Нора Робертс - Hideaway

Glancing behind her, heart thumping, she tried to open the window. She tried to unlock it, felt the nails.

Panic wanted to come, but she closed her eyes, just breathed and breathed. Her mom liked to do yoga and sometimes let her do it, too. Breathe and breathe.

They thought she was stupid. Just a stupid kid, but she wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t going to eat the soup or drink the milk that they’d put drugs in. Probably.

Instead, she took the bowl and the glass, picked her way carefully toward the bathroom. She dumped it in the toilet first, then peed because she really had to.

Then she flushed it all away.

When they came back, she’d pretend to be asleep. Deep, deep asleep. She knew how. She was an actress, wasn’t she? And not stupid, so she slipped the spoon under the pillow.

She didn’t know what time it was, or how long she’d slept before. Because he’d—one of them—had stuck her with a needle. But she’d wait, just wait, until they came to take the tray away. And she’d pray they wouldn’t notice the spoon wasn’t there.

She tried not to cry anymore. It was hard, but she needed to think about what she had to do. Nobody could really think when they were crying, so she wouldn’t.

It took forever, it took so long she nearly did fall asleep. Then she heard the locks click, and the door open.

Breathe slow, steady. Don’t squeeze your eyes, don’t jump if he touches you. She’d pretended to sleep before—and even fooled Nina—when she wanted to sneak and stay up and read.

Music played, and nearly made her jump. The man—the wolf because she knew his voice now and recognized it from when he helped boost her up the tree—said a bad word. But he answered in a different kind of way.

He said:

“Hi, lover. You’re calling from the idiot nanny’s phone, right? So if the cops ever check it, she’ll get blamed? Good, good. What’s the word? Yeah, yeah, she’s fine. I’m looking at her right now. Sleeping like a baby.”

He gave Cate a sharp poke in the ribs as he listened, and she lay still. “That’s my girl. Keep it up. Don’t let me down. I’ll go make the next call in about thirty. You know I do, lover. Just a couple more days, and we’re home free. Counting the hours.”

She heard something rustle, didn’t move, then heard him walking away.

“Morons,” he muttered with a kind of laugh in his voice. “People are fucking morons. And women are the biggest morons of all.”

The door shut, the locks clicked.

She didn’t move. Just waited, waited, counting in her head to a hundred, then another hundred until she risked letting her eyes slit open.

She didn’t see him or hear him, but kept breathing her sleeping breaths.

Slowly, she sat up, took the spoon from under the pillow. As quietly as she could, she crept to the window. She and her grandpa had built a birdhouse once. She knew about nails, and how you could hammer them in. Or pry them out.

She used the spoon, but her hands were slippery with sweat. She nearly dropped it, nearly started to cry again. She wiped her hands and the spoon on her jeans, tried again. At first it wouldn’t move, not even a little. Then she thought it did, and tried harder.

She thought she had it, nearly had it, when she heard voices outside. Terrified, she dropped down to the floor, her breath coming out in pants she couldn’t stop.

A car started. She heard wheels on gravel. Heard a door slam. The house door. One in the house, one going somewhere. She eased her head up, watched the taillights weave away.

Maybe she should wait until they were both in the house again, but she was too afraid and, teeth gritted, went after the nail again.

It popped out, flew up, then hit the floor with a click that sounded to her ears like an explosion. She jumped back on the bed, fought to lie still, to breathe deep, but she couldn’t stop shaking.

No one came, and tears of relief spilled out.

Her hands had gone sweaty again, but she set to work prying out the second nail. She put it in her pocket, wiped her sweaty, hurting fingers. She managed to turn the lock on the window. As she opened it a crack, it sounded so loud. But no one came, not even when she opened it more, opened it enough to stick her head out and feel the cool night air.

Too high, too high to jump.

She listened, listened, for sounds of the ocean, of cars, of people, but heard nothing but the breeze, the call of a coyote, the call of an owl.

No trees close enough to reach, no ledge or trellis or anything to help her climb down. But she had to climb down, then run. She had to get away and get help.

She started with the sheets. At first she tried to tear them, but they wouldn’t tear. So she tied them together as tight as she could, then added the pillowcases.

The only thing to tie them to in the room was one of the bedposts. It would be like Rapunzel, she thought, except sheets instead of hair. She’d climb out of the tower.

Nerves made her need to pee again, but she held it, set her jaw as she worked to tie the knot around the post.

Then she heard the car coming back, felt the knots in her stomach pull tighter than any she could tie with sheets. If one of them checked on her now, they’d see. She should have waited.

Trapped, she could do nothing but sit on the floor, imagining the door opening. The masks. The gun. Her fingers breaking.

Rolling herself into a ball, she squeezed her eyes shut.

She heard the voices again, carrying through the window. If they looked up, would they see she’d opened it?

One said—the wolf voice: “Jesus, asshole, you think this is the time to get high?”

The clown laughed. “Damn straight. They getting the money?”

“Smooth as silk, especially once they heard the recording,” the wolf responded, and the voices trailed off. The door slammed.

Too scared to worry about quiet, she dragged the makeshift rope to the window, tossed it out. Too short, she could see that right away, and thought of the towels in the bathroom.

But they might come in, any minute, so she wiggled out the window, gripped the sheets. Her hands slid helplessly a few inches, and she had to bite back a scream. But she gripped hard, slowed the slide.

She saw light—windows below her. If they looked out, saw the sheets, saw her, they’d catch her. Maybe just shoot her. She didn’t want to die.

“Please, please, please.”

Instinct had her wrapping her legs around the sheet, easing herself down until she reached the end. She could see right into the house, a big kitchen—stainless steel, counters like dark brown stone, green walls, not bright but light.

She closed her eyes, let go, let herself fall.

It hurt. She had to hold back another cry when she hit the ground. Her ankle turned, her elbow banged, but she didn’t stop.

She ran toward the trees, believing with all her heart they wouldn’t find her if she got to the trees.

When she did, she kept running.

Aidan slipped into the bedroom he shared with Charlotte. Exhausted, sick down to his soul, he walked to the windows. His Catey was out there, somewhere. Frightened, alone. Dear God, don’t let them hurt her.

“I’m not asleep,” Charlotte murmured, and shifted to sit up. “I only took half a pill, just to calm down. I’m so sorry, Aidan. Being hysterical didn’t help anyone. It doesn’t help our baby. But I’m so scared.”

He walked to the bed, sat, took her hand. “He called again.”

She sucked in a breath, gripped hard. “Caitlyn.”

He wouldn’t tell her he’d demanded to speak to her daughter, to be certain she was all right. He wouldn’t tell her he’d heard his child scream and sob she wanted her daddy.

“They have no reason to hurt her, every reason not to.” Ten million reasons, he thought.