Page 117 of At Her Will

Simon and Tyson were part of an ex-con rehab program the church sponsored. They weren’t the only ones in the church who were, and the program did good for men and women with records. However, Simon and Tyson often acted like Witford’s personal bodyguards. Witford didn’t discourage that impression, and Rev had wondered what his cousin had them do to reinforce the notion. Or what his cousin did for them.

Had Rev’s willingness to let certain things “resolve themselves,” put Veracity in harm’s way? Just imagining that Witford might…

“Oh, and Tisha went with Witford.”

His heart slammed against his ribs. Tisha wouldn’t be part of something like what he was thinking. But hearing she was with them wasn’t making him feel any better.

“How long ago did they leave?” he asked, cutting off whatever Mrs. Byrd was saying.

The startled tone in Mrs. Byrd’s voice suggested the dread and anger he was trying to suppress had come through. “About an hour ago. Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know. I’ll call you back.”

Rev looked at his burner phone. He needed to call 911. He needed to send the police out to the old mill. But he didn’t know what was going on, what Witford was doing. He could be wrong. All he knew was that Veracity was in trouble, and everything in him told him she was at the mill.

His cousin and his Mistress.

His aunt.

Please God, help guide me. Whatever I do next, let it be the right thing to help her.

He dropped to his knees on the kitchen floor, his hands clasped to his chest. He opened up everything. His heart, soul and mind, those chakras that Vera talked about. Call the police or go to the mill. Or both. Or call her friends.

When he lifted his head, he’d made his decision. He just hoped it was God’s, too. And that he wasn’t too late to stand between his family and whatever evil might be guiding them.

Vera woke in darkness, in a place that smelled of dirt and old wood. Her wrists had been bound with a zip tie behind her. Her ankles were bound too. Not being able to move was a terrible, helpless feeling. The hood over her head and the cloth in her mouth was the worst, causing a mind-numbing panic that made her feel like she was suffocating.

But she wasn’t. She’d been unconscious for a while.Breathe.She needed to breathe. She was able to spit out the cloth gag, but they had something tied around her neck to hold the hood in place, so the balled-up rag dropped and stayed, a damp weight against her chin and neck.

She’d done breathing exercises to handle emotional stress, but that was hell and gone from terror like this. Still, she knew she needed to think clearly, so she made herself do it until she could access some cogent thoughts.

Was this an opportunistic rapist? A husband or boyfriend, wanting vengeance or access to a resident of Laurel Grove? TRA had gotten a lot of press these past couple years. Maybe this was an attempt to extort money from Ros and Abby.

That last one made sense, but it didn’t fit the brutal way she’d been treated. Whoever had taken her didn’t really care what condition she was in, only that she was still alive.

Focus on your surroundings.

She was alone. Her movements as she regained consciousness hadn’t resulted in anyone speaking or moving toward her, and she didn’t hear anyone breathing. She thoughtthe hood was a pillowcase. It had a laundry detergent smell, making the situation even more surreal.

She felt like she was in a small space, like a shed.

She also had a phone.

Cyn had given her the garter phone holder as a joke, a poke at how Vera liked to wear her “turn of the nineteenth century” fashions. Such fashions weren’t big on pockets, and a phone could ruin the lines of the form fitting garments.

Cyn had rolled her eyes. The initial discussion had been about Vera carrying a gun, but that wasn’t Vera’s thing. So Cyn had gifted her the phone holder. She’d told Vera to carry the phone in it, particularly when dealing with Laurel Grove issues or traveling New Orleans streets at night.If someone throws your purse away from you, thinking that’s where you’re carrying it, they’ve left you a weapon.

Damn if the woman hadn’t been right.

She writhed and twisted, pulling at the hem of her skirt until she could pluck out the phone. It dropped from her trembling fingers, stiff from the cutting hold of the zip tie. She bit back a curse but reclaimed the device, working it around in her hands until she had it in a position where she could operate it.

As she touched the screen, she heard the tone that told her the battery was low. Her stomach tightened into a hard knot. So it would die soon. She’d had a half charge before she was knocked out, so she’d been out for a few hours. She didn’t know what kind of cell signal she had here.

The earliest someone would be looking for her would be in the morning, when Rev was coming for breakfast. She didn’t know if it was still night.

A phone with raised buttons would have beensofucking helpful right now. She reminded herself that she activated the voice control on her phone all the time without looking. Muscle memory.

It took some fumbling, but she found it, hearing the tiny beep as the microphone engaged. She left the phone on the ground, and turned so she was over it. Her head swam from the movement, wanting to pull her under again. If she fought it, stress would make it happen.Keep breathing, keep calm.

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