Sal may be down, down in a basement to be exact, but she’s not out. Hell no.
She’s pissed as hell and ready to get out of this place.
She sets to work. Makes a game plan. First, get out of these binds. Second, get her phone. Third, get home and kiss her husband like crazy.
Tears prick the back of her eyelids. She has to get out of here. For herself. For her baby. She closes her eyes. For Luke. He’s over the edge. She can feel it.
Sal struggles against her binds. They’re thick rope and tied haphazardly. Chris may be an abusive asshole, but he’s hardly smart. He thinks with his fists, not his brain.
She listens to the old cabin. It’s silent. Her eyes survey her exit options. A high, narrow basement window. There’s no way to boost herself up, and she doubts she could fit. The only other option left is the way she came in. Up the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the door. And then where?
It doesn’t matter. Anywhere is better than here.
At the crack of a door, Sal bristles. She braces herself for Chris, but all she gets is heavy breathing. The soft trot of paws down the stairs.
Sal lets out a little laugh.
It’s the dog.
He’s shuffling through the darkened basement, through milky moonlight, making for Sal. She swears under her breath, unsure if he’s friendly or not.
After a beat or two, the scruffy thing approaches her, his tongue lolling out of his mouth in a goofy expression. He’s scrawny and needs a good brushing, but his eyes are soft and dark and inquisitive. When he bumps his wet nose against Sal’s hand, nuzzling it with a muffled snuffle, she realizes the growl he let loose earlier was meant for Chris. And Chris alone.
Sal makes a clicking with her tongue. “Hey, boy. How you doing?”
He sits down beside her, his tail wagging across the cold cement. She squints in the dim light, trying to make out a name on the collar. Winston.
Well, now, she’s got a dog for company. At least she’s not talking to herself anymore.
“What do you think, Winston?” Sal asks, getting up on her knees. “We gonna get out of here?” She gives her body a careful wrench, not wanting to jar the cell phone in her back pocket. She’ll need it later.
The rope loosens. Barely. She grits her teeth, twists again.
A low woof rumbles out of Winston.
Amused, she gives him the side-eye. “Oh sure, I’m taking you with me. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t leave you behind.” When the rope refuses to budge, she sinks back down the wall and lets out a heavy sigh. “Don’t suppose you can dial me up 911 or fetch me a pocketknife?”
His dark, solemn eyes stare back at her as if to say I am but a mere dog, silly woman.
The creaking of the floorboard has Winston standing on all fours, a low growl rising up in his throat. Sal scoots back against the wall.
There’s movement on the stairs, and then Chris appears in the basement. Silent, drifting, like a ghost. Sal sees he’s traded the gun for a knife. The memory of Roy rears its head, but she forces it away.
Chris stops in front of her. “Are you ready to talk, bitch?”
“Maybe,” she lies. “Can I use the bathroom first?”
He considers her request. A strange smile overtakes his face. He kneels in front of her, his meaty hands going to her binds. “You try something, I’ll stab you in the stomach.”
Sal shivers, his threat too cruel to contemplate.
She stares at him, hating him, her thoughts murderous, wishing she could drive the knife through his face. She’s not that forgiving. You take her from her husband, her friends, put her child in danger, hell yes, she’ll think violent thoughts.
She licks dry lips. “I promise.”
She’s untied from the pipe and yanked to her feet. When Chris grips her arm and pulls her forward, Sal’s heart drops. Instead of being taken upstairs, she’s led to the door on the opposite wall. Any hopes of using her phone are dashed. She’s in a basement. It’ll be a miracle if she has service.
Sal pauses in the doorway, thrusting her hands toward Chris. “I need these off,” she says, lifting her chin, using all of her bravado. “I’ll pee all over myself.”