Don’t think like that. You’re smart and clever.
That’s what Mom had been telling her since the day she was born. She needed to stay focused and think of a way out of here.
The room smelled old, musty, like it hadn’t been used in a while. Riley rubbed her thigh where the crazy lady had poked her with the needle. At least she hadn’t bonked Riley over the head with a crowbar. She looked around the room, taking it all in. To her right was a square oak table with lots of scratches and discoloration. Across the room was the nightstand with five drawers where the woman kept all her goodies: instant camera and film, markers, and who knew what else.
There was one window in the room. It looked as if it had been tinted like the ones in her brother’s car. Gauzy white curtains hung over each side. On the wood floor was a red, blue, and yellow oval braided rug. There were also two closed doors.
Hoping one of the doors might lead to a bathroom, she slid off the mattress, surprised by the heaviness of the chain around her ankle when it hit the floor. She looked at the red shoes and thought about clicking her heels together, but this wasn’t Dorothy’s make-believe world. This was real life. A lump formed in her throat.
Don’t cry, Riley!
The chain rattled and pinched her skin as she yanked the shoes from her feet and tossed them across the room. The relief was instantaneous.
On wobbly legs she shuffled her feet across the room so she didn’t have to lift the chain with every other step. Her stomach gurgled. She was starved. The first door she tried to open was locked. The other door opened into a bathroom. She used the toilet, then washed her hands before taking the time to look around. The cabinet was filled with toilet paper and soap. Most of the drawers were empty except for the top one that was filled with colorful rubber bands and a toothbrush and toothpaste.
Her reflection in the mirror above the sink caught her attention. She leaned closer, her stomach resting against the tiled countertop. The red-marker smile made her look like a bad imitation of the Joker. Using soap and water, she scrubbed at the marker until it was nearly gone. Her skin tingled from her efforts.
She stared at her reflection. What now? What am I going to do?
Crying for Mom and Dad wouldn’t help. Crying was for sissies, and she was all cried out anyway. She needed to find a way to escape. She needed to think. Plunking down on the cold tile floor, she examined the metal cuff around her ankle. There was a keyhole. That gave her hope. She’d watched Dad pick a lock one time when they were stuck outside the house without a key. She pushed herself to her feet again and went through the bathroom drawers and cupboards once more, reaching way in the back, making sure she hadn’t missed anything the first time. The toothbrush was too big to be of any use. She needed a hairpin or a paper clip.
That gave her an idea.
Dragging the chain along with her, she exited the bathroom and made her way to the stack of books and school supplies that the crazy lady had left for her. Inside a small plastic bin she found a ruler, an eraser, and a sharpened pencil. She shoved the pointed end of the pencil into the keyhole and fiddled around, trying to get a feel for the locking mechanism. The lead tip snapped off.
Crap.
After looking through the stack of books, she opened the cooler. There were two water bottles, a plastic spoon and a yogurt, an egg salad sandwich, potato chips, and a cookie. She gobbled down the sandwich first.
It didn’t taste too bad.
She opened the chips and brought the bag with her, munching as she explored the rest of the room. The chain kept her from reaching the dresser. The window was closer. If she stretched her arm out she could brush the tips of her fingers against the windowpane. The glass had definitely been tinted. She yanked the curtain to one side where she saw part of the tinting had flaked away.
She could see the neighbor’s backyard. There was a swing set and toys littered about. How old were the kids? she wondered. Had they already started school, or was there a chance they would come out to play and she could somehow get their attention?
If they did show up, how would she do that?
She could throw something at the window. But what? She looked around. The cooler might be heavy enough to crash right through the window, and then she could clink the chains against the floor. It was early, though. If the kids next door had school, they might not come out to play until later. She thought about tossing the cooler at the window right this minute, but what if no one was home? What then? The woman might move her to another room without windows. Patience is what she needed if she planned to escape.
Her gaze followed the chain around her ankle. It disappeared under the bed. She went that way, got down on all fours, and crawled under the bed, where she could see a metal pole where four chains connected. The other three chains were in neat little piles. One for each leg and arm.
She pulled on the chain attached to her ankle, hoping it would break free.
Nothing happened.
As she lay beneath the bed in the semidark, faceup, feeling defeated, she noticed a tiny hole in the mattress. She pushed her finger inside, wriggled it around until she was poked by a metal coil.
If she could somehow break one of the coils loose, she might be able to use the wire to pick the lock around her ankle. She managed to tear the fabric enough to get her thumb and forefinger inside the mattress. The wire was thick and difficult to bend, but she knew she had to keep trying. She kept at it, bending the wire to the left and then to the right until her finger and thumb throbbed where she could feel an indentation in her skin. “Patience,” her mother’s voice whispered. “Patience always wins the day.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sawyer parked at the back of the hospital’s lot. As she walked toward the entrance, she noticed several media vans double-parked out front. Reporters and cameramen were huddled outside the emergency room.
The hospital’s doors slid open automatically as she approached. A silver-haired woman sitting at the front desk told Sawyer she was only allowed to give patient information to family members. Sawyer walked away and headed through the lobby, looking around at the people waiting to get help. She stopped when she overheard two women talking about Vicki Addison.
Family members?
“Vicki is doing better,” the woman wearing a yellow dress said. “Her condition has gone from serious to fair.”
“Thank God.” The other woman had to be six feet tall. She glanced Sawyer’s way, prompting Sawyer to pull out her phone and pretend to make a call as she eavesdropped.
“What exactly did they tell you?” the taller woman asked.
“They said her vital signs are stable and she’s conscious, but she won’t be able to have visitors for a while.”
“You would think they would allow her own sister in to see her.”
Sawyer put her phone away, then approached the two women and held up her lanyard. “Hi, my name is Sawyer Brooks, and I’m with the Sacramento Independent.”
Both women stared at her, but neither said a word.
“Mind if I ask you a couple of quick questions?”
“Go ahead,” Vicki Addison’s sister said.
Sawyer found a pen and notebook. “Your name is?”
“Sara Croche.”
“Are you and Riley close?”
“Yes. Of course. She’s my only niece.”
“When was the last time you saw Riley?”