Page 6 of The Quiet Witness

A final warning.

“Would you be more… comfortable,” Her focus snapped to him, eyes blurry. “If I took those off?”

It took everything within her not to beg for her release. Instead, she nodded. The movement small, but telling enough.

The car slowed, gravel crunching as he steered them to the hard shoulder. Kate blinked through the haze threatening to engulf her, watching as he pulled on the parking brake.

They were at a standstill. A wide field to her right, open, inviting.

Opposing lanes on her left, yellow lights from the occasional car passing.

Wasn’t there some sort of child safety, possibly keeping her from running off into the brush?

“Turn for me.”

She did.

It didn’t matter that her back was now fully exposed to him. No.

Everything was better than this, small spaces and movement being… limited.

A nightmare her kidnapper shouldn’t know about.

She rolled her eyes. Angry with herself.

Good luck with that. You basically offered him that information on a silver platter.

The click of a knife made her breath hitch. “Stay still.”

It was the only warning she got, before his fingers brushed over her wrist, warm… unhurried. No gloves covering them this time.

The blade sawed through the thin strap with care, the blunt side cool against her skin. She shivered, the chill of night seeping in now the blanket had slipped off.

In seconds her binds fell away.

Free at last. Well… sort of.

There was still the whole being in a car with the man that tried to kill me… twice. No pressure though.

Turning in her seat, she expected him to have backed away, instead, his eyes found hers easily, breath skimming over her face. Too close. All she wanted to do was curl up and sink in her seat, scratch that. To jump out of his car and run, run until her feet found safety.

But she didn’t back away, the relief of free movement strengthening her mind.

Show no fear. Take control.

Her fingers curled around her wrist. Steadying herself, she felt for the tiny grooves littering her arms, each a testament, a witness to her fight.

Alive, she was alive and breathing. Those wounds would heal… if given the time, the chance.

“You have that often?”

“What?” She swallowed, her voice hoarse. Remembering the force that had been pressing down there mercilessly.

“Claustrophobia?” Was that… tenderness in his voice?

She was locked in a car, with a psychopath, who had tried to kill her twice. And he had the guts to lower his voice to one of empathy? Bad luck. She wasn’t one to succumb to charm.

The answer to his question? None of his damn business.