by Cynthia Eden
Her shirt snagged on a nail. Bailey froze. She hadn’t even seen that nail but when she moved her body, she felt the head of that nail—round and big—sticking up from the floor. Her breath heaved in and out of her lungs as excitement pumped through her blood. Bailey twisted her body and put the ropes that bound her wrists against that nail top. She jerked and sawed, moving as frantically as she could. Her breath keep rushing out in too hard pants, burning her lips and making her tongue feel even more swollen in her mouth.
I’ll get out. I’ll get away.
For the first twenty-four hours, she’d thought she was trapped in a nightmare. That there was some mistake. She couldn’t have woken up, tied and gagged in a dirty cabin. There couldn’t have been some sick freak in a black ski mask who kept coming at her, slicing with his knife and laughing while she screamed. None of that could be happening, not to her.
Not . . . her.
She’d seen the stories on TV in the last few weeks. About women who’d vanished in the mountains of North Carolina. Their stories had been tragic. Their families pitiful as they begged for clues. She’d watched them and felt sympathy. Sorrow. But . . .
Those women had been strangers. Because things like this . . . stuff like this only happened to people you didn’t know. Unfortunate people you saw on the news.
Not me. This can’t happen to me.
But it had.
And I don’t have any family to beg for me. No desperate parents to plead for my return . . . I lost them long ago.
Bailey was very much afraid she’d be losing her own life in that small cabin.
One minute, she’d been heading out of her Wednesday night freshman history class at the local college. It had been the last class she had to teach before spring break. She’d been at her car, her keys gripped tightly in her hand, and then—
Then he hit me. Took me. I woke up in hell.
The ropes around her wrists gave way. Bailey choked out a sob as feeling surged back to her fingers—pain. Burning, white hot pain. But as soon as that sob slipped from her mouth, she immediately bit her lower lip, terror clawing at her. Blood dripped down her chin from that busted lip.
Had he heard her cry?
Would he come back?
Bailey’s whole body went tense as she waited. Waited. She heard the creak of footsteps, a sound that had her heart squeezing.
He’s coming. He heard me. He’s . . .
A scream seemed to echo all around Bailey. A woman’s scream. Loud and long and desperate. Full of pain.
Bailey bit down harder on her bottom lip. She wasn’t the one making that scream. Someone else was. Dear God, that freak in the ski mask had someone else in the cabin.
I’m not alone. He took another victim.
And when he’d stopped having his fun with Bailey, when she’d played possum with him, he’d turned his attention to that someone else.
Bailey jerked upright. Her fingers were slow and fumbling as she fought to free her ankles from the rope that bound them.
The scream died away.
She broke her nails on the rope. Jammed fingers that weren’t working right.
Another scream—
And the rope gave way. Bailey immediately jumped to her feet and tried to stride forward, but her legs collapsed beneath her. She crawled then, dragging herself toward the door. She had to get to that other woman. Had to help her. Bailey grabbed the door, prying it open a little more with her right hand. Every breath she took seemed incredibly loud to her, and she was afraid he would hear her.
I guess I’m not over the fear after all. Maybe I’ll never be over it.
A peek in the hallway showed two other doors. One was shut. One open.
The screams were coming from behind the shut door.
He’s in there with her.
Bailey rose again, shakily. She kept a hand on the wall as she inched toward that closed door. She had to find a weapon. Had to get something to use against that bastard.
Another scream had her wanting to cover her ears. It was so loud.
“Help me! Please, help me!” the woman yelled. Begged. Pleaded. “Please, dear God, someone help me!”
And then Bailey heard the laughter. That taunting, snickering laughter that the bastard had made when he drove his knife into her. At that sickening sound, Bailey stopped thinking—a primitive instinct took over her body. She lurched forward and threw open the door. “Leave her alone!” Bailey bellowed.
His back was to her. A woman was on the bed in front of him. A knife was in his hand. A bloody knife. The same knife he’d so gleefully used on Bailey.
“Coming to save her?” he whispered, his back still to Bailey. When he spoke, he always whispered. “Ah, Bailey . . . is that what you’re doing? Coming to help her?”
The woman on the bed didn’t move.
Bailey lunged at him. She didn’t have a weapon, and there was nothing in that room to use. No lamps. No tables. The only furniture was that old bed—the woman was on that bed. So Bailey attacked with her body. She went straight for him with a guttural cry.
He turned toward her, slicing with his knife, but Bailey didn’t stop. The slice went right across her left arm. She barreled into him, crashing hard and they both hit the floor.
