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She gasped when it dropped into her hand, lowering her head, relief flooding her body even though she had no right to be relieved, even though the worst was still in front of her.
But the screw was loose. She had something she could use.
She closed the cabinet door, careful not to make noise, holding her breath that it would hold with just one screw attaching it to the base.
It did, and she leaned back, checking to see if there was anything to give away her work. The door was propped up by the one next to it, intact with both screws. No one would be able to tell unless they opened the doors, and she had no reason to believe anyone but her would do so.
She crumpled up the cardboard, paper, and foil and stuffed it all back in the trash. Then she sat on the closed toilet and studied the screw.
It was rusty and about an inch-and-a-half long. She practiced holding the head, lashing out at the air with the pointed end. Her fingers had started to hurt again, the blessed numbness disappearing now that she’d stopped turning the screw.
Could she hold onto it tightly enough to lash out at the man who brought her food? To get him in the face, the eye? Disable him long enough to make a run for it?
She didn’t know, but the more time she had, the better. She would need to get him all the way into the room, get him close enough to her that she could do it without lunging, that it would come as a surprise.
Except he never came all the way into the room. He set her food on the vanity near the door and left — in and out in under thirty seconds unless she caused trouble.
It didn’t take long to run through her options. She didn’t have that many of them.
Taking a deep breath, she held the screw to the inside of her left forearm, pressing it into her skin, testing the sensation.
Could she do it? Could she cut herself if it meant getting the man into the bathroom, if it meant saving her life?
She thought about the accident, waking up in the hospital with tubes running through her body, a machine breathing for her. She thought about the years of therapy, times when she’d crumpled to the floor during PT, sobbing into her hands, her wholebody on fire with pain.
She hadn’t always been sure she would survive it, hadn’t been sure she would come out the other side capable of living a full life.
But she had. She’d beat Leland Walker by surviving. She’d beat him every time she’d forced herself to keep going, to take another step, to push through her pain.
She’d fought for her survival, had fought for her life.
She could fight again.
24
“I’m going with you.”
Nick looked up from the weapons cache on the island. Russell’s eyes were defiant, but his posture indicated he was less than sure of himself.
Nick didn’t presume to know him well after three days, but his impression was of an intelligent and gentle man. Could Russell kill to save his daughter? He would undoubtedly want to, but Nick wasn’t sure he had it in him, and this was it, the end of the road. They couldn’t afford mistakes.
Alexa couldn’t afford for them to make mistakes.
Nick set down the weapon in his hand. “With all due respect, Russell, no you’re not.”
Ronan and Declan, preparing gear next to him,had slowed their movements and were listening to the exchange with feigned disinterest.
“She’s my daughter,” Russell said.
“And that’s why you’re not going,” Nick said firmly. “Alexa wouldn’t want you there, and frankly, you’d be a liability, for her and for us.”
“You can show me how to use a gun,” Russell said, desperation creeping into his voice. “Or I can drive the car.”
The fact that Russell Nash thought they needed a getaway car was all the proof Nick needed that it would be a mistake to bring him to the abandoned building in Mattapan where Juska was holding Alexa. There were only two ways Alexa’s rescue would end — with everyone who’d taken her dead or with Nick and his brothers dead.
Either way, they didn’t need a getaway car.
But he couldn’t say any of that to Russell, not like that anyway.
