Stop Me (Last Stand #2)(34)
Author: Brenda Novak

Shivering because the mud and wetness of the ground had seeped through her jeans and sweater, she pulled her coat tighter and turned to survey her prison. The cellar, more like a crawl space, was dark, except for the crack of light beside the door and the beam of her flashlight, which created a perfect yellow circle on the cinder-block wall. She was hungry, thirsty, in need of a bathroom. But it was probably the knowledge that she couldn’t do anything about those needs that made her notice them.

Fight the fear. Concentrate. She’d learned enough from Skye’s self-defense classes back in Sacramento to know that, above all, she had to remain calm and be resourceful.

It would be easier if she weren’t so overwhelmed by dark images, images of violence and death.

Covering her eyes, she tried to block out where she was and counted several deep breaths. There had to be another way out of here.

Hunched over so she wouldn’t hit her head on the low ceiling, she recovered her flashlight and began to search for anything that might offer an opportunity or inspire a plan. Black had mentioned a trapdoor leading into the pantry. He’d said there’d been nothing but a sack of potatoes sitting on top of it the day he and Huff performed the search. That gave her some hope. With luck, the Moreaus hadn’t added any more heavy items and she’d be able to escape through the house.

Unless it was Francis Moreau’s mother or brother who’d locked her in. If they were up there, Plan B might not end too well….

No. It was Black who’d locked her in. She’d discovered those cigarette butts, hadn’t she? And he was the only one who knew she’d been planning to come here.

“Pearson Black, I hope you rot in hell,” she said, because talking to herself seemed to help.

Jasmine found the trapdoor easily enough, as well as a small lightbulb positioned next to it. When she pulled the dangling chain, the light went on and she felt slightly comforted. In a place like this, more light was definitely a good thing.

But her feeling of relief didn’t last. She couldn’t get the trapdoor open. It was locked from the other side.

What now? She had to get out of here before Black—or whoever else had locked her in—came back. If he meant to harm her, this was giving him plenty of time to plan the method. Lord knew he wouldn’t have to worry about getting rid of her body. He could simply bury her here. Or stuff her in a black garbage bag, seal it and drop it on top of that pile in the yard. No one would complain about the stench, because it couldn’t get much worse than it already was. And no one would report her missing. Not for days. By the time Sheridan or Skye got worried enough to initiate a search, she’d be dead. The police would go to the hotel. Maybe they’d even trace her movements as far as Mamou and Portsville, but that was where her trail would grow cold.

Cursing, she picked up the flashlight she’d put down when she found the lightbulb and peered into the darker recesses of the cellar. She had to be creative.

Could she dig her way out?

Tracing the perimeter with her beam of light, she tried to assess her chances.

The ground was damp, but she had nothing besides her flashlight with which to dig.

Whoever had locked her in would likely return before she’d made any headway. Or the Moreaus would come home.

No, digging wouldn’t get her anywhere. She had to wait for the Moreaus.

They’d help her, wouldn’t they? Just because Francis had been a pedophile and possibly a murderer didn’t mean they were bad, too.

But someone was bad—truly evil. She sensed danger in this place. And the memory of that unequivocal No Trespassing sign in the yard loomed large in her mind, robbing her of confidence. Obviously, the Moreaus didn’t want to be bothered by anyone and not only had she come onto their property without an invitation, she’d been nosing around.

She wasn’t meant to come out alive.

Wiping the tears rolling down her cheeks, she sat on the edge of the pallet and rested her head on her raised knees. Too bad she hadn’t gone to Romain’s after that telephone call. Making love with him would’ve made for a much more pleasant final night on earth than the one she’d spent.

And then she heard the creak above her. Someone was home.

She just didn’t know if that made things better—or worse.

“Why would he make such an outlandish claim?” Romain turned his back to the entrance of the small grocery, hoping for a few minutes of privacy while he talked. Pumping the pay phone full of quarters wasn’t the most convenient way to make a long-distance call, but this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have in front of Casey Lynn or any of the other people who’d let him use their phones.

“You know Black,” Huff replied. “He’s a troublemaker.”

“It sounded as if he was pretty adamant. I think Jasmine believes him.”

“He’s got to justify what he did in some way, right?”

Romain stepped aside as toothless “Doc” Crawley passed him with an armful of groceries. “Hey, Romain. You orderin’ up d’at bride?”

Momentarily distracted by the question, Romain scowled. “What bride?”

“Casey said you’re tired of livin’ alone. D’at you want a woman. It’s cold d’is here winter, eh?” he said with a knowing laugh.

“Gossip,” Romain said and waved as the old man got into his 1950s Cadillac.

“Romain.” Huff was trying to regain his attention.

Romain plugged his left ear against the noise of Doc’s engine. “What?”

“You’ve been through enough. Tell Jasmine Stratford to stay the hell away.”

Good advice. And yet last night, when he’d called her, Romain had done everything he could to bring her back. “She’s looking for her sister.”

“So?”

So he couldn’t help feeling some sympathy for her. He understood what she’d suffered in a way few others could. And, for the first time in years, he wanted a woman, just like the gossip said. Maybe not a wife, but definitely a warm female body in his bed. And it couldn’t be any woman. He wanted Jasmine. “She’s been through a lot, too.”

“I know. But her sister was kidnapped sixteen years ago. Chances are she’s not going to find her. And that happened in Cleveland. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Did she tell you about the note?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“It’s a coincidence.”

“But she wrote the words the way they appeared in her note before I told her how Adele’s name was written on that bathroom wall,” he said.