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“Scott Mitchell.”

His expression changed. Barely, but she saw it.

“What about him?”

“Did you kill him?”

Victor took a threatening step toward her. Devon steeled herself, but Whitaker held up his hand.

“I don’t recognize the name.”

“Liar,” Devon shot back.

His pleasant businessman façade disappeared.

“You would do well to remember who’s in control here.”

He spun on the balls of his expensive shoes and left the room. Victor looked at the blood on her mouth and smiled. Without a word, he turned slowly before walking out. The door slammed. The lock clicked.

Devon remained motionless until his footsteps faded. Only then did she allow herself to shake. She pressed her bound hands together against her stomach and struggled to breathe.

Please, Blake.

Please, please, please still be alive.

For several minutes, she sat there, fighting the urge to fall apart. Then she looked toward the camera and stilled.

Graham Whitaker wanted something from her. Something he believed she still possessed. Which meant he had a reason to keep her alive.

For now.

She slowly stood, waiting for the dizziness to pass before slowly making her way to the door. Devon pressed her ear against the cool metal.

Nothing.

But then, faint footsteps sounded somewhere beyond the room.

Devon listened as they approached, paused briefly, and continued down the hallway. A minute later, another set of footsteps passed. They sounded different.

Heavier.

She returned to the bed and sat, studying the room again.

No windows. No obvious way through the walls. Nothing sharp enough to cut the restraints at her wrists.

The camera remained fixed above the door. She looked at the plastic bucket in the corner and grimaced. Apparently, her captors didn’t intend to let her leave this room for anything.

You have to change that.

She had to find a way out. Gwen’s voice drifted through her memory.

You don’t have to be stronger than someone to get away from them. You just have to recognize an opportunity and use it.

During their self-defense lessons, Gwen had repeatedly reminded her that the goal wasn’t to win a fight. It was to create enough distance to escape.

But that meant she first had to get someone to open the door. And preferably someone other than Victor.

She was still considering her options when footsteps approached again. Keys rattled. The door opened, and a younger man entered carrying a plastic tray.