The knife slid from his hand, sliding across the wooden floor.
“Beautiful bitch,” he rasped at her. “I’ll make you pay . . .”
She was on top of him, and Bailey kneed him, as hard as she could. When he howled, she smiled, stretching her bloody lips. She was so glad he was the one who got to enjoy some pain.
But then he hit her, driving his fist right at her cheek. She fell back, her body rolling across the floor.
And footsteps thudded in that little room. The woman on the bed—she’d gotten up and she was running for the door. She hadn’t been tied up like Bailey. She moved quickly, easily. Bailey saw her long, dark hair, her pale limbs, the blue of her shirt as it flashed by—
“Wait,” Bailey gasped out, the word a weak croak. “Don’t—”
Leave me.
For an instant, the woman turned back toward her. Hope burst inside Bailey. Yes—
The woman ran out of the room. Didn’t look back again.
He was laughing again. Her abductor. Her killer?
“Trying to stop me . . .” he whispered. “Oh, sweet Bailey, I’ll teach you . . .”
His hands went around her neck. Glove-covered hands. She felt the leather against her skin. Oddly soft. So soft as he began to choke her.
“I can do this until you pass out . . .”
“H-h . . .” She was trying to say help, trying to call that woman back, but she couldn’t get the word out. Not with his hands so tight around her.
“Then I’ll tie you up again. I’ll sharpen my knife . . . get it so that it can slice right through your skin . . .”
From the corner of her eye, Bailey saw the glint of the knife he’d dropped. Her right hand stretched for it. The knife was close. So very close . . .
“Still glad you tried to save her? Was she worth your life?”
The other woman had gotten away. Bailey couldn’t hear her footsteps any longer.
“I’ll take care of you,” he promised as black dots danced in front of her eyes. “And her.”
The knife. It was right there. She just had to reach it . . .
He squeezed harder. No air. No hope. No damn knife.
She couldn’t reach it. But Bailey’s right flew up toward him, and with the last of her strength, she ripped that mask off his face.
He stared down at her, as shock widened his eyes.
“No, Bailey . . . no . . .” And he almost seemed sad . . . as he kept choking the life right out of her.
BAILEY’S EYES FLEW open. She sucked in a desperate gulp of air, one, t
hen another. Another. Her lungs burned and she coughed and choked.
I’m alive. I’m still alive.
Her hands flew out, and she touched—dirt. The scent of dank earth filled her nostrils and she sat up fast, feeling pain cut through her—her arms, her stomach and—
Dirt is all around me. Her grabbing hands closed around soft dirt and when Bailey looked up, she saw the glitter of stars above her. A thousand freaking stars. I’m not in the cabin any longer.
But she didn’t remember escaping. Didn’t remember getting away from that bastard. He’d been choking her. The other woman had run, but Bailey hadn’t. He’d caught her.
And . . . he’d tossed her into a hole? She sat up, but couldn’t reach the top of that hole. Too deep. Bailey tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t hold her up, and when she grabbed at the sides of that hole again, the dirt just rained down on her.
Dogs were barking. She heard the sound distantly, and fear pulsed through her. Were those his dogs? Was this another game? Were the dogs going to attack her?
Bailey put her hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t make a sound. She tasted the dirt that was on her fingers. Her tongue was so thick and swollen in her mouth. The nightmare wouldn’t stop. Everything just kept getting worse and worse.
The barking was louder. Closer. The dogs were going to get her. Would they rip her apart? Bite and tear into her skin?
She curled into a ball in the middle of that hole, trying to make herself as small as possible. If she didn’t move, if she didn’t make a sound, maybe the dogs would leave her alone. They’d go away, and then she’d find some way out of there. She’d escape.
The other woman . . . where did she go? What happened to her?
But the dogs weren’t going away. They were getting louder and louder. So close.
“Something’s over here!” a man shouted. “Dirt. Oh, hell! A pile of it! Could be a body!”
Her head lifted.
“Get the lights!” Another voice. Another man. “Follow the dogs!”
The dogs . . .
Maybe they weren’t there to hurt her. Maybe they were there to find her. Maybe the other woman . . . maybe she’d gotten away and sent help back to Bailey. “H-help . . .” she whispered.
No . . . no sound had come from her lips. She’d tried to whisper but couldn’t. Her throat was too raw. Her mouth too dry.
The lights were flashing over her hole. Not in the hole, but flying over the top of it. People were up there. She needed them to look down at her.
“H-help . . .” Another voiceless whisper. Inside, she was screaming. Roaring for help. But she couldn’t talk. She tried to stand up again, but her body wasn’t listening to her, not anymore. Too long without water? Without food? Too much blood loss?
