TESS McGowan tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids were too heavy. She managed a flutter, seeing a flash of light, then darkness. She was sitting up, but the earth was moving beneath her in a low rumble.

Why couldn’t she move? Her arms were limp, her legs like concrete. But the only restraint was across her shoulder, across her lap. She was buckled into a car. That explained the movement, the muffled sounds. It didn’t explain why she couldn’t open her eyes.

She tried again. Another flutter. Headlights flickered before her eyelids fell closed. It was night. How could it be night? It had just been morning. Hadn’t it?

She leaned against the headrest. She smelled jasmine, just a hint, soft and subtle. Yes, a few days ago she had bought a new sachet and stuck it under the passenger seat. So she was in her own car. The notion calmed her until she realized that if she wasn’t driving, someone else was here with her. Had she gone out drinking again? Oh, dear God! Had she picked up another stranger?

She could hear someone breathing. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. There was a slight groan but even that hadn’t come from her. Then the car began to slow, followed by a faint electric buzz. Tess smelled fresh tar and knew the window had opened. The car stopped, but the engine continued to hum. Fumes told her they were stalled in traffic. She tried once again to open her eyes.

“Good evening, Officer,” a deep voice said next to her. Was it Daniel? The voice sounded familiar.

“Good evening,” another voice bellowed. “Oh, sorry,” came a whisper. “Didn’t see your wife sleeping.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

Yes, Tess wanted to know, too. What was the problem? Why couldn’t she move? Why couldn’t she open her eyes? What wife was sleeping?

“We’ve got an accident we’re cleaning up on the other side of the toll bridge. Be just a minute or two. Then we’ll let you through.”

“No hurry,” the voice said calmly.

No. It wasn’t Daniel. Daniel was always in a hurry. He’d be making the officer understand how important he was. He’d be causing a scene.

A flutter of panic crawled over her. “No hurry”? Yes, the voice was familiar.

She began to remember.

“You smell quite lovely,” that same voice had told her. It came to her in pieces. The house on Archer Drive. “I hope you’re not offended.”

He wanted to see her face. “It’s really quite painless.” No, he wanted to feel her face. His fingers on her hair, her cheeks, her neck. Then wrapping those hands around her throat, tight and hard, the muscles squeezing. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. Dark eyes. And a smile. Yes, he had smiled while his fingers squeezed and wrung her neck. It hurt. Stop it. It hurt so bad. Her head hurt, and she could hear the smack of it against the wall. She fought with fists and fingernails. God, he was strong.

Then a prick of the needle as it sank into her arm. The rush of heat that flowed through her veins. She remembered the room spinning.

Now she tried to raise that same arm. It wouldn’t move, but it ached. What had he given her? Who the hell was he? Where was he taking her? Even the fear felt trapped, a lump caught inside her throat, straining to be set free. She couldn’t kick or run. She couldn’t even scream.