Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane #2)(11)

Maybe the rest of her memories would come back. Maybe they wouldn’t. What mattered now was trying to escape. Her family needed her.

The night she’d left her house, she’d been excited about a few hours of adult conversation with Fiona. At the time, an evening free of wiping chins, changing diapers, and explaining to a three-year-old girl why her little brother had a penis and she didn’t had seemed glorious.

But now all she wanted was to see her family.

She yearned to walk the floors with William pressed to her shoulder. To inhale the scent of baby shampoo. To snuggle in Bella’s bed at nap time and read a picture book while her sleepy daughter’s eyelids sagged. To watch her daughter race through a pile of raked leaves or practice awkward, crooked somersaults in the backyard.

To tell her husband she loved him.

Images of her children brought tears to her eyes. She had to get back to them. As long as she drew breath, she would do everything possible to return to her babies. She wiped her face and sniffed. No wasting energy on crying.

Picking up the battery-operated lantern, she walked to the end of her chain. She lifted the light and inspected the far walls and corners of her prison, just out of reach.

A gallon-size plastic jug sat in one corner. A bucket occupied the other.

She dragged the chain behind her as she crossed the space. She picked up the jug, removed the lid, and sniffed. Water?

She was suddenly incredibly thirsty, as if her body had come alive at the scent of the water. She shouldn’t dare drink anything he gave her. It was likely drugged. But dehydration would kill her.

She set down the jug and continued her search, moving the light to carefully examine each wall.

On a positive note, she didn’t see any obvious cameras.

As terrifying as the situation was, she had to think. She had to find a way out. No one was coming for her. She was on her own.

It was her only chance.

The interior brightened suddenly, and a beam of light shone from the ceiling. Sunlight. Chelsea walked under it and stared up. Rust had eaten a hole in the roof the size of a bowling ball. Through it, she could see the sun, patches of blue sky, and a canopy of branches. Clouds drifted in front of the sun, dimming the light.

The knowledge that it was daytime grounded her.

A door stood at the opposite end of the room from the barrel. It was the only way in or out. She reached for the door, but the chain on her ankle wasn’t quite long enough, and her fingers fell six inches short of touching the door. Was it even locked? Probably. He’d gone to too much effort to imprison her. There would be a sturdy lock to keep her inside.

She needed to get closer. She needed to free her foot. She tested the manacle around her ankle. It was tight enough to rub her skin when she moved it, far too tight to wiggle her foot free. She followed it to the connection with the barrel. The bolt that secured the chain went right through the metal.

She took the chain in both hands and pulled. The barrel didn’t budge, neither did the bolt. She put her weight into the effort, but it was no use. There was zero give. What was inside it? Maybe if she could somehow empty it, she could drag it closer to the door. But then how would she run away with a steel drum attached to her foot?

Maybe if she emptied the barrel, she would be able to disconnect the chain from the inside.

She returned to the barrel. It was an industrial-size metal drum. Rust grew in patches on the sides and coated the seams. On the top was a cap the size of her open hand. A recessed shape in the cap was shaped like a four-leaf clover with flattened leaves. Obviously, there was a specific tool designed to fit into the impression to open the barrel, like the head of a screw was designed for a screwdriver.

Chelsea tried to turn the cap manually. The fit was tight and the edges were rusted. No matter how hard she turned it, the cap didn’t budge. Her hand slipped, her fingernail catching on a metal edge.

Maybe if she had other tools—a screwdriver or wrench.

She almost laughed, the hysterical snort of hopelessness. Tools? Why not wish for a whole toolbox? She lowered her hand and clenched her fingers. Blood seeped out from under her torn, dirty nail.

Wait. She looked down at the chain. The links were thick, metal, strong. She gathered up a length of it in her hands. The chain was short. In order to reach the top of the barrel, she had to put her attached foot on the cot. Then she inserted two links into the opposite sides of the clover leaf and tried to use them as levers, but the cap still wouldn’t budge. The links were too small.

What did she do when she couldn’t open a tightly sealed jar?

She began to strike the side of the cap with a link. She missed. Her fist struck the edge of the cap, and pain shot up her arm. She shook her hand and pressed her stinging knuckles to her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes.

Don’t give up!

Desperation fueled a second attempt. The cap shifted slightly. She tried to open it. Not loose enough. Praying no one was close enough to hear, she struck it again and again, until she could turn it with her bare hands. She unscrewed it all the way, lifted it, and peered inside, holding the lantern over the opening.

Pea gravel.

She almost fell backward with disappointment. No wonder it was so heavy. What was the volume of a drum? Fifty-five gallons? How much did fifty-five gallons of stone weigh?

More than she would ever be able to move. She and Tim had done some landscaping when they’d bought the house. They’d moved river rock by the shovelful. They’d barely been able to get out of bed the next morning.