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brEE KNOCKED TWICE ON the steel door. She had to admit that the hot shower had killed the chill in her fingers and toes, and the wool slippers were cushy, warm, and exactly her size.

The door slid back. Katrina White stood off in the hallway, still holding her pistol. “Better?” White asked.

“Yes,” Bree said.

“Exit and move to the elevator, please.”

“What about Sampson?” Bree asked as she started down the hall toward the elevator.

“Ahead of you. Men don’t need as much time as we do.”

White used the retinal scan to open the elevator door. They entered, and she tapped something on a touch screen; the elevator rose for five seconds and stopped. The doors opened.

“Fourth door on the right,” White said and gestured with the gun barrel for Bree to exit.

Bree walked down a rock-walled hall similar to the one just below, her captor trailing her just out of reach. A pro, Bree thought. She’s handled prisoners before.

“We hope you still like your steak charred and rare,” White said.

How did she know that?

“Who hopes I still like it?” Bree asked as they reached the fourth door on the right and White stepped up to activate the retinal scan.

The door slid back as White said, “The management. We hope you enjoy your meal and have a nice rest.”

Bree looked into a room, which held a bunk and a toilet. It was no bigger than a prison cell. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Because all of us have had to go through it,” White said. “It’s just protocol.”

“For what? For who? Maestro?”

The woman wagged the gun. “All in good time, Chief Stone.”

Frustrated, knowing she had no choice, she went into the cell. The door slid shut.

There was a dinner tray with covered plates on a stool in the corner. The smell of a freshly broiled steak filled the tiny room, and she was suddenly famished. Bree lifted the plastic lids on the dishes and found a perfectly charred New York strip steak, roasted fingerling potatoes, broccoli, cauliflower, and a glass of wine.

She immediately felt all sorts of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, she was looking at one of her favorite meals, and that gave her some comfort. On the other hand, it was creepy that they’d known it was her favorite meal.

Then again, Bean made it sound like they were already in our phones. Which means they have access to all sorts of data about me and my past.

She stood there a moment, debating whether to eat the meal. She was terribly hungry, but she feared the food or wine might be drugged.

Nice little prison you’ve gotten yourself into, she thought as she looked around the room and back to the food. God, it smells so good. Bree thought of her air force survival training, thought about her situation and what her instructors would tell her to do. They’d tell me to eat. If I’m not strong, I can’t escape.

It felt so right, she picked up her plastic fork and knife and cut the steak. She put it in her mouth and almost swooned, it tasted so good.

She hesitated again but then took a sip of the wine. If it was drugged wine, she thought, it was excellent drugged wine.

Even though the fork and knife broke halfway through the meal, Bree ate every bit of the food and drank the rest of the wine. When she was done, she looked around her cell.

The bunk was made of impact-resistant fiberglass like a kayak and was bolted flush into the wall. The faucet and toilet handles were welded in place. The light switch was controlled with your finger. The two bulbs that lit the room were behind a wire screen overhead.

It was as White had said before Bree entered the shower room: there was nothing here to use as a weapon.

Though she could not spot a hidden camera, she assumed the room had one, which was even creepier.

And if it was true that everything mechanical in the place was controlled with biometric devices, how could she get out? How could she even find Sampson?

After a few more minutes of this kind of fretting, she felt anxious and almost helpless, which Alex always said was a terrible, debilitating emotion.

I won’t be helpless, she thought and yawned. I will act with purpose. I will take care of the only thing I can take care of: me.

With that, Bree forced herself to turn off the light. She groped her way to the bunk, pulled back the blanket, kicked off the slippers, and climbed in, telling herself that she had to sleep if she wanted to think clearly.

But her brain refused to slow down, refused to stop asking the same questions over and over: Where’s Alex? Does he even know we’re missing?