Chapter 29 Bird in a Cage
A throbbing ache behind her eyes clawed Clara out of the abyss. Disoriented, she blinked, the soft, unfamiliar light of the room doing little to cut through the haze. A delicate floral wallpaper adorned the walls. The plush, king-sized bed on which she lay dominated the space, and the air was thick with the faint scent of lavender. This wasn’t her rustic cabin. This wasn’t the forest floor. It wasn’t her pristine Denver apartment.
Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She tried to sit up, her muscles screaming in protest, a dull nausea swirling in her gut. She looked down at her clothes, rumpled, stained, and smelling faintly of damp earth and something sweet, cloying. Chloroform.
The memory hit her like a physical blow. The frantic scramble through the dense Colorado Rocky Mountain pines, the desperate breathlessness as she pushed her limits, the sting of branches lashing her face. She’d been running. Running from Thorne’s men.
Her mind, usually so meticulously organized, struggled to piece together the fragments. Lake Finney. The drop-off point, a gnarled, ancient pine stump. The hole in its base between the two thick roots. The film canister, Aunt Beatrice’s meticulous, damning evidence, tucked safely inside, a silent message awaiting Ethan’s contact. A flash of Eleanor’s familiar Forester, waiting, a beacon of hope.
Then, the sudden, brutal grip from behind. A hand clamped over her mouth and nose. The sweet, sickly-sweet scent. The world tilting, blurring, then darkness. Thorne’s thugs. They had her.
A fresh wave of terror, colder and more profound than the first, washed over her. Had they also caught Ethan? The possibility ripped through her, threatening to unravel the carefully constructed resilience she’d built since arriving in these mountains. Ethan. The thought of his rugged, kind face, his quiet strength, his unwavering connection to this land, his touch, his warmth, pushed her toward a despair so deep it threatened to consume her. No. He had to be safe. He had to be.
A faint click, then the distinct sound of a key turning in a lock, snapped her to attention. She tried to retreat, to scramble further into the plush bedding, but there was nowhere to go. The door swung open silently, revealing a young woman in a crisp, dark uniform, her face placid, emotionless. She carried a silver tray, laden with what appeared to be a breakfast fit for a five-star resort.
“Mister Thorne has sent this for you,” the young woman stated, her voice soft, almost devoid of inflection, as she pulled the door closed behind her. She didn’t look at Clara directly, her gaze fixed on the tray and the task at hand.
Clara didn’t have to ask where she was. The opulent room, the deferential staff, the chilling politeness, it all screamed Victor Thorne. She pushed herself up, her head still swimming, and glared at the woman. “Where am I? What is this place? And where is Ethan Kincaid?”
The woman’s expression remained unchanged. She simply walked to a small antique table near the window and set the tray down with practiced ease. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m simply part of the house staff. I’m following orders.”
“Orders?” Clara scoffed, the word a bitter taste on her tongue. “You’re an accomplice to kidnapping!”
The woman offered no response, merely turned and began to walk towards the door. “I’ll return shortly with fresh clothing for you.”
Clara watched her go, a fresh wave of frustration washing over her. She was a ghost, a cipher, a wall to Clara’s desperate questions. Her stomach, however, rumbled in protest, betraying her. Why hadn’t she rushed through the door? She would do it when the woman returned. Despite her will to resist, to maintain some semblance of defiance, she couldn’t turn away from the breakfast being offered. A silver-domed lid promised warmth, and the intoxicating aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted from a delicate porcelain cup. Beside it, an insulated pitcher holding the promise of more than a single cup. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was, how parched. The sweet, lingering taste of chloroform still coated her mouth, and the coffee promised to cut through it.
She settled in to eat, knowing that she might need her strength if she was to escape. Moments later, the young woman returned with a stack of clothes folded neatly over her arm, soft cotton trousers, a simple cashmere sweater, and clean undergarments. She placed them on a nearby armchair, her movements efficient and silent, before disappearing once more, the door clicking shut behind her.
Clara eyed the clothes, then the breakfast. Thorne was playing a game. He wasn’t a brute, not outwardly. He was refined, insidious. He wanted her calm and ready to comply, if not by force, by gratitude. He wanted information. And he had no idea she’d already beaten him to the punch. She ate slowly, deliberately, savoring the eggs, the potatoes, the fresh fruit, the warm pastry, the rich coffee. Every calorie, every drop of moisture, was sustenance for the battle ahead. She began to feel a renewed surge of defiant energy as she ate the offered meal.
Though the room was undeniably comfortable, even elegant, with an attached bathroom gleaming with polished marble, it was still a prison. She rose from her breakfast, slowly at first, then with more purpose, her analytical mind kicking into gear. Pacing the perimeter, she ran her hands over the sturdy walls, tested the heavy mahogany door, and peered out the triple-glazed window. The view was breathtaking She was high up, probably in some secluded Rocky Mountain estate, Thorne’s private fortress. The window was locked tight, thick panes of glass impenetrable. There was no obvious way out.
Frustration bubbling, she forced herself to breathe. Panic was a luxury she couldn’t afford. She had to think. She had to survive. Her aunt, Beatrice, had dedicated her life to protecting this wilderness, gathering the evidence that Clara had just relayed to the outside world. Clara wouldn’t let her sacrifice be in vain.
She decided to take a shower. The hot water, she reasoned, would help clear her head, wash away the lingering chloroform and the grime of her desperate escape. As the spray hit her skin, she let the warmth permeate her, chasing away the cold dread. No, Thorne wouldn’t kill her. Not yet. He would bargain with her first. He’d want the evidence, or at least confirmation that she hadn't already gotten it out. Of course, he had no idea she had gotten the evidence out to Ethan’s contact. How long would it take the journalist to put something together? Longer, perhaps, than she had. But it was out. It was a ticking clock, and Thorne was unaware of the countdown.