She shifted her weight. Pain throbbed through her foot. Even if she got to the steps, she wouldn’t be able to outrun him. He’d catch her before she reached the top.

She couldn’t see his face, but she noted as many things about him as she could. He was over six feet tall and muscular. He wore khaki pants, boots, and a black jacket. A knife was sheathed on his belt. The mask covered his whole head, so she couldn’t see hair color. His eyes were far enough behind the holes in the mask that she couldn’t determine their color either.

“Why—” She tried to ask why he’d taken her, but her throat was too dry to speak, and the word came out as an unintelligible croak.

He stood still for a moment, facing her, his posture stiff. A cold pang gripped her empty belly. Her sore cheek throbbed. He knew how to hurt people.

“What do you want from me?” she wheezed, her teeth chattering as she spoke.

He took three steps forward and slapped her. The blow stunned her, both the speed of his hand and the sting of her already-bruised face.

“Shut up.” He spoke in a throaty whisper, odd and raspy, as if he was purposefully disguising his voice. He lifted the white bag. “Come here.”

She limped forward, feeling like a hungry dog that was regularly beaten but still relied on an abusive human for food. Like a feral animal, she drew closer to the smell of hot food in spite of the risk.

“Stand up straight,” he commanded.

She shifted her weight and winced.

He held the bag over her head, just out of reach. “Ask nicely.”

Olivia sensed that refusing would be the wrong move. “May I please have the bag?”

He lowered the bag into her hand. Tucking her water bottle under her arm, she opened the bag. It was a sandwich, wrapped in foil. When she removed it from the bag, it was warm in her hands. She unwrapped the foil. Hot ham and melted cheese on a long roll. Despite her nerves, the smell made her stomach rumble.

She took a tentative bite. Her shortness of breath made eating difficult, but she took a second bite. She had one protein bar left. Who knew when she would get food again?

After three bites, a coughing spell interrupted her meal. She sipped some water, needing to catch her breath before she continued eating.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked in a disgusted tone.

“Asthma.” She lowered the sandwich. She could feel her airways narrowing. Without access to her medicine or a way out of this cold, damp basement, she would grow worse. “The air is too cold in here. I need my—” A cough cut off the word medicine.

He propped his hands on his hips, his posture tensing. “You have a blanket.”

The thin cotton throw was insufficient for the temperature in the cellar, but that wasn’t the real problem.

Still short of breath, she shook her head. “It’s the cold air in my lungs.”

“Don’t try to bullshit me. I’m not stupid.” He stepped closer, leaning forward. His body vibrated with rage.

Olivia’s next breath whistled. Her pulse scrambled, and her stomach cramped around the sandwich.

The backhand came faster than she could react. It hit her bruised cheek with an explosion of light and pain. She stumbled backward. Her sandwich and water bottle went flying. Her injured foot gave out, and she fell backward. Pain rang up her tailbone. The impact expelled what little air she had managed to suck into her lungs. She sat still, gaping like a fish, struggling to draw a tiny bit of air into her chest when her rib cage felt like it was made of steel. Her lungs refused to expand.

“I bring you a hot meal, and you repay me by lying.” His whisper had turned hostile. “That’s not how it works here.”

Olivia couldn’t respond. She couldn’t do anything except try to breathe.

He picked up the sandwich and stuffed it back in the white bag. “Next time, you’ll be respectful. Not that I should feed you. Only the strong survive, and you don’t seem very strong.”

What did that mean? Was there going to be a test of some sort?

Taking the sandwich with him, he stomped back up the steps. On the way out, he slapped the light in the stairwell, extinguishing it. The doors slammed shut with a bang that seemed to rattle the ground, leaving Olivia shivering, gasping for air, and alone in the dark.

She crawled toward the steps, feeling ahead with her shaking hands and using her memory to guide her, desperate for the tiny source of light. Sweat soaked her pajamas, and fear nearly choked her.

Her hand hit the wood of the bottom tread. She crawled upward. How many steps until the light? She turned, sweeping her hands across the wall of the stairwell. Her fingers touched the plastic disc.

Please work.

She pressed it. The light came on, and tears of relief flowed down her cheeks. She barely felt the fresh pain throbbing through her cheek.

What was he going to do to her?

She didn’t want to find out. But how could she get past him? He was armed, and she had nothing but the clothes on her back.

Chapter Seventeen

Lance’s pulse pumped as he sprinted down Second Street and turned left. His running shoes hit the blacktop in an even rhythm. He checked his watch. Sharp had promised to close his eyes for thirty minutes. Lance had been staring at his computer screen for hours and had wanted some air.

Checking his watch, he made a U-turn and jogged back. Morgan was climbing out of his Jeep. She rose onto her toes and kissed him.

He held his body away from hers. “I’m sweaty.”

“I don’t care.” She kissed him again. “Where’s Sharp?”

“I talked him into a power nap.”

“Good. He was looking ragged.” Morgan raised an eyebrow at his sweat-soaked T-shirt. “You went in a whole different direction.”

“I slept a little last night, and I needed to clear my head.”

She shook her head. “I had a huge breakfast, lots of coffee, and donuts.”

“We all do what works for us.” He opened the door, and they went into the building.

Morgan put a finger to her lips and pointed. The door to Sharp’s office was open. He was still asleep. Lance figured he’d be awake in another ten minutes.

He followed Morgan into her office. “How were the kids?”

“Fine. You were right. I feel recharged.” She set her tote on her desk. “Grandpa is reviewing the Franklin files. I’m still plugging away at the Olander material, and I’m meeting with Esposito at noon.”

It didn’t surprise Lance the ADA would be in his office on a Saturday. For the prosecutor, weekends were often used to prepare and review for trials.

“Good luck with that.” Lance held on to his opinion that the ADA was an asshole.

Morgan was a softie. A few months back, Esposito had showed a few signs that he could be a decent human being, and she was ready to believe in him. But then, believing in people is what made her a great defense attorney. Lance knew she’d been a successful prosecutor but suspected she was even better on the defense side of the courtroom.

Lance collected clothes from his office and took a two-minute shower, not bothering to shave. Dressed in clean cargos and a long-sleeve T-shirt, he went back into his office. His phone beeped, and he read a text message from his mother. She wanted to video chat.

He dropped into the chair behind his desk, opened the app on his laptop, and called her. She accepted the call, and her face appeared on the phone screen. “Hi, Mom.”