TESS jerked awake. Her throat was so dry it hurt to swallow. Her eyelids felt like lead shutters. Her chest ached as though some massive weight had pressed against her. There was nothing on top of her now. She lay on what appeared to be a narrow, lumpy cot. The room was dimly lit, forcing her to squint. The smell of mildew surrounded her.

She started to sit up, and immediately her muscles protested. The room began to spin. Nausea washed over her. She was used to hangovers, but this was much worse. Then she remembered the dark-haired man and the needle. Where the hell had he taken her? And where was he?

The nausea forced her to keep her head on the pillow as her eyes darted around the small space. She was inside some sort of wooden shack. Rotted wood allowed faint light to seep in between the slats. Boards were nailed over a small area that might have once been a window. Other than the cot, there was nothing else except a tall plastic bucket in the corner.

Tess’s eyes searched and found what looked like a door. Of course, it would be locked, maybe even bolted from the outside, but she needed to make an attempt.

She sat up slowly and waited. Again, the nausea sent her head to the pillow.

“Damn it!” she shouted, and immediately regretted it. What if he was watching, listening?

She rolled onto her side to assuage the nausea. A sharp pain pierced her side, and for a brief moment she thought she had rolled onto a spike. But there was nothing there, only the lumpy mattress. She moved her fingers up under her blouse, noticing the hem had already been pulled out from her waistband. A button was missing and the rest were off a buttonhole.

“No, stop it,” she scolded herself in a whispered rush.

She had to focus. She couldn’t think about what he might have done while she had been unconscious. She needed to check if she was okay.

Her fingers found no open wound, no sticky blood, but she was almost certain one of her ribs had been broken or badly bruised. Carefully, her fingers probed the area under her breasts while she bit down on her lower lip. Despite the stabbing pain, she guessed bruised, not broken. That was good. She could function just fine with bruised ribs. Broken could sometimes puncture a lung.

She slipped a foot out from under the covers and dangled it close to the floor. She was barefoot. What had he done with her shoes and stockings?

The floor was colder than she expected, but she kept the foot there, forcing her body to grow accustomed to the temperature before she tried to stand up. The air in the shack felt damp and chilly.

Then she heard the beginning tap-tap-tap, soft against the roof. The sound of rain had usually been a comfort to her. Now she wondered how badly the rotted roof leaked and felt a new chill. She knew the bucket in the corner hadn’t been placed there for leaks. Instead, it was meant for her. He obviously intended to keep her here for a while.

She pushed herself out of the cot and stood with both feet flat on the cold floorboards while she bent at the waist and held on to the bed. Again, she bit her lip, ignoring the taste of blood, fighting the urge to vomit and waiting for the room to stop spinning.

She tried to concentrate on the tap-tap-tapping of the rain. Maybe she could find some level of comfort in its natural, familiar rhythm. A sudden rumble of thunder startled her like a gunshot, and she spun around to the door as though expecting to see him there. When her heart settled back in her chest, she almost burst out laughing. It was only a little bit of thunder. That was all.

Her body began shivering. She grabbed the blanket, wrapped it around her shoulders and knotted it at her neck, keeping her hands free. She checked under the cot, hoping to find something, anything to aid in her escape, or at least her shoes. There was nothing, not even furballs or dust. Which meant he had prepared this place for her, and recently. If only he hadn’t taken her shoes and stockings. Then she remembered she had worn pantyhose under her trousers.

Oh, God! He had undressed her, after all. She mustn’t think about it. She had to stop remembering. Stop feeling aches and bruises in places that might remind her of what he had done. She needed to focus all her energies on getting out of here.

Again she listened to the rain. Again she waited for its rhythm to calm her, to regulate her raspy breathing.

When she could walk without the nausea crippling her, she made her way to the door. The handle was nothing more than a rusted latch. One more time, she looked around to see if she had missed anything that could be used to help pry open the door. Even the corners had been swept clean. Then she saw a rusted nail swept into a groove in the floor. She pried it out with her fingernails and began examining the keyhole. The door was indeed locked, but was it bolted as well?

She steadied her fingers and inserted the nail into the keyhole, jingling and twisting it expertly. Another talent acquired in her not so illustrious past. But it had been years, and she was out of practice. The lock groaned in rusted protest.

Something gave way with a metallic click. Tess grabbed the latch and gave it a yank. The door swung open freely, almost knocking her over in her surprise. It hadn’t been bolted. She waited, staring at the open doorway. This was too easy. Was it a blessing or another trap?