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Chapter Forty-Four

C laire smelled something funny. She was groggy but didn’t think she had drunk all that much.

She tried to move, but her arms were taped to the steering wheel.

Whaaat? Was this a dream? A nightmare? And she heard voices.

It sounded like Keith’s voice, but he was dead.

Wasn’t he? And a woman’s voice that sounded a lot like Hillary’s.

Keith was begging. Begging for what? Oh, dear lord, the EpiPen. He was begging Hillary to give him the shot. Hillary laughed and teased him while Keith moaned. Hillary killed Keith. Oh, God. Now she was trying to kill her.

Claire started coughing. The carbon monoxide wouldn’t take long to immobilize her. The tape holding her wrists to the steering wheel was tight. She wiggled her wrists the best she could. God, it hurt and cut into her wrists, but there was a little movement.

Please, please Hillary, hurry up.

Poor Keith. He didn’t deserve to die like that. What a bitch. She must have had this planned for weeks.

Give me the shot .

She had to get out of the car. But how? She tried to open the door with her elbow. Kept missing. Not strong enough. The carbon dioxide was making her sleepy.

No, don’t do that. I beg you.

The tape was cutting into her wrists. Blood was dripping down the steering wheel. The coppery odor was forcing bile up her throat. But that was the least of her problems. She needed to call for help.

How? Then a nagging memory. Her phone was connected to the car, which was running. If she could just get her wrists free, she could call someone.

Time was running out.

Hilllllry …

Keith’s voice died out.

She struggled with the tape again. Was this anything Sam had covered in her self-defense class?

Yes. But that was if you were duct-taped to a chair.

Worth a try. She quickly both elbows out, then pulled quickly.

Nothing. Damn, that hurt. She tried several more times, moaned.

The tape rubbing her skin raw. But it loosened her hands a little.

Was it enough to reach the phone button and activate it?

Not quite. Her finger slipped on the blood. One more time, she tried to loosen the bindings. If this didn’t work, Claire knew she was going to die because she was getting weaker.

She worked her fingers down. God, it hurt. The tape cutting into her wrists.

Just a little bit more. She tried again and moaned. It hurt so much. But dying would hurt more. Gathering what little strength she had left, she tried again, barely hearing the scream pulled from her throat.

Yes! It worked.

She moved her thumb down to the call button .

“Call Joe Harkin on mobile.” Her voice was weak. Could it understand her?

“Calling Joe Harkin on mobile. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” A weak yes.

“Say yes or no.”

She cleared her throat. Tried again. “YES.”

The phone rang once, twice. Please, Joe, I don’t have much time.

Three times. Four.

“Claire, hi, sweet …”

“Hillll …”

Her voice was weak. She prayed Joe would understand and get here quickly and with the police.

“What?” he screamed. “Claire, what…”

Damn, she hung up on him while she was working the tape. No sense in calling back. She tried to hold her breath as much as possible, but her vision doubled, and she was exhausted.

One more try.

She got her right hand free. Tore the tape from her left and opened the door.

Fell on the cement, gasped for air. She needed to get out of the garage.

She crawled up to the door, ignoring the stones that pinched her knees.

Opened the door as quietly as she could and heard noises in the background.

People were laughing. Was someone with Hillary?

God, she hoped not. Then recognized the sound as the TV in the background.

TV? Oh, dear lord, was Hillary still here and watching TV, making herself at home?

Waiting for what? Her death. Not happening today.

She dragged herself up and snuck into the mudroom. Peeked around and saw Hillary laughing at some show on TV. Bitch.

She picked up a lamp from the small table. Shhh, had Hillary heard her? She stopped, her heart thumping so hard in her chest, she was sure Hillary could hear it over the TV.

She crawled into the living room, holding the lamp in front of her.

Thump.

Damn, she couldn’t control her actions, and the lamp scraped on the floor.

Had Hillary heard it? She lay still. Listened.

No movement from Hillary. Good, she hadn’t.

She creeped on her belly behind the sofa, still holding the lamp.

The next step was going to hurt, and she prayed she had enough strength to do it.

She slowly stood up. Brought the lamp back and smashed it on Hillary’s head.

But not hard enough. It surprised Hillary but didn’t hurt her. Hillary jumped up. Her eyes narrowed.

“Oh, you bitch,” she screamed. “Why won’t you just die?”

Hillary reached for the cheese knife and hurdled the sofa. “You’re not getting out of here alive tonight.”

Claire lunged at her but tripped over the lamp shards. She managed to get up and grab Hillary’s wrist, stopping the hand that held the knife.

Hillary kicked at her, but Claire hung on.

Finding an extra burst of strength, she sank her teeth into Hillary’s wrist. Hillary screamed, and the knife fell on the floor.

They both scrambled for it, but Hillary was stronger, struck Claire on the side of the head and was able to grasp the knife. She pulled Claire close to her body.

“Bitch, you’re dying tonight, one way or the other.”