My head snapped toward the door. The brass knob was rattling.

“What’s going on in there?” Daniel’s voice, muffled but sharp with suspicion. “It’s been twenty minutes. Open the door, Claire!”

“Just a minute!” I called, forcing a note of flustered cheer into my voice. “We’re just rinsing the shampoo! Mom’s being a trooper!”

Scratch. Grind.

My blood ran cold. I knew that sound. He wasn’t turning the knob. He was working a screwdriver into the emergency release. He was picking the lock.

“Mom, get dressed, now,” I mouthed. My hands moved with mechanical efficiency. I had my phone out, and I snapped three rapid, time-stamped photos of the rope burns and the bruises across her back.