Chapter 33

33

Special Agent Nikki Knight

T he dim light of the shed casts shadows across Lydia's face as she shares the heartaches her husband has put her through. Her voice is barely above a whisper.

"I'm so sorry to hear it," I say, my own voice growing weaker by the second.

"You didn't do anything wrong," she teases with a sigh. "Damien was never faithful. He was a philanderer through and through. I just never wanted to admit it."

"I can understand that."

Honestly, I can't. I would have had his cookies on a platter and served them to him for breakfast. That would have taken care of his urge to warm another woman's bed.

I nod, processing each confession Lydia Cole has offered up as if I were a priest. However, it's not her sins that need absolving.

It's a sordid puzzle, one that paints Damien not just as unfaithful, but as a man who might kill to keep his secrets.

And amidst the heavy silence that follows her rather sad soliloquy, a faint yet acrid scent tickles my nostrils.

I sniff again, inviting the biting cold air into my lungs.

I know that scent all too well.

Gasoline.

My heart begins to drum as my thoughts go wild. But I manage to mask my alarm, not wanting to spiral poor Lydia into a panic. Instead, I get on my feet and begin feeling around in the dark for anything that might aid in our escape.

"There has got to be a way out of here," I pant. "I've got news for whoever has us holed up in here. We're not going to sit and wait for whatever comes next."

The words strum from me, mostly to bolster my own courage more than anything else. But then, I've always believed the words that come from my mouth, even if they're not true.

"This place is virtually empty," she says. "We were getting ready to tear it down. It's a fire hazard mostly."

That's exactly what I'm afraid of. But I don't dare say that out loud.

In the corner, my fingers brush against a dusty tarp, and half-buried beneath is?—

" Bingo ," I say, practically singing the words. "I've got something," I say, feeling the long wooden handle that leads to a triangulated metal finish. "It's a shovel or a spade, I think."

Its weight is a comfort to me as I grasp it firmly.

Something solid in this constant darkness.

"Stay back," I instruct Lydia, as the moonlight pours over the newfound weapon in my hands.

My wrists are still tethered together with my own cuffs, but it's not nearly the obstacle my captor was hoping it'd be.

I make my way to the door, allowing the sliver of light pouring in from the partially boarded window to guide me.

"I'm guessing it's nailed shut or something is butted up against it," I say. "Either way, we're busting out of this place."

Positioning myself at the door, I wedge the shovel's edge into the frame and leverage my weight against the aged wood. The old hinges groan under the force as if protesting each push and pull as I work the shovel like a makeshift crowbar.

Lydia's breathing grows shallow as she inches her way over. "You're really doing it," she pants with awe.

With a final determined yank, the spade snaps right off the handle and sends splinters flying. Sparks go off, and within seconds a wall of flames lights up the window above.

We watch in horror as every wall in this small wooden cage glows from the outside a horrific shade of red.

The entire shed is going up in flames with a roar.

I shake my head at the horror. "What in the fresh hell?"

That's exactly what I was afraid of.

"All right, Lydia," I pant as I back up from the door. "It's do or die. And we are not dying. But I most certainly fit to kill."

I charge the door and kick at it as if my life depends on it.

It does.

So does Lydia's.