Never Die Alone

For now.

Until he caught up with her. With them. Zoe was out there, too. His back teeth clenched as he thought of how he’d been duped. By each of them. He’d underestimated both girls.

Myra would be beyond pissed.

Reaching up to the corner of the worktable, he struggled to his feet. The longer he lay down here, the farther the damned twins would get. He grabbed both sides of the workbench and, putting his back into it, dragged the heavy table inch by inch, scraping over the concrete.

Ignoring the sting of his own salty perspiration seeping into the cuts on his face, he managed to place the table beneath the opening. Then he found several screwdrivers, slipped them into the pockets of his apron, and climbed atop the heavy structure. He had to hunch a little, but after testing the first screwdriver, he dropped it onto the floor and used a second, a Phillips, which slipped perfectly into the grooves on the first screw.

A slow, determined smile spread across his jaw as he worked. Now the element of surprise would be on his side. Chloe, though spurred to get away, would think she was safe, and that was his advantage.

It wasn’t much, he thought as the first screw fell into his hand and he dropped it into the apron’s pocket, but it was something. And, by God, he’d use it for all it was worth.

Lying flat on his back, Donovan Caldwell stared at the empty upper bunk and counted his heartbeats. The prison was quiet now; a few men snored, others rustled in their cells, and the guy two doors down tapped the wall rhythmically, maintaining that maddening clicking noise. Donovan had thought it was some kind of code—maybe the inmate, Claude, was punching out some secret message to another con—but the truth of it was that Claude was just tapping out a drumbeat, the tempo of a song that ran through his head constantly.

At first, when Claude had been brought in and the sounds interrupted the inmates’ sleep, Donovan had been irritated. But over time he’d gotten used to the ticking. Now he almost found it comforting, which was saying something for this hellhole.

The smells in the cell block were the same as they had been that fateful, god-awful day Caldwell had been locked inside. Some kind of acrid cleaning solution used to wipe away the odors of sweat, testosterone, and yeah, fear. At first the collective smell of confined men had burned his nostrils, but like the clicking from Claude’s cage, Donovan had gotten used to the sharp ammonia smell of disinfectant mixed with the aroma of despair that clung forever to the walls of these cubicles.

Though it was long past “Lights Out,” a bluish-gray illumination slid through the hallways, a perpetual reminder that there was always someone watching.

He’d never gotten used to the half-light. Maybe no one did. He knew that some inmates tossed and turned on their bunks, though a few of the convicts, more than he would have thought, slept like babies through the night.

His head pounded, his heartbeat thudding with adrenaline as it raged through his body. Tonight was to be his last in this godforsaken place.

He thought of his sisters. Diana and Delta, gone for over a decade. Although the girls had been the light of his parents’ lives, Donovan felt nothing for the twins.

No grief.

No regret.

No anger.

His emotions for them were as hollow and empty as the polished floors of this prison. His sisters had deserved to die, even if they had died young. He’d never questioned that, but he’d never expected to be blamed.

In the next cell over, Henry was snoring like a buzz saw just as he did every night. The guy slept as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if the void of prison life didn’t bother him, as if he weren’t going to live the rest of his pathetic years in a tiny box, cut off from civilization, forced to reside in a community of robbers, thieves, rapists, and murdering SOBs. Then again, what did Henry care? He was in for taking an ax to his wife and her lover, a premeditated double homicide that had caught him two successive life sentences.

And yet the bastard slept.

Like a damned baby.

Donovan couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a full night’s rest. Or even four hours in a row. Since the time he’d landed here, he’d felt out of step and uneasy, swearing his i

It was the dreams that kept alive the nugget of hope burrowed deep in his chest. Dreams of being free, of fishing mountain streams, of ru

His head began to pound as he thought about it.

There was a reason coming unhinged was called stir-crazy.

No more.

Silently he pulled his tiny weapon from the inside of his shoe. He’d swiped the bolt from a metal cart in the laundry, where he’d worked for a while. He’d whittled on it as best he could, made certain that it was sharp enough to cut through skin and veins.

Barely an inch long, this tiny bit of metal was his salvation.

If there was a God.

He wasn’t so sure about that.

He bit down on his lower lip and held the blade between the fingers of his right hand.

It’s now or never. Make your move.

Clearing his throat, he went to work and attempted to slice downward from the base of his palm and across his wrist lengthwise as he’d learned. But the tender skin refused to break despite it being so thin he could see the webbing of blue veins just under the surface, even in this half-light.

Damn. Why wasn’t he able to saw through?

Because you’re weak, numb nuts. Try again.

Clenching his teeth, he gave it another go. This time he pressed harder, and as he scraped his skin, a hot pain seared up the inside of his arm.

Perfect!

At least he was scratching the surface.

In the dim light he saw the first red drop well.

It ran.

A second glistening globule appeared to chase after the first.

Now, he had only to rip a little more, make a deeper, longer cut, and then maybe a few more. Whatever it took. He needed a lot of blood to flow to get it done.

He felt a grim satisfaction at his accomplishment. Hovering somewhere between euphoria and terror, he pressed the sharpened edge to his skin again and decided to take his time.

He wasn’t in that big of a hurry.

He had the whole damned night.

CHAPTER 20

It didn’t take as long as he’d expected.

The screws had come out easily, but the trapdoor was heavy, the lock holding it in place unforgiving. He’d worked feverishly, using brute strength to push against the inside of the hatch. Over and over again he thrust his palms against the trapdoor, shoving his weight and all his force upward. But the door would only wiggle a bit, push up an inch or two, then fall back into place. The long plate holding the lock didn’t budge.

Not good enough.

But there was movement. Progress.

He stopped to throw on his jeans, shirt, and boots, which gave him protection and extra height. Dressed, he’d be able to chase down that stupid Chloe. If he could find a way to escape!

Every time he thought of how she’d duped him, he saw red and felt the pain still throbbing in his crotch and face. Revenge burned bright in his soul as he scowled and paced the room, noticing the crowbar mounted on the wall. Would it work? Only one way to find out. He yanked it from its hooks and climbed on the table again. Wedging the curved part through the opening, he put all of his weight on the handle and shoved, hard.