That awareness drifted through Merry’s consciousness as she slowly came to.
She shivered, wondering where her coat was. Her head was pounding. There was a sickening odor in her nostrils, one that seemed vaguely familiar. Her stomach lurched as it rebelled against the smell.
With another shiver, she gathered her strength and tried to stand up. A low cry emerged from her throat as she met with painful resistance. Her arms were secured behind her, and her legs were locked together, bound at the ankles. The ropes cut into her skin, preventing her from moving, and the surface supporting her was rock hard.
A wooden chair. She was sitting on it, and she was somewhere outside. But where? And why?
Instinctively, she began to struggle, trying to blink away the grogginess and the nausea. Neither diminished, but she cracked her eyes open anyway, intent on getting her bearings.
She wasn’t outside after all. She was in a woodshed, a maintenance shed, judging by the equipment. Two massive snowblowers, stacks of fifty-pound bags of rock salt, and a row of heavy-duty snow shovels filled the place.
How had she gotten here? What was going on?
It had to be tied to Monty’s investigation.
She inhaled sharply, smelled that sickening odor again, and remembered. She’d been kidnapped. That flower deliveryman had knocke
d her out and taken her, evidently bringing her to wherever this shed was.
She tried to scream. She couldn’t. There was a handkerchief stuffed in her mouth. Panic exploded inside her, and she began to battle frantically to free herself. The ropes cut into her skin, but she kept fighting, praying that somehow they’d give.
They didn’t.
Weak with exertion, she sagged in the chair, tears filling her eyes. She ordered herself not to cry. She had to keep her nostrils clear. They were her only means of breathing. If she stuffed them up, she’d suffocate.
She tried to calm down. The cold lashed at her, and she began to shake. How long had she been here? There was a sliver of sunlight trickling in from underneath the door. That told her it was still daylight. When it faded, she’d freeze to death.
Her father would find her. He had to.
She was struggling with the ropes again when she heard crunching sounds outside. They were rhythmic, growing closer.
Footsteps.
A key turned on the other side of the door. Merry stared in that direction, not sure whether to be relieved or terrified.
The door swung open, and a man in a parka and boots trudged in. The hooded parka hid most of him from view, but Merry could make out that he was of average height, with a solid build and a dark complexion that suggested he was of Hispanic descent. He was carrying a bottle of spring-water, and there were two blankets tucked under his arm.
Without speaking, he tromped over to where she sat and pulled the gag out of her mouth.
Merry began to cough. Her mouth was dry and cottony, and she could barely feel her tongue.
“Agua,” he muttered, twisting off the bottle cap and holding the bottle to her lips.
Fleetingly, Merry remembered the accented voice at Devon’s door. The same voice. It was the flower delivery guy.
She didn’t ask questions. She just drank, forcing herself to swallow small quantities at a time, all the while afraid he’d decide she’d had enough and yank away the bottle.
He didn’t. He let her drink her fill, then recapped the bottle and stuck it in his pocket. Next, he shook out the blankets and draped them across Merry’s lap and around her shoulders, shoving them into place.
“Eso es mejor.” With a grunt of satisfaction, he rose, glancing briefly at her as he wadded up the handkerchief, preparing to stick it back in her mouth.
“No. Please, don’t,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I can’t breathe. Please. I promise not to scream.”
He paused, scrutinizing her face with obvious noncomprehension.
“Por favor.” She wracked her brain, trying to remember her high school and college Spanish. “No puedo respirar. Prometo no gritar. Por favor.”
A flash of perception, and a definite hesitation.