This thought careens through my brain for the millionth time as I sit cross-legged on the pull-out bed, a sofa with a sleeping bag tossed over the mattress.
I just need to get outside.
Once there, I might even recognize this spot in the wilderness. Because I really don’t know where I am now, and I could have been fooled as to where I am. I was unaware of how long I’d been here after being zapped with a stun gun.
How stupid was I? Never did I think I would be attacked.
“Idiot,” I grumble, then turn my attention back to the immediate problem of finding a means of escape.
Assuming I can free myself, then what? Where am I? Am I dozens of miles from civilization, or only a quarter of a mile down a lane to a major road? Are the tall trees I catch glimpses of real mountain firs, or possibly just the most remote part of the Christmas tree farm? I’ve never heard any traffic other than the sound of an engine whenever my captor returns, but it’s possible this cabin isn’t as remote as I have been led to think.
Maybe not hours from civilization, but minutes . . .
I wonder if anyone is searching for me.
Surely they are.
I swallow back my fear that no one even knows I’m missing, that lies have been spread about the reason I’m unavailable.
If only I had my phone or a radio or any way to communicate to the outside world!
I eye the small interior of the room again, absently searching for some crack in this jail, something I’ve overlooked, and as I do, I wonder what is to become of me?
If no one other than my kidnapper knows where I am, then what if something happens to them?
My stomach knots, and I try not to think about how dire my situation is.
“You have to get out of here yourself!” I remind myself as outside the wind howls, mocking me. Involuntarily, I shiver, though, of course, I’m not really cold. Not with heat radiating from a propane fireplace glowing brightly in the corner. I wonder vaguely what will happen when the propane runs out or the generator I hear huffing away goes silent. What if my jailor decides not to come back or is incapacitated? What then?
“For the love of God, stop it!” I push that awful thought aside, but it keeps creeping back, a horrid little worm crawling through my brain, reminding me of how vulnerable I really am. “Go away!” I yell out loud.
Again.
Drawing my knees to my chin, I stare upward and out the windows mounted high overhead. Small, in a neat row, none large enough to slip through, the tops of snow-dusted fir trees visible as night descends. There are two larger windows, but they are now shuttered—“retrofitted” would be the right term—in other words, boarded over. Useless. Immovable.
I know.
I’ve tried to force them open and have the bloodied fingertips and broken nails to prove it. Of course, they didn’t budge. That’s one thing about a Cahill Tiny House: It’s built solidly.
This model, with its shimmering silver-gray tile backsplash, trendy stone counters, even a small, damned chandelier, is gloriously high end, but still a prison.
At first, I’d thought this was a sick joke.
That my “kidnapping” was all some sort of elaborate, misguided prank.
I should have known better.
I should have realized what I was dealing with. But after the first night, and the second, and the third, I’d come to realize the treacherous truth, that I was being held here, possibly left here to die, and I’d started to panic.
Now, throat dry, muscles tense, I wonder, will I ever be free again?
Or will I be trapped here forever?
Oh. God. No. No!
Certainly, if I were going to be killed or hurt, it would have happened already. Right? Why keep me locked in this remote, isolated cabin? Surely, if my death were the ultimate goal, it would have already occurred.
So, what then?
Ransom?
No.
A darker thought begins to filter into my mind, but I block it.
But my heart aches. In the time I’ve been held here, the only person I’ve ever seen was my captor.
Someone I trusted.
Someone I’d been waiting for all my life.
But did my jailor have an accomplice?
Maybe.
What if the person who did this told a careful lie, explained away my absence? How long would it take for anyone to realize that I’m really gone, truly missing?
Panic rises again, my heart fluttering, my hands beginning to shake uncontrollably.
“Get a grip!” I order myself over the soft hiss of the fire.
I have to be calm.
Forceful.
My only chance is to keep my wits about me.
“Don’t give in!”
I scurry down the ladder and cross to the minuscule bathroom, where I stare at the fixtures, all bolted down tight. I know they’re steadfast. I’ve tried every damned day to pry them off with my bare hands. And failed. But there has to be a way out! I can’t believe this box—wooden sides, some Sheetrock, metal, and glass—is impossible to escape from.
I know that there are vents, and holes where plumbing is connected to some kind of water source and septic tank . . . right? And there is electricity from the generator.
Think!
There has to be a way out of this!
Use your brain!
There’s a chance I could start a fire with the propane stove, but then I would probably be trapped before anyone saw the blaze. I’m not ready to die yet. Not that way.
And I need to feed my vengeance.
The only visible way out is the door, so the most likely scenario is to distract my keeper the next time I’m visited to replenish my supplies.
If that happens.
There is always the chance that I could be left here alone to die, a slowly painful death from hunger or dehydration should my water give out, or from going psycho completely and utterly bat-shit crazy.
Is that the ultimate plan?
That someone I trusted, someone I held dear would be so cruel?
Rather
