Now, this.
“Oh, God,” I croaked, just to see if my voice worked.
It did, though poorly like a door creaking on rusty hinges. The words scraped through my throat.
No one answered.
I blinked rapidly, feeling tears flush away the dark and roll down my cheeks. Light broke through, images blurred and condensed into discernable shapes.
I was in some kind of backwoods church.
It was a shed, really, a lean-to built from old wood that was cracked and poorly insulated. The wind whistled sharply through the gaps, swirling in the little chapel like a harsh whisper so that the entire space seemed filled with ghostly voices. I turned my head on a wince to see the front of the space, a rough-hewn altar topped by a massive, crudely carved cross the size of a grown man. There were rust-coloured stains on the cross.
I didn’t know anything that left that kind of residue but blood.
A shiver rocked through me, black spots dancing in my vision as I gritted against the jarring pain in my head.
What had my abductor given me?
I sucked a freezing breath into my lungs, then watched the plume of hot breath billow around me. Deep breathing did nothing to calm me. I was alone in some Godforsaken shack in the middle of nowhere without a phone or any means of communicating with the people I was sure were looking for me.
I couldn’t just count on them to find me.
I had to rely on myself to get out of this and get to them.
My hands were bound behind my back with rough rope that rasped over the thin skin of my wrists every time I shifted. I fell to one hip, hoping to get leverage to stand and try the door at the far end of the space even though I could clearly see chains around the handles.
A whimper from somewhere among the spare pews held me still.
“Hello?” I called.
My echoing voice returned in answer.
Carefully, I started to shift again onto my knees.
Another whimper, this one sharper, longer like a keening animal.
I looked around deliberately this time, trying to see into the shadows poorly lit by two halogen construction lights with exposed bulbs. To the far left, sticking out from behind one of two rows of pews, I saw a foot.
A foot wearing a high heel.
Instantly, hope overtook my panic and fear. I rolled forward onto my knees and started to shuffle across the packed earth floor toward that shoe.
As I drew closer, I saw a long, pale leg encased in nude hosiery and the hem of a black wool dress. It wasn’t until I nearly fell around the corner of the pew, knocking my hip painfully against the corner, that I knew for sure who it was.
Tabitha Linley.
She was passed out on the ground with a large gash in her head, dried blood flaking off the skin of her left cheek and neck where it had spilled to pool on the ground beneath her.
I choked on a gasp. “Oh my gosh, Tabby.”
She didn’t stir.
I shuffled forward, desperate to get my hands free so I could check her breathing and perform CPR if need be. One of the lights was burning just behind me, prompting an idea.
I rocked to my feet awkwardly and backed up to the fixture. A hiss seared through my lips as I held my bound wrists to the exposed bulb and started to work the rope back and forth over the hot wire encasing it. Sweat popped along my brow and rolled into my eyes. The delicate skin of my hands burned and blistered, but I continued.
Finally, the rope splintered enough that I could snap it open with a jerk of my wrists.
“Tabby,” I called immediately, rushing back to her prone form. I kneeled at her side, lightly shaking her, then gently slapping at her cheeks to revive her. “Tabitha!”
She was breathing, which gave me hope, but it took a long minute for her to stir. First, a little groan worked past her chapped lips, then a harsher whimper. Her bruised face contracted in a pained frown as her eyes fluttered open.
“B-Bea?” she whispered hoarsely as she tried to sit up, but then collapsed back to the ground. “Oh my gosh, what’s going on?”
“We’re in some kind of ramshackle church,” I told her softly, worried she might have a concussion. I helped her sit up with her back against the pew, then wet the edge of my sweater with spit so I could wipe away some of the blood flaking over her brow. “I’m so sorry. We tried to make a switch for you with the serial killer, but he tricked us. Are you okay? Have you seen him? Has he hurt you?”
Seeing her bleeding on the floor made my heart clench with guilt. I’d known she was in pain, suffering some kind of horrible fate at the hands of the killer, taken because he wanted me and he knew I loved Tabby.