Save Your Breath (Morgan Dane #6)(57)

“I got you medicine.” He pulled a plastic bag bearing a drugstore logo from his jacket pocket. He opened the bag and pulled out a bottle of cough syrup and a bag of cough drops.

Olivia shook her head. “They won’t”—cough—“help.” She wanted to say I don’t have a cold, but all she could do was hack.

“Fuck you.” He threw the bottle of syrup and the cough drops to the ground. “You ungrateful bitch. Haven’t you learned anything? I’m gonna be so happy to be done with you.”

But Olivia was focused on getting enough oxygen into her lungs. She was using up all of her energy on the fear of suffocation. Her lungs were betraying her. She was strangling from the inside out.

“I’m sorry,” she wheezed.

He shook his head and crossed his arms, disappointment emanating from his stiff body. “Doesn’t matter. You only have to survive two more days. Then it’ll all be over for you.”

A chill swept over Olivia. He was going to kill her in two days? Her brain scrambled, her panicky thoughts scattering like rats. Her hand went to her pocket. It felt like last-resort time.

He turned and headed for the steps. Olivia pulled the drawstring from her pajama bottoms out of her pocket, wrapped an end around each hand, and lunged forward. She looped it around his neck, pulling tight with all her strength.

The string was a half-inch-wide woven cotton cord. She had tied a knot at each end to give her a better hold.

He made a choking sound. His hands flew to his neck, and he tried to get his fingers under the cord. Unsuccessful, he reached over his shoulder to grab her. Olivia leaned back, put her weight into the effort, and stayed out of his reach. He staggered, but the mask over his head protected his neck. She pulled harder, her feet digging into the dirt for leverage.

Was it working?

But before hope could bloom, he grabbed hold of the string at the back of his neck. He spun. The cord caught on the mask and pulled it off his head.

Their eyes met for one tight breath.

He leaped forward. His fist struck her temple before she could register what had happened. Pain burst behind her eyes. Her vision blurred, and she crumpled to the ground. She watched his leg draw back, and she braced herself. The first kick caught her in the ribs. She curled into a ball, protecting her head with her hands as the next two swings of his boot struck her thighs.

He left the cellar without saying a word. The doors slammed shut with a resounding, angry bang. Footsteps in gravel faded away.

Her head pounded from the blow. She wheezed, lungs aching. She tested her limbs. The places where she had been kicked ached. She would be bruised, but her legs worked. Nothing was broken.

Sweating, shivering, and dizzy, she dragged herself to her hands and knees and resumed her hunt for rocks. She had to find another way to escape.

If she didn’t, she would die in two days. What was driving the time line? It didn’t make sense. Had he asked for ransom and not gotten it? Had he asked for ransom but was planning on killing her anyway after he received it?

He couldn’t let her live.

Not now that she had seen his face.





Chapter Twenty-Five

At eight o’clock, Morgan read from her file in the passenger seat of the Jeep while Lance drove into a parking garage in Manhattan. “Kim Holgersen was born in Redhaven, but she’s lived in New York City for the last twenty years. She worked for two literary agencies before opening her own firm in 2015. She married Brandon Sykes in 2007. He’s a real estate investor.”

Lance stopped the vehicle next to the attendant booth, handing over his keys and collecting his ticket. Morgan shoved her file into her tote and climbed out of the Jeep. She led the way out of the garage. They walked two blocks and stopped at a crosswalk on the opposite side of the street from Kim Holgersen’s Upper East Side condominium building.

“Nice building.” Lance gazed upward. “Looks expensive.”

“Everything in this neighborhood is expensive.” Morgan watched the traffic signal. “Kim and her husband bought this condo for nine hundred thousand dollars in 2007. Since then, the value has more than doubled.”

The walk signal flashed, and they crossed the street.

“Is Holgersen successful?” Lance asked.

“According to your mother’s background report, Kim brokered some large book deals this year, and her client roster is impressive.” Morgan recalled a few of the agent’s well-known clients she’d seen on the website. “Your mom also noted that a typical literary agent receives a fifteen percent commission from their authors.”

“Then they need to close frequent deals to make money.” Lance opened the glass door and held it for Morgan. She stepped into the sleek modern lobby decorated in shades of gray. Two huge sprays of fresh red chrysanthemums brightened either end of a reception desk finished in a rich mahogany stain.

Morgan gave their names to the doorman. He called up to the agent’s apartment, then waved them toward the elevator. They rode it to the fifteenth floor and found unit 1511.

A tall woman of about forty opened the door. She wore slim black pants and a tunic-length sweater. Her face was pale, even for a redhead. Her eyes were shadowed with dark circles as if she hadn’t slept. “I’m Kim Holgersen. Please, come in.” She backed up to allow them inside.

By Manhattan standards, the place was huge. Lance and Morgan followed Kim past a kitchen with a long gray granite island to a shockingly spacious living room. The apartment was decorated in the clean, clutter-free style of professionals with a regular cleaning service and no kids. A few photos in matching silver frames were artfully clustered on a side table.