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“Then it’s the cabin,” I said. “It's our best lead.” I headed for the door. “And every minute we waste talking is another minute Joy's in danger.”

The others were already moving, grabbing weapons and equipment. Simon appeared at my side with a Kevlar vest.

“Put this on.”

I shrugged into the vest, ignoring the way it pressed against my broken ribs. The pain was background noise now. Everything that mattered was focused on a single objective.

Get to Joy. Stop Glenda. Bring my woman home.

We were going to end this.

Today.

Chapter Thirty-Five

My head felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. The throbbing pain pulsed behind my eyes in perfect rhythm with my heartbeat, each beat sending fresh waves of agony through my skull. I tried to open my eyes, but the world swam in and out of focus like I was looking through water.

Where was I?

The question floated through my foggy brain as I fought to make sense of my surroundings. This wasn't the hospital. This wasn't Graham's house. The air smelled different. Pine and dust and something else I couldn't identify.

I was lying on something soft. A couch, maybe. Something warm and scratchy covered me. An afghan. The kind Little Grandma used to make.

I tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. The world tilted sideways, and my stomach lurched in protest. But worse than the nausea was the realization that something was wrong with my hands. They wouldn't move properly.

I tried moving them, and I couldn’t pry them apart.

Aw, shit.

My wrists were tied.

The memory crashed back like a slap to the face: Glenda. The parking garage. The syringe. The trunk.

Panic shot through me, cutting through the drug-induced haze like a knife. I jerked against whatever was binding my hands, and fresh pain exploded through my head. My ankles were tied too. The rope wasn't tight enough to cut off circulation, but it was secure enough that I couldn't slip free.

“Oh, thank goodness you're awake.”

Glenda's voice came from somewhere behind me. I turned my head, fighting another wave of dizziness, and found her sitting in a wooden chair about ten feet away. She was still in that silly, ruffly, flowery apron, but her hair was mussed and her eyes were rimmed red.

“I was getting so worried.” She stood up, wringing her hands. “You've been out for hours. Much longer than the first time.”

The first time. Right. She'd drugged me twice now. No wonder I felt like death warmed over.

“My head,” I managed to croak. My voice sounded like I'd been gargling with gravel.

“I know, sweetheart. I'm so sorry. I think I gave you too much this time.” Glenda moved closer, her face creased with genuine concern. But that didn’t matter. She still had me trussed up like a turkey and would probably want to wear me like a skin suit before it was all over.

I shuddered. I was really scared. More scared than I had been in London.

I looked at her apron again. It was falling off her right shoulder.

I thought about that poor woman in Dublin and what she must have gone through. Certainly not being forced to bake pineapple upside-down cake with a demented Betty Crocker, so I needed to quit my whining.

A low moan escaped my throat as another wave of pain crashed through my skull.

I moaned.

“Oh, you poor baby.”