my things here with me. Maybe there will be other clues up there, who owns this place, how many days it’s been.

I make it back across the spacious open room and three steps up when I pause, gasping and sweating with the effort.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I hear something outside. Was that a car?

Holding my breath for a second, I listen for the sound again.

And that’s when I hear the faint rumble of an engine more clearly, revving and getting closer.

Tires grind to a halt outside. The engine cuts off.

I’m stumbling for the kitchen when I hear the door slam, another door open, then close.

The debate whether to hide or face them head on is a short one. I snatch the only thing I can find within reach and run back toward the door. The long steak knife feels heavy in my weakened grip, but the weight reassures me.

I won’t risk being caught unarmed and helpless.

And at the very least, I’ll demand some answers. Or I’ll slash the shit out of them and make a run for the car outside.

Keys jingle and heavy footfalls scuff the mat.

An electronic blip-blip on the outside of the door has me biting my lip, pressing my back into the wall and tensing. Bracing to run or to fight, I wait.

Adrenaline blasts any doubts away and narrows my focus on one thing.

The door eases open, a slight squeak.

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