Grady sent Amelia back to her room before the men discussed their business. It seemed he had missed the women’s movement. Donovan had jumped to his feet, taking her hand one more time and squeezing it so hard panic crawled up her throat again. She’d longed for time alone with him to find out more about herself, while at the same time feeling relieved to leave him behind. As O'Rourke directed her toward the stairs, she’d spotted a paper clip on the desk, close to her two driver’s licenses. As she passed the desk, she picked them and the clip up with them. She’d held the licenses up.

“Can I take these with me?”

Grady hesitated, as if the question surprised him, then shrugged and nodded. As she climbed the stairs, she heard him asking Donovan if he wanted some brandy. It was all quite freaky. It was as if Grady couldn’t make up his mind between genial host and evil overlord.

Back in her room, O'Rourke, with an apologetic air, had secured one wrist to the bed again and then locked her in. As soon as he was out of ear shot, she unbent the paper clip and went to work on the lock. She was still working on it when she heard the sound of a chopper arriving. Anxiety faded with action. She was doing something, not just a staked lamb waiting for the slaughter.

There were cracks appearing in the wall of fog holding in her past. She had a hazy memory of being in the chopper, though none of falling out or struggling to get to Luke’s cabin. It was possible she never would remember that. She couldn’t remember where, but she did remember reading something about memory loss from an accident being permanent.

Donovan played no role in any of the little bits of stuff she was remembering. It seemed obvious that she’d had a personal shock of some kind, something related to her father. It was possible that he was part of it, and that’s why she couldn’t remember him. Just thinking the word “father” sent little frissions of pain off in her head. Something so painful that her brain shied away from remembering it. Not being a masochist—that she knew of—she let that sleeping dog lie and turned to another unanswerable question.

Who was it that Grady was trying to force Donovan to kill?

He’d looked so grim, it must be someone important. If he succeeded, his life would be over. He’d either go to jail or be killed. She didn’t want, didn’t need the burden of that. If you were going to incur a debt, shouldn’t you get some say in it?

She pulled the clip out and bent the end, then eased it back in, feeling for the latch that she was trying to release. If she could free herself, then she wouldn’t owe him. The point caught on something. Was that it? She upped the pressure and the cuff fell away from her wrist.

“Not completely useless,” she muttered. Freed from restraint, she was able to search the rest of the room. Not that it did her much good. There was nothing in any of the drawers, other than the Bible she’d found before. The window was latched from the outside. With a sigh, she sat back down on the bed, hefting the Bible. As a weapon, it left a lot to be desired.

Outside, the chopper lifted off again. She could hear the clatter of the blades fading toward the north. As it subsided, she realized that someone was unlocking the door to her bedroom. She looped the handcuff back around her wrist, tucking the Bible out of sight under her pillow.

The door swung open, only this time it wasn’t O'Rourke or Grady in the doorway. It was the man she’d seen when she looked out the window, the one walking across the clearing. The one with the cruel face. His face was unchanged, except for the addition of an equally cruel smile. There was a look in his eyes that sent her adrenaline surging like a flash flood through a dry creek bed.

He stepped in and closed the door behind him, bringing the stench of lust and a creeping sense of evil with him. Her mouth went dry as he set his rifle aside, removed his cap and jacket and tossed them onto the chair, then began unbuckling the heavy utility belt around his waist.