A thunderstorm of noise raged above. Rebecca had no idea what her captors were doing. It sounded like claps of thunder. She imagined sledgehammers against metal. Glass shattered. Heavy objects banged against the floor, or what was her ceiling. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see something crashing through the wood rafters.

She no longer cared what they were doing. As long as they stayed up there, they wouldn’t be hurting her. She had searched the entire crawl space, hunched over, arms still twisted and tied behind her back. She tried to keep down the nausea of fear. The overwhelming smell of gasoline burned her lungs and gagged her. It brought on the dry heaves. Nothing in her stomach except acid. All she wanted was something sharp—a left-behind tool, scissors, something jagged, anything—to cut the plastic tie that bound her wrists together.

There was nothing. The empty gas cans. Some shelves. A monstrosity of a furnace rumbled in the corner. Rebecca stared at it. The huge metal box had rusted on the bottom. Pipes going in and out of the contraption had been piecemealed together. She looked closely for bolts or screws that might be protruding. Then she found a bent piece of metal at one of the corners that made up the furnace’s storage cabinet. Someone had hammered it back into place but it still stuck out, battered metal, the edges ragged…and sharp.

Excitement dared to shove aside the nausea.

The bent metal was a bit high. She’d need to do some maneuvering to back up to it and raise her arms up. Pain shot through her wounded arm and Rebecca had to stop. Had to sit down. She waited it out. Steadied her breath. Then she tried again, slowly raising her arms up behind her. She’d have to bring her wrists high enough to bring the plastic down onto the sharp metal corner. She could do it but could she keep her arms raised for that long while she rubbed against the jagged edge, using it like a serrated knife?

Just a little higher. She almost had it when all the noise from above came to a sudden stop.

She brought her arms down and waited, listening. Maybe they would start up again. They might be taking a break. Or leaving. Could they be leaving? She heard voices. Raised voices. An argument. Then the trapdoor started to creak open.

Rebecca scooted farther into the corner though she knew there wasn’t anywhere to hide. If she had only a few more minutes she could have cut her wrists free and at least been able to defend herself. She’d kick this time, she decided. And scream. She didn’t care if no one heard her.

The light from the open trapdoor had a bluish tint, not as glaring as she’d expected but she still found herself squinting after being in the dim-lit crawl space. She tried to slow her breathing so she could listen, but her heart pounded in her ears.

Someone was coming down. She could see shadows hovering over the opening. The voices were louder but she couldn’t make out the words. A scuffle, rubber soles squeaking against linoleum, dragging or being dragged. Then without warning a body tumbled down through the hole, thumping hard against the concrete.

The trapdoor slammed shut and tight, this time closing off all light, but not before Rebecca recognized the motionless body. It was Dixon.