Save Your Breath

by Leigh, Melinda

  What was he going to do?

  After shrugging off his small backpack, he tossed it onto the bed next to her and unzipped it. Putting the knife in his pocket, he shifted his weight from knee to knee and jerked her hands one at a time out from under the covers. He held both her wrists in one of his hands. She tried to pull away, but her wrists were thin and his grip secure. He pulled something from his bag, and fresh fear raced through her. She swallowed the metallic taste as he wrapped duct tape securely around both of her wrists. Once her hands were bound, he slapped a piece of tape across her mouth as well.

  Tears ran from her eyes. Her nose clogged. She couldn’t draw in enough air through only her nose. She grew light-headed. Could she suffocate with her mouth covered? Her vision dimmed. Spots appeared in front of her eyes.

  She needed to control her breathing. Lincoln’s voice echoed in her mind. Inhale, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. After three breath cycles, her vision cleared.

  The intruder climbed off the bed and yanked the blankets off her body. Under her flannel pajama bottoms and sweatshirt, Olivia shivered, fighting the panic that threatened to debilitate her. Whatever he was going to do, she needed to be ready to react. If he was going to rape her, he’d need to take his hands off her to unfasten his pants. But he made no movement in that direction. Instead, he bound her ankles with duct tape.

  Olivia’s muscles went rigid. If he was going to kill her, he would have done it already, right?

  While she was battling panic, he appeared calm. His movements were efficient and smooth, calculated, as if he was simply performing a chore. He didn’t hurry, and he didn’t appear to be excited.

  Maybe he just wanted to rob the house. He acted almost professional. Hope blossomed inside her. She didn’t care what he took as long as he left.

  Please.

  He showed her the knife again and whispered, “Don’t move.”

  She froze. Standing next to the bed, he picked up her cell phone and the fob to the security system that she had set on her nightstand. He slid both items into his pockets, then zipped his backpack and put it on.

  Take what you want and go.

  Olivia held completely still and tried not to make any noise—an effort to make him forget she was even there. She would give him no reason to harm her.

  But he turned to face her again. His eyes were hidden behind the dark holes in the mask. She felt rather than saw his scrutiny. A whimper sounded deep in her throat.

  No.

  Please.

  He leaned over, grabbed her by the arms, and hauled her to a sitting position on the side of the bed. The truth rushed over Olivia like ice water. He wasn’t there for her things.

  He was there for her.

  Suddenly, his calm was terrifying rather than reassuring. He was going to take her somewhere else.

  She’d recently finished writing a book about killers and kidnapping. One thought dominated her brain: she could not let herself be taken to a place where he had the time and privacy to do anything he wanted to her.

  Most victims taken to a secondary location didn’t survive.

  She had nothing to lose at this point. She had to fight.

  Olivia shoved both hands at his face, but the mask protected his skin. He grabbed for her wrists. She jerked them out of his grasp and went for his eyes. He swatted, an automatic response. Olivia kicked out with both legs, but she was wearing only socks. When her toes slammed into his heavier shinbone, pain shot through her feet. With barely a grunt, he stepped sideways, trapping her feet between his legs.

  She attacked his face again, this time tearing at the edge of the mask, trying to rip it from his face. Her nail caught in the mask. A piece of rubber broke free, and she went after the soft skin of his neck. Her nails raked his skin, and he flinched. His body tensed, anger radiating in his posture for the first time.

  He drew his arm back and hit her with a jab. His fist connected with her face. Even as pain bloomed through her cheek and her vision darkened, she realized he’d held back. He could have hit her much harder.

  He ducked and hauled her over his shoulder. Her hands and upper body dangled down his back. His small nylon backpack rubbed against her face. Olivia flailed, but he held her in place with a firm hand on her back. His shoulder dug into her belly, further inhibiting her breathing.

  Hopelessness swamped her. There was nothing she could do.

  She was helpless.

  She bobbed against his back as he walked down the hall. He knew her house. Too well. How long had he been inside with her?

  Frantic thoughts sped through her mind. They were going toward the garage. He was going to kidnap her with her own vehicle.

  When she didn’t show up at her mother’s house and Sharp Investigations tomorrow—no, today—Lincoln would call. If she didn’t respond, eventually he’d come looking for her. Her purse and car would be gone. Other than the bedclothes being mussed, there would be no indication she’d been kidnapped. She needed to leave a sign that she’d been taken.

  She sawed her hands back and forth, trying to free herself. It didn’t work. The tape dug deeper into the thin skin of her wrists. Frustration and desperation bubbled up in her throat and nearly choked her.

  Lincoln had told her she needed to upgrade her security system. He’d even offered to do it for her. She hadn’t thought it was a priority and had blown him off. She hadn’t wanted to be inconvenienced, even just for a day or two.

  Now she was going to die.

  Maybe she’d be lucky and he’d kill her quickly.

  In the kitchen, he grabbed her purse and keys from the island. Using the fob, he turned off her alarm. Then he walked into the laundry room and paused to open the door that led to the garage. Olivia reