"Linc, take her phone and car keys."
"Good idea." The fighter groped in her pocket, with far too much extra touching. Mariah's stomach churned. "Want me to destroy her phone?" he asked.
"Not yet. We may need it to send our message."
"Yeah." Linc waved at her. "Get out of here. We have revenge to plan. I get dibs on Vaughn. He owes me."
Mariah forced her legs to carry her out of the living room and down the hall.
Wyatt's gravelly voice drifted to her. "Not me. I'm going for low-hanging fruit. Kerr's easy. He can't run."
Gasping, Mariah ducked into Mrs. Brand's room. A bedside lamp gave off sickly, yellow light.
Oh, no. This room also had wood walls. A thick odor of musty pine made it hard to breathe.
Mrs. Brand opened an eye. "What're you doin' here?" Her words slid out, slurred.
"Are you okay?" Mariah asked. At least she could focus on treating a patient. Do something useful. Anchor herself to reality.
"Mmmph." The woman drifted back to sleep. The hiss of oxygen and her light snore produced the only sounds in the room.
Mariah gently shook the woman's shoulder, but nothing happened. She frowned as she checked the bottles at the bedside. Medication for her multiple sclerosis, an antibiotic, some blood pressure medication, and inhalers. Nothing that would... ah, a bottle of lorazepam. She shook the bottle. Two tablets left from the twenty prescribed a few days ago. That explained the stupor. Was the woman going to be okay?
Mariah paced, her head whipping to the door at any external sound. Only the low voices of the three nuts filtered back to the room.
Leave and Mrs. Brand might be hurt. Along with Mariah.
Stay and the entire Taggart clan might be hurt. Along with Mariah.
Where was Izzy? Mariah checked the bedside clock: 7:45 p.m. Even if she waited another hour or so for Izzy to return, there was no guarantee the woman could help. Worse, involving Izzy might put her in danger as well.
Sweat trickled down her back.
Heavy footsteps transmitted through the floorboards.
No way was she staying here. She'd go for help and send someone to check on Mrs. Brand. But Mariah couldn't call for help here, trapped. She picked up the landline phone on the nightstand. No ring tone.
What she really wanted to do was curl up in the fetal position and wish this nightmare away.
Quietly, she began systematically going through the room. The window had a retrofitted lock on it. Unlikely they kept a key in here. But a window lock hadn't stopped Mariah years ago. She had defeated that lock with a metal brad and a paperclip back then. And a lot of desperation.
The dresser top held a few boxes. Some earrings but the posts weren't long enough. A brush. How about bobby pins?
Nothing. Damn.
Moving to the closet, she fished around until a harsh squeak stopped her.
Metal hanger.
Metal.
Keeping an eye on the soundly sleeping Mrs. Brand, Mariah fished out the hanger, winter pants, and boots. Opening a few dresser drawers, she found woolen socks and gloves. She wasn't picky on sizes. Anything was better than the current work clothes she wore, because by God shewasgetting out of this place.
A door slammed. She didn't move.
A few low voices continued, presumably from the living room. The ever-present hiss of oxygen provided background sound.
Quickly donning the extra layers, she took two hangers and bent one into a longer piece and pinched an end to push up the lock pins. She pressed the wire of the other hanger into a narrow loop to turn the lock itself.
