Midnight Exposure (Midnight #1)(58)

“Come on.” Glad for the company, he opened the door for her. “You can ride shotgun. The seat happens to be empty.”

Because Jayne was on her way to Philadelphia.

Alone.

She consumed all his thoughts as he stopped at the restaurant and drove to the Griffins’. The aroma of hot pizza filled the truck, yet Reed wasn’t even tempted to steal a slice. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast but had no appetite.

Jayne hadn’t eaten lunch either. The empty space in Reed’s chest swelled.

When Rebecca Griffin opened her door, Reed had to shake himself to be polite.

“Reed, thank you.” Becca was obviously getting ready to head out to her second shift of the day. Instead of the white waitress uniform, she was dressed in black slacks and a white blouse. She’d applied makeup with a heavy hand, but nothing could conceal her perpetual dark circles. “You didn’t have to bring food.”

“Becca, Scott will eat you out of house and home.”

“He and Brandon chopped a lot of wood for me today. He’s a good kid.” Her face cracked into a weary smile.

Reed’s heart squeezed. This woman was trying to be nice, and all he could think about was a tall redhead. Under the exhaustion, Becca was an attractive woman. Reed just had never felt any spark around her. But maybe fireworks were overrated.

Amicable companionship wouldn’t leave a crater the size of the Grand Canyon in his heart. What would Becca think of his past? They’d known each other for years instead of the few days he’d spent with Jayne.

“Come in.” Becca stepped back. Her eyes lingered on his bandaged cheek. “We heard about the fire—and Hugh. I’m sorry.”

Reed crossed the threshold and passed close to Becca in the narrow hall. She smelled like coconut. Reed continued straight through to the kitchen. The house was cold and Reed wondered if she was rationing her woodpile. He set the pizza boxes on the counter.

Becca pulled a few chipped dishes from the cabinet. She looked as tired as he felt. “You brought dinner. Why don’t you stay and eat with us?”

He and Becca had a lot in common. They were the same age. Their lives revolved around their kids. They’d both had shitty days. Hell, they’d both had shitty lives. If anyone would understand how he’d gotten the shaft, Becca would.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


John stuck his head outside the cabin door and listened. No engine. He scanned the clearing. Nothing. A deep breath of winter air stung his lungs. He inhaled again, relieved to feel the cold burn after an eternity of numbness.

One step outside the door, the chain around his ankle snapped taut. He knelt and extended his arm to scoop snow into the plastic cup. With his other hand, he grabbed a log from the pile. The cold burrowed through his filthy sweater. Back inside, he stacked the log with the small pile he’d accumulated that day. The cup went near the fire.

He glanced at the bottled water stacked in the corner. No chance. He’d wait for the snow to melt. He hadn’t consumed any of the water since last night. By morning his vision had cleared and his limbs no longer felt as if they were weighted. By mid-afternoon he could stand and walk without weaving. Weakness persisted but that was to be expected after so many weeks of limited movement. His guess had been correct. The water had been drugged. He’d eaten several protein bars and still felt OK.

How long had he been held captive? Weeks? Months? He had no recollection of time. In the old house, days and nights had passed in a fluid blur. But now, his world was clear and sharp again.

The change wasn’t 100 percent positive. He could think about his family now. Had his parents given up hope? Did they think he was dead? His gut ached when he imagined their grief—and guilt. They’d moved to Maine just to keep him safe.

But the worst thing about being clearheaded was the ability to project his future. He had no idea why he’d been imprisoned, but he was going to die unless he escaped. No one was coming for him. No doubt his family thought him dead already.

He squatted five times. His quadriceps burned, but this morning he’d only been able to do one.

He needed a plan. He needed to get the manacle off his ankle. He needed a weapon.

John stuck another log in the potbellied stove. With no matches to be found in the cabin, he’d been careful not to let the fire go out. He sat on the sleeping bag and extended his sock-clad feet toward the fire. Heat infused his toes. He tensed and released all his muscles. Blood flowed with reassuring pinpricks.

His reality was dim. The cabin was empty. Even if he managed to free himself, he wouldn’t make it very far without shoes or a coat and no idea which way to run. He was in the middle of nowhere, and his survival skills ran more toward spotting trouble in the subway.

His best bet would be to take his captor by surprise and steal his vehicle. His gaze was drawn to the woodpile. He reached over and broke a long sliver off the cut side of the closest log. He touched the pointy end with his forefinger. Was it sharp enough to do some damage?

John sorted through the logs until he found one narrow enough to curl his hand around. His arm trembled when he lifted it high, but with a two-handed grip, he managed to swing it in a wide arc. A crude club.

He needed every advantage he could find. There would only be one opportunity for escape.

John shifted his feet. Something caught on his sock. He crawled closer and ran his forefinger over the rough wood floor. A nail head poked out an eighth of an inch. John picked at it with his fingernails.