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She groaned out a long sigh as she sat on the toilet beside the sink. She was still feeling lightheaded, probably from the heat. Or maybe from her blood sugar. She had been on the high side at the doctor's office.
She put her purse on her lap and dug around for her monitor. There had been a huge display for different blood glucose monitors on the wall in the doctor's office. Most of them were either cheap or free, because the real money came from the specialized strips they all used. Each manufacturer had a different one, so once you chose a monitor, you were locked in forever. Unless you dropped it on the bathroom floor and broke it.
"Shit," Faith mumbled, leaning down to pick up the monitor, which had slipped out of her hand and skittered over by the wall. She heard a faint, sonorous noise coming from the machine.
Faith picked up the monitor, wondering what damage she had done. The readout on the machine was still at zero, waiting for a strip. She shook the device, holding it to her ear and listening for the sound again. She leaned down, trying to duplicate the motion that had caused the monitor to make the noise. The sound repeated, more like the kind of thing you would hear on a playground this time— loud and frenzied.
And not coming from the monitor.
Could it be a cat? Some animal caught in the heating ducts? Jeremy's gerbil had been killed in the dryer one Christmas, and Faith had sold the machine to a neighbor rather than deal with the carnage. But whatever this thing was, it was alive, and obviously intended to stay that way. She leaned down a third time, hovering near the heating grate at the base of the toilet.
The noise was clearer this time, but still muffled. Faith got down on her knees, pressing her ear to the grate. She thought of all the animals that could make that sort of noise. It sounded almost like words.
Help.
It wasn't an animal. It was a woman calling for help.
Faith's hand went into her purse, pulling out the velvet bag where she kept her Glock when she wasn't wearing it on her hip. Her hands were sweating.
There was a sudden, loud knock on the door; Darla. "Are you okay in there, Agent Mitchell?"
"I'm fine," Faith lied, trying to keep her voice normal. She found her cell phone, tried to ignore that her hands had started shaking. "Is Tom here yet?"
"Yes." The woman went silent. Just that one word hanging in the air.
"Darla?" There was no answer. "Darla, my partner is on the way. He's going to be here any minute." Faith's heart was pounding so hard that her chest hurt. "Darla?"
There was another bang on the door, but this one was sharper. Faith dropped the phone and held the gun with both hands, ready to fire at whoever came into the bathroom. The Glock did not have a conventional safety. The only way it could be fired was if you pulled the trigger all the way back. Faith aimed at the center of the doorway, bracing herself to yank back the trigger as hard as she could.
Nothing. No one came through the door. The knob was not turning. Quickly, she glanced down, looking for her cell phone. It was behind the toilet. She kept her gun trained on the door while she reached down for the phone, snatching it up.
The door stayed closed.
Faith's hands were sweating so badly that her fingers couldn't stay on the buttons. She hissed a curse as she dialed in the number wrong. She was trying again when she heard the closet door squeak open behind her.
She spun around, her gun pointing straight at Darla's chest. Faith took in everything at once—the false door in the closet wall, the washing machine on the other side, the Taser in Darla's hands.
Faith lurched to the side, not bothering to aim as she pulled back on the trigger. The Taser hooks sailed past her, the thin metal wires shimmering in the bright light as the hooks bounced off the wall.
Darla stood there, the spent Taser in her hands. A chunk of sheetrock had been taken out over her left shoulder.
"Don't move," Faith warned, keeping the gun trained on Darla's chest as she fumbled for the doorknob. "I mean it. Don't move."
"I'm sorry," the woman whispered.
"Where's Tom?" When she didn't answer, Faith screamed, "Where the fuck is Tom?"
Darla would only shake her head.
Faith threw open the door, still pointing the gun at Darla as she backed out of the room.
"I'm so sorry," the woman repeated.
Two strong arms wrapped around Faith from behind—a man, his body hard, his strength palpable. It had to be Tom. He lifted her off the floor and, without thinking, Faith pulled the trigger again, firing the Glock into the ceiling. Darla was still standing in the closet, and Faith pulled the trigger with purpose this time, wanting to put a bullet in the woman that could be traced back to her gun. The Glock missed, and Darla ducked away, shutting the false door behind her.
Faith fired again and again as Tom backed her out into the hallway. His hand clamped around Faith's wrist like a vise, the pain so sharp that she was sure her bones had snapped. She held onto the gun as long as she could, but she was no match for his strength. Dropping the weapon, she started kicking with all her might, reaching out to grab anything she could find—the edge of the door, the wall, the knob on the basement door. Every muscle in her body screamed from pain.
"Fight," Tom grunted, his lips so close to Faith's ear that she felt like he was inside of her head. She could feel his body responding to the struggle, the pleasure he was deriving from her fear.
Faith felt a surge of fury tighten her resolve. Anna Lindsey. Jacquelyn Zabel. Pauline McGhee. Olivia Tanner. She would not be another one of his victims. She would not end up at the morgue. She would not abandon her son. She would not lose her baby.
She twisted around and scratched Tom's face, digging her fingernails into his eyes. She used every part of her body—her hands, her feet, her teeth—to fight him. She would not give in. She would kill him with her bare hands if she had to.
"Let me out of here!" someone screamed from the basement. The noise was a surprise. For a split second, Faith stopped struggling. Tom stopped, too. The door shook. "Let me the fuck out!"
Faith came to her senses. She started kicking again, flailing, doing everything she could to free herself. Tom held on, his powerful arms like a clamp around her body. Whoever was behind the basement door was beating it, trying to break it down. Faith opened up her mouth and screamed as loud as she could. "Help! Help me!"
"Do it!" Tom yelled.
Darla stood at the end of the hallway. The reloaded Taser in her hands. Faith saw her Glock at the woman's feet.
"Do it!" Tom demanded, his voice barely audible over the banging behind the door. "Shoot her!"
All Faith could think about was the child inside her, those tiny fingers, that delicate heartbeat pressing up and down against her baby's tissue-thin chest. She went completely limp, relaxing every muscle in her body. Tom hadn't been expecting her to give in, and he stumbled as he took on her full weight. They both dropped to the floor. Faith scrambled across the tile, reaching for the gun, but he yanked her back like a fish on a line.
The door splintered open, shards of wood flying. A woman half-fell into the hallway, screaming obscenities. Her hands were at her waist, her feet chained, but she moved with almost laser precision as she slammed her body into Tom's.
Faith took advantage of the distraction and grabbed the Glock, twisting around, aiming at the bodies thrashing on the floor.
