Page 27 of Killer Body

She started to rise from the skinny bench, then realized that she could barely breathe. The heat had flattened her, little by little. Now she felt too weak to move, losing strength and air by the moment.

She sat there only seconds, then knew no one was coming to her rescue. No one would. She had to get herself out of this.Think, damn it.Her bag, in the locker, had her cell phone in it. She could make it through the darkness, feel her way along the hall, and get to it. Then, she could call for help.

Call whom?

That was a depressing thought, but shit, even with no one to care about her, she could phone 911. She could phone Virginia or her best friend, Sheree, back in New York. If she were really scared, she could call Marshall’s assistant, say it was an emergency. No, she couldn’t lie to herself. Marshall hadn’t taken a call from her since the day the first story appeared. He hadn’t even talked to her after she was fired.

Tania Marie hobbled to the door, pulled the slippery handle. It didn’t budge. Her hands were too wet. She moved back through the darkness and wiped them on the towel she’d brought in with her. Scampered back to the door, the handle. Holy shit. It wouldn’t open. It was locked or stuck or—She didn’t even want to think about it. She wanted to scream.

That wouldn’t work, either; it would only drain her energy. She needed to think. The darkness seemed to slither toward her, crawl up along her bare arms, her neck. The hot, moist air threatened to suffocate her.

Someone would come soon. This would be okay. It was probably just a power failure. The thought gave her no relief. She was alone in this dark room, fighting for every wet breath, alone the way she’d been, one way or another, her entire life.

Holy shit.

Dizziness set in. She felt like a wet, heavy rock sinking into an ocean of sweat. She banged on the door, tried to scream. She was going to die.

No, don’t think that.

Yes, do think that. It’s what’s going to happen.

She was going to die.

Just like Julie Larimore.

That was the last thought she registered before she slipped away, into the dark, wet, roaring place, the place so heavy on her chest that all thoughts and fears were pressed out of her.

Only one thought bubbled to the surface.Tania Marie Camp died today. She is survived by her parents and Marshall Cameron, the love of her very short life.

The noise came from outside, barely rousing her. A scrunching, sliding sound. Tania Marie tried to fight the heavy stone on her chest, her tight, closed nostrils. Could it be? The slide became a screech. A burst of cool air blew in. She gagged onit, grabbing herself around the waist. Oh, yes, it was sweet, pure air, and she was drinking it.

How long? A minute? An hour? Who cared? She breathed now. She’d almost passed out, and now she could breathe. Perhaps the door had just been jammed. The creepy feeling along her arms told her otherwise. Someone had locked her in; someone had let her out. Like a rat in a cage. A rat being observed.

It was too dark here. But she could find her way to the door, she must. Already, her eyes were adjusting to the dim light. Better than pitch-black hopelessness.

Once out, she felt her bare skin prickle in the cool air. The fucking heater must be off, all except the hot air forced into the sauna. Everyone must have gone home. The towels hung from hooks on the wall closest to the door. Find her towel, and she’d find her way out.

She dragged her finger along the cold wall. There it was. She could have kissed the soft Egyptian cotton. Instead, she wrapped it around her like a fur coat. Make thatfauxfur. She’d never wear the real thing, never again. She’d never sleep with another married man, never. Oh, God, just let her get out of here, and she’d do her best to turn her life around. Just please let her get out of here.Please.

The door must just be steps away. Yes, she felt the raised molding around it. Scrambled for the knob. Turned it.

Nothing.

She turned and twisted.

Nothing.

All she needed was to get out of this cold, frigging tomb, get to her locker, to her clothes, to her cell phone.

She jerked the door, screamed, twisted the knob again.

Nothing.

“Why me?” She sank to the floor, still pounding the door. “Why fucking me?”

She would die here, in this place. Whoever had taken Julie Larimore—and, admit it, someone had taken, kidnapped or, damn it, killed her—that person had her now. No way could she escape. She began to sob. A big, fucking baby. A loser, crying for her mama. That’s all she’d ever been.

“God,” she said. “Why?”