Her hands curled around fists of dirt. Look down here. Look at me. Look!
A bright light hit her, falling straight into her face. It blinded her and she turned away.
“She’s—she’s alive! We’ve got a live one here!” Excitement burned in that voice—a voice with a heavy southern accent—and then a man was there before her. He’d jumped into the hole, and he was reaching for her.
She flinched away.
“It’s okay,” he told her quickly. “I’m a deputy. Deputy Wyatt Bliss. You’re safe . . . we’re gonna take care of you.”
Bailey wanted to believe him.
More lights fell on her. So bright. She looked up and she saw the shadowy figures of other people—men and women. They surrounded the top of her hole now.
“Can you tell me your name?” He took his coat off, held it out to her. Was it cold? Was she supposed to take the coat?
Her teeth were chattering, but she hadn’t noticed the cold, not until then.
She didn’t take the coat. She didn’t think her fingers would work and just keeping her eyes open was a serious effort.
“Your name, miss,” he continued, that drawling voice of his careful now, sympathetic. “Can you tell it to me?”
“B—B . . .” Bailey. But she couldn’t talk. Just that sad croak was all she could manage.
His flashlight fell to her neck. Whatever he saw there made him swearing.
But then others were jumping down into the hole. More men with flashlights. They were in the hole with her and they lifted her out. Someone carried her a few steps forward and then—then she was on some kind of gurney. Bailey craned her head and looked back. There were so many lights out there then, and the dogs were nearby, whining.
She saw her hole. Big and wide and deep. And a giant pile of dirt was beside it. A shovel lay forgotten on the ground.
Was that my grave?
“It’s okay.” It was a woman’s voice. Bailey jerked at that voice and at the soft hand that touched her shoulder. “You’re safe.”
She didn’t feel safe.
“I’m an EMT,” the woman continued. “And I’ll . . . I’ll get you taken care of just . . .” The woman’s voice trailed away. “Is all that blood yours?”
Bailey looked down at her body. Her shirt was soaked. Stained red, she saw in the light. Red and dirty. But was all the blood hers? I think so. Bailey nodded.
The scent of ash drifted to her. Ash and fire. What’s burning? Her head turned as she was loaded into the back of an ambulance. She saw the fire in that instant, big and red as it burned so hot and bright. But . . . was that the cabin? Her prison? Was that what burned like hell right then?
“The fire brought the deputies in,” the woman said, her blond hair in a bun near her nape, “it helped us find you.” The ambulance’s back doors slammed closed. “We found the other bodies first . . .”
No, no . . .
“And then you.”
A man was in the back of the ambulance, too. Another EMT. He had red hair and freckles across his nose. He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re safe.”
So she kept being told. But I’m not. I’m not safe. She needed to tell them about the other woman. They had to find her.
She grabbed for the redheaded man’s hand. Held tight.
“What is it?” he asked, frowning at her. “Tell me where it hurts.”
Bailey hurt everywhere, but this wasn’t about her pain. “Wo . . . man . . .” She mouthed the words because she just couldn’t speak.
His blue eyes narrowed on her lips.
“Wo . . . man . . .” She mouthed them again as her whole body began to shake. “Another . . . vic . . . vic . . . tim . . .”
His eyes became saucers. “Another victim was alive?”
She nodded.
“He had another victim with you?”
Once more, she nodded.
“Christ!” He lunged away from her and shoved open the ambulance’s back door. “Keep those dogs searching! There’s another woman out there!”
Bailey’s head sagged back and her eyes closed. She’d done it. They would find the other woman. She’d be safe, too.
They’d find her.
The ambulance’s sirens screamed.
And Bailey closed her eyes.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Award-winning author CYNTHIA EDEN writes dark tales of paranormal romance and romantic suspense. She is a New York Times, USA Today, Digital Book World, and IndieReader bestseller. Cynthia is also a two-time finalist for the RITA® award (she was a finalist both in the romantic suspense category and in the paranormal romance category). Since she began writing full-time in 2005, Cynthia has written more than thirty novels and novellas. She lives along the Alabama Gulf Coast.
www.cynthiaeden.com
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BY CYNTHIA EDEN
The LOST series
Torn
Shattered
Twisted
Broken
COPYR
IGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Taken copyright © 2016 by Cindy Roussos
TORN. Copyright © 2016 by Cindy Roussos. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition JUNE 2016 ISBN: 978-0-06243746-4
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06243740-2
FIRST EDITION
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