For the thousandth time, Cheyenne felt the face of her watch, making the tiniest of motions so she wouldn’t wake Griffin.
But now the time had finally come. It was two in the morning, the time she had decided to act. The afternoon and evening had dragged by. The three men had stayed in another part of the house, plotting, she presumed, their voices too low for her to hear. Griffin had mostly stayed with her, leaving only to get them something to eat. Cheyenne had catnapped or pretended to. For one thing, she needed to be wide awake when the time came. And the more she slept, the more they would think she was sick and helpless, even though she thought she could feel the antibiotics kicking in. Sleeping, or pretending to, kept her from talking to Griffin. Kept her from thinking that maybe she wouldn’t do what she knew she had to.
Miles from here, her father would soon be following instructions to drop off a black duffel bag stuffed tight with money. One that held no tracking devices or dye packs or anything else. Or they would kill her. And her father was to come alone, with no one following him in another car or in the air or even with a computer. Or they would kill her.
Cheyenne knew all this because Roy had made her stand by while he repeated the details. Then he had pressed the phone into her hand long enough for her to choke out “Daddy, please help me!” before he snatched it back and pressed the off button.
But it didn’t really matter if her father did or did not follow the rules. It didn’t matter at all. TJ had told Cheyenne as much when he attacked her. He had climbed on the bed and pinned her wrists against the wall and whispered in her ear.
“Are you a virgin, Cheyenne? Are you? Because maybe it’s time for you to become a real woman. Maybe you should let TJ give you a little loving before it’s too late.”
She had been too frightened to even make a sound. All she had done was shake her head violently. And one of her shakes had connected with TJ’s nose.
He had grunted in pain and then his voice became even more oozing and vicious. “Where you’re going, you won’t be getting any loving. They never talk about getting it on in heaven, do they, baby? Let TJ give you a sweet memory to take to your grave.”
Somehow, Cheyenne had mustered enough saliva in her mouth to spit at him. When he muttered a curse, she knew it had met its target. And then Griffin had stormed in and saved her.
But saving her from a would-be rapist was one thing. Stepping in when Roy told TJ or Jimbo to take her for a ride was another. Would he defy these men — including his father — to save her? When saving her would make it much more likely that he would get caught? Wouldn’t it simply be easier for Griffin to pretend to himself that they really were going to let her go?
Sure, these men might get caught and go to jail for murder, but they might not. And they were all about short-term thinking. Take TJ. He had wanted to bring her down to his level, so he had groped and pawed at her, not even worrying about Griffin being in the next room.
Cheyenne wished she had been able to reach her pocket before TJ had pinned her to the wall, wished she had used the broken piece of glass on him. She would have liked to have cut his throat. And she could have done it, too.
What she didn’t know was whether she could do what needed to be done now.
The men had left several hours earlier, getting into position to make sure that her dad was following the rules. If they were going to come back to the house for something forgotten, they would have done it by now. It was time to act.
Slipping her hand into her pocket, Cheyenne pulled out the piece of glass. Slowly, slowly, she crawled off the end of the bed. Griffin snorted and shifted, but then his breathing resumed a regular rhythm. She slid her feet forward until the cord that bound her ankle was taut as a wire. Bending down, she sawed through it in a few strokes. Her lungs ached, but she was too afraid to breathe except for the tiniest sips. Too afraid she might cough. The slightest sound might give her away.
When the cord parted, it was like taking a step into empty air. There was no turning back. If Griffin woke up, he would have to try to stop her.
Gripping the piece of glass tighter, Cheyenne held her breath and listened. But he was still deeply asleep, exhaling audibly every few seconds.
She tiptoed across the floor, testing each step. Putting her hand out for the knob, she found the door was not quite closed. It was a tiny thing, but still it seemed like a good sign.
She trailed her fingers down the wall of the hall until she reached the dining room. Pinkies leading the way, she ran her hands lightly over the table and what seemed to be a sideboard, but she found nothing more than dirty dishes.
In the living room, on a rough wooden table, Cheyenne found what she was looking for. Her fingers traced the shape of it and her mind supplied the picture. A big silver wrench. Heavy. She put the piece of glass in her pocket and then picked up the wrench and thwacked the end into her palm. If she hit Griffin hard enough, she could knock him unconscious.
If she hit Griffin hard enough.
And if she didn’t? Then he might wake up. Might chase her down. Might kill her.
Cheyenne could feel her heart rate speeding up, her breath quickening, all that fight-or-flight response they had learned in biology. She turned and walked back down the hall.
Outside the doorway, she stopped and listened. What if Griffin was awake and watching? What if she rushed him and he wrested the wrench from her hand and whacked her with it?
Nothing but the sound of his deep, even breathing.
She drew one last ragged breath and tiptoed toward him. Gripping the wrench in both hands, she raised it high overhead. Then, like a man splitting a log with an ax, Cheyenne swung the wrench in its swift and terrible descent.