Cait hit that lit numbered button with both hands, her purse smacking against the elevator’s wall, her breath exploding out of her mouth.
“… please … shut … oh, God…”
Her eyes shot to the row of numbers that glowed up above. The number “4” was lit—
Abruptly the wind shifted direction, hitting her in the face even harder than it had up top—as if that figure, racing for her, coming at a dead run, was a menace from the Old Testament, its presence marshalling the elements, and sucking the illumination from the fluorescent lamps that glowed on the columns—
The lights flickered over her head, strobing everything as the parking lot ahead of her abruptly went dark.
Evil was coming for her.
Blinded by the blinking lights above, she couldn’t see its form, but vision was unnecessary. Her bones, her very soul recognized the threat as time slowed to a crawl and reality twisted into a nightmare.
Was this how it went down for people? When a victim was struck, did they all feel this careening terror, this tunnel vision, this sense of, No, not me, not now, how is this happening?
As if her brain were retreating to safety, flashbacks of earlier in the night flickered through her consciousness, images of her in her car, of her at a stoplight, of her in front of the Iron Mask … of her turning into the parking garage one hundred and twenty seconds ago … tantalized her with the false idea that she could somehow go back in time.
If only that ticket had been waiting for her at will-call, this would not be her destiny. She’d be safe in the theater, listening to music along with five thousand other people who didn’t have a clue about what she was actually facing.
Tragedy was about to happen.
If only she had not stopped to look at that man at the club. Or if she had decided to try to park on the street. Or if—
“Please, God … close—”
The doors abruptly got with the program, shutting so fast it was as if they were spring-loaded. Thump. Ding.
Whoosh.
The elevator began its descent.
Backing up against the poster-size ad for the theater’s new season, she focused upward on those numbers overhead, praying that the lift didn’t misfire again and stop at the floor below. One flight down the stairs was no big distance to cover…
Every creak of the car was magnified until her ears burned like she was at a concert. Each foot down was like a mile at walking speed. Moments stretched into hours, days. Hands cramping up, fingers cranked into claws, her body was in full fight-or-flight—
The phone, she needed to get her goddamn phone. With a jolt of action, Cait fumbled in her purse, things falling out; she didn’t care what—
Ding.
Bump. Halt.
Cait’s head jerked up to the doors as the “3” lit up, and the descent stopped. “No … no…!”
Lunging forward at the panel, she hit the bright red stop button. As a ringing alarm exploded into the enclosed space, she had no idea whether she’d shut down the opening mechanism.
Phone—where was her phone! Shoving her hand back into her purse—with enough force to break one of the straps—she rummaged around until her fingers ran into the thing. But she couldn’t keep hold. As she brought the cell out, it slipped away from her, bouncing across the floor, sending her on a goose chase as she fell to her knees to catch the—
Are you sure you would like to make an emergency call? the screen asked her as she got it and began working the screen.
“Hell, yes!” She nailed the green button and put the phone up to her ear, staying frozen in that crouch, her eyes locked on the double doors as she prayed they’d stay shut—
“Yes!” she shouted over the din as she plugged her free ear. “I’m in an elevator in the Palace Theatre’s parking garage.” What was the address? What the hell was the— “Yes! On Trade! Help me—there’s someone trying to—”
Above her head, the inset lights in the ceiling started to flicker again.
“I’m alone, yes—I’m in the elevator!” She kept shouting, because the alarm was still going off loud as a jet plane—and because being scared shitless really wasn’t conducive to library whispers. “I’ve stopped it at the third floor—what? That’s the alarm, ringing—no! It wasn’t a malfunction—I stopped the elevator! There was someone chasing me and I ran into—excuse me?” She actually took the phone away from her cheek and glared at it. “Are you kidding me—lady, no offense, but he would have just followed me down the stair—no! My car was on another level.”
Was this woman on the other end actually critiquing her choice of escape?
“Thank you—yes, I would like the police!” Much preferred over an embalmer at the end of all this. “Thank you!”
As they went around in circles for what felt like an eternity, Cait told herself to try to reel in the frustration. Not a good idea to fight with the source of the cops. But for godsakes…
“No, there’s no telephone—wait, there is a call button, yes.” Why hadn’t she noticed it on the panel? “Yes, I’m hitting it now.”
A buzzer cut in through the alarm. And then … a whole lot of nothing but that screaming, ringing sound. Maybe the security guard was on break?
“No, no, answer—oh, God, please just send someone—”
Pounding on the double doors made her scream.
Chapter Fifteen
As Sissy stood in the center of her parents’ living room, she held on to the only thing that seemed solid in the world.
The man who had returned her home.
And it was strange. Even through her hysteria, she had some vague thought that he was hard all over: His back was as unforgiving as stone, his arms like bridge cables, his chest a table to rest her head on. He was strong, so very strong; she could sense it in the way he held her to him. If she fainted again? He was going to do what he’d done before with ease.
Pick her up. Carry her somewhere safe.
But was there any true safety to be had anymore?
Probably not. And that was another reason she’d locked herself away all day long.
She hadn’t been sleeping; that was for sure. Nope. She’d been reliving the past—and not as in distant history, not the happy or sad or poignant stuff she could recall from her real life. No, she’d passed those solitary hours mourning the prosaic trip out of the house that she’d made however many evenings ago: She’d replayed in her head everything she could remember about the night she had been abducted … in the kitchen, going to the fridge, looking for ice cream. None. Calling out to her mother, who was in the family room, watching TV and cross-stitching.