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The stricken look on his face when he’d seen her in the window as Clara drove away haunted her. He must be worried. He probably blamed himself. He’d likely do anything and everything to save her.
Brea hoped it didn’t come to that.
As she flushed the toilet, her mind raced. She managed to find some hand soap under the sink and washed up. Maybe when she let herself out of the bathroom, Clara would be elsewhere and she would have an opportunity to sneak through the vast darkness of this seemingly abandoned place, then out into the night. Or she could lead the woman on a chase in the grounds around the building, then double back for her phone. Something.
But when she opened the door, Clara waited there, gun pointed in her face. “Back to your chair.”
No. She was done with this. Done being this woman’s victim. Done being afraid. Maybe this wouldn’t turn out well, but if she let Clara run the show, nothing would.
Time to act.
“All right,” she murmured.
Clara took a step back to allow her out of the bathroom. Brea pretended to trip, then stumble into the woman. Clara yelped. Brea half expected to feel a bullet penetrate her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. But nothing. Emilo’s sister fell, her backside hitting the concrete with a thud. Brea landed on top of her, reaching for the gun as it fell out of the woman’s hand and skated across the hard cement. She leapt to her feet as quickly as her pregnant belly allowed and reached for the weapon, only a few yards away.
Suddenly, the woman’s hand closed around her ankle like a vise, and Brea felt herself falling. She managed to catch herself with her hands. Pain radiated up her wrists, all the way past her elbows and to her shoulders, but she managed to keep her weight off her baby bump, roll to her knees, and find her feet again.
“Bitch.” Clara shoved past her and scrambled on the ground for the gun.
No way was she going to win that fight now. With her, Clara had been polite, almost gentle. But she wouldn’t make that mistake again.
So now Brea had to be smarter.
She ran into the darkest part of the massive building, shoving tools onto the ground and rattling chains. The deafening sounds magnified by the echo in the cavernous room masked her footsteps as she ran to a blessed door she saw on the far wall, unlocked it, and hurtled outside.
A bullet pinged off the doorframe inches to her left.
Brea bit her lip to hold in a cry of fear and ducked, scrambling along the side of the building. Run into the adjacent swamp or double back for her phone?
The creatures in the swamp could be every bit as deadly and unpredictable as Clara. Brea didn’t know where she was or what, if anything else, was around. She needed her cell.
Creeping through overgrown foliage, she tiptoed her way back to the front of the building and the main office where Clara had been keeping her, praying the phone still sat there. As she reached the entrance, she spotted a rusty tire iron someone had propped against the dilapidated wood and snagged it. That wouldn’t protect her like a gun, but it would provide a last line of defense. She had to keep thinking ahead—and think positive.
Behind her, she heard Clara’s loud footsteps and her angry grunts. The little beam of the flashlight from her phone gave her away.
Brea ducked into the office, grabbed her phone from the counter, then disappeared into the body of the warehouse again, hoping that since Clara had just searched there, she wouldn’t double back to scour the place again.
She unlocked her phone with trembling hands. Her first instinct was to call Pierce or the police—someone. But Clara wasn’t far behind. She’d hear. So Brea searched her settings, turned on her location services, silenced the device, then opened her messages. She dashed one off to Pierce.
Location turned on. I’m okay. One woman. No accomplices. Emilo’s sister. She’s crazy.
Seconds later, she received a reply. In the area. On my way. Don’t move. Bringing help.
Brea breathed a sigh of relief. Pierce was coming. She would be okay. Someone would cart Clara away. Except for Emilo’s sister, everyone would hopefully live happily ever after.
If she could reach the main road in front and escape this crazy woman, maybe her wishes would come true.
Brea pocketed her phone and glanced behind to make sure Clara wasn’t following. Nothing. She didn’t know where the woman had gone, but as long as Clara couldn’t find her, Brea didn’t care.
When she turned and stood to make her way to the main road and to freedom, she rounded the corner—and came face to face with her assailant. Clara’s face was pinched and harsh as she stomped closer. Brea didn’t dare run; she had zero doubt the woman would shoot her.
