Resilience | ✔

Chapter Twenty-Three

Jackson had left without taking the handcuffs off.

This was her first rational thought once she'd gotten used to the pain. It hadn't eased: it still felt like she was being stabbed with each breath. But she'd laid here for so long it was normal.

It was dark outside. She could see that much through the windows. God, she'd been laying here crying for ages. How close was Jackson to getting home? To getting to his new foster kid—to Charlie?

Charlie. She had to get him away from Jackson.

She tugged her right arm against the cuff experimentally. Getting out would hurt, but she'd be fine. It wasn't her dominant hand. She'd be fine. She pulled her hand out as far as it could go. Not far, but enough. It caught on the base of her thumb.

She didn't let herself think about the improbability of her successfully escaping, didn't let herself think about any of the technical stuff. She just needed out. She'd break all her limbs if she had to.

I'll be fine, she thought. Marley. You'll be fine. You'll be okay. She braced her feet on the floor, wrapping her left hand around the leg of the stall. And she chanted it in her head, whispered it, drowning out the instincts that were telling her not to do what she was about to. "You'll be fine you'll be fine you'll be fine you'll be fi—"

She yanked.

Felt something in her hand snap.

And pain rushed in a heartbeat later, fresh and sharp, but her hand flew out of the cuff. Her arm shrieked in protest and her hand, her hand—but she was free. Partly. She sobbed once, which made everything hurt more, and tried to remember how to think. Sit up—she had to sit up.

Moving was worse than she'd thought it would be. He had to have broken some of her ribs. That was the only explanation for why everything hurt so fucking much. Slowly, with only one arm to put weight on, she pushed herself up until she was leaning against the stall behind her, tears streaming down her face, bottom lip aching where she bit it to keep from crying out.

He'd left a knife here. She used her foot to pull it into reach of her right hand and scooped it into her palm without using her thumb. She held it between her index and middle finger to pick the lock on her left handcuff. The blade was almost too wide, and for a long, tense moment, she thought it wouldn't work. But the cuff clicked and the pressure on her wrist loosened, and her left hand was free.

Escape.

Charlie.

She pushed to her feet. She was so sick of pain that she ignored it. Did her best to, anyway. She winced her way to the light switch and flicked on the lights. Water and food. She needed something to eat. She looked to the wall where the stacks of food sat.

They were gone.

She didn't have to move a step to know they were all gone. She could see the entire room. There was nowhere Jackson could have hidden them.

He'd taken her food.

Shit.

Well, she thought, if there wasn't already reason enough for me to get out of here . . .

She limped to a sink and gulped down a few mouthfuls of water, then did her best to rinse out the wound on her arm. It had already started to scab over. Already, she sneered at herself. As if you'd been on the floor for four minutes instead of four hours.

If it was even the same day.

Jesus.

She drank more water, as much as she could stomach, and surveyed the hut. There was no way she'd be getting out the door. There were too many locks and no way for her to pick them from the inside. She couldn't get out the windows. Even if there weren't any bars on them, she'd have to break the glass and clear it out, which would hurt and take forever, and even then she might not fit. And she couldn't get out through those little spaces between the wall and the roof. So there was no way out. But she couldn't fight Jackson. The time when she was strong and healthy enough to do that had long passed.