Oh, he was going to be out of his mind with worry.
She scooted back, her heart a fist banging against her ribs, and put a hand over her mouth.
So they were going to hold her for ransom andthenkill her. Maybe Thornwood had recognized her on the plane.
Her daughter would never know. Never know that she was loved by her birth mother. And of course, Dawson’s words found her, in that steady voice of his.
“I think giving up your daughter for adoption just mighthave been the most unselfish thing you’ve ever done.It tells me you’re strong and smart and brave.”
Oh, she wanted to be brave, but...
Keely closed her eyes. What was it that she’d prayed before?God,I trust you?
This wasn’tquitewhat she meant.
Still, River’s voice found her.“Trust God,andsurrender tohim ... you’ll be set free to discoveryourself too. The person you were made to be.”
She hadn’t a clue who that might be. Not Bliss—she’d become out of control, a character she wiggled into before she went onstage. Sometimes, she even saw herself as if from a distance.
Maybe it was a good thing her mother hadn’t lived long enough to watch. And the thought grabbed her by the throat, burned it.“Oh,Keely,you have such a beautiful voice. Don’t let it die.”
Yeah, so much for that voice. She’d shredded it, hadn’t she? So much for healing . . .
The furnace had started to radiate heat from the metal pipe. She held her hand up to it, careful not to make contact.
From below, “When’s he s’posed to get here?”
“Dunno. Early.” A long burp rattled up from the room below, along with the clank of a beer can hitting the wall.
“Stay alert,stayalive.”
She stilled, hearing her father’s voice.
Right. Downstairs, the two men stopped talking, one of them asleep on a ratty sofa. She couldn’t see the other from her peephole. But outside, the night had started to recede, just a little.
She crept up to the window, the wind curling around the frame. Ice had worked in too, lifting the top of the window from the casing, at an angle.
One good kick on the frame, and the whole thing might break.
And, by the grace of God, she still wore her Sorels, from dragging Dawson in from the cold. That, and her snowsuit and wool underjacket, thank you, River.
She leaned back and gave the frame a kick. Nothing too hard, but enough to test it. The window shuddered but didn’t break.
Downstairs, snoring sawed through the floorboards. The wind still buffeted the house, but not as wild as during the blizzard, so maybe the storm had started to die.
Which boded well for her escape.
She leaned back, took a breath, and slammed her foot again into the edge of the casing.
The window wedged free at the top.
Another kick, and it bent, the glass cracking. She got on her hands and knees and pushed.
The window gave, wood breaking with a crack. She stilled, held her breath.
Snoring. No movement below. Okay then—
She stuck her head out. Below her jutted the roof of the entryway to the house. Perfect.
