Her Only Regret: A page-turning mystery thriller that will keep you reading into the night. by Keith Houghton

Author:Keith Houghton [Houghton, Keith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scriptacular
Published: 2021-03-27T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Four

Where There’s A Will

The cement floor outside the underground room was damp with Lenny Smits’s own blood. Rainwater had diluted it some, puddling it and making it unavoidable, soaking into his socks as he padded along the narrow pit toward the steps that led up into the garage.

Behind him, the basement door was closed again, its rubber seal blocking light and deadening any sounds that might come from within. Their captor had neglected to lock or even to bolt the door; confident, it seemed, that their manacles would prevent them from accessing it and escaping.

His hubris would be his undoing.

Smits felt bad about leaving his fellow captive behind. He knew he didn’t have any choice. He would need wire cutters to set her free. He was certain he would find a pair hanging on a pegboard in the garage, but he wasn’t certain he had the energy reserve or the time to return to the underground room and free her before their captor caught on to their improvised prison break.

Their only chance depended on him getting to the police radio in his car, as quickly as possible.

You can do this, he told himself.

He still couldn’t wrap his head around the woman being Christie Coleman.

How did that come to be?

He had seen Christie, dead on the island, with his own eyes, and Detective Novak had forwarded him a DMV photo to prove it was her lying there, lifeless on the trail. And yet . . . If the real Christie Coleman was here, abducted and abused, then who was the dead woman on Bird Island?

Was his blood loss causing him to hallucinate?

Smits took stock at the foot of the steps, his breathing ragged, his lungs wheezing. He didn’t feel good. His lightheadedness persisted no matter which way he held his head, and his stomach seemed full to the brim with acid that swirled up his esophagus and scalded his throat. The tips of his fingers tingled, and although he knew the soles of his feet were damp with blood, he had no sensation of wetness in his socks.

How long did he have before his body shut down altogether?

You need to get help.

All seemed quiet in the garage above: no death metal music rattling the windows; no rain hammering on the roof; no sign that his captor was anywhere close. Smits listened beyond the rattle of his respiration, wondering if the storm passed, or if hypovolemia was affecting his hearing.

The lights were off in the garage. Even so, it wasn’t nearly as dark as in the basement room; scattered light from the back of the house created a dim glow around the rim of the garage doors and behind the windowpanes. Enough illumination, at least, for him to discern basic shapes in his surroundings.

The concrete steps looked steeper than he remembered, as though they ascended an Aztec pyramid, and for a moment he wasn’t sure that he had the strength to even climb them.

Do you want your life to end here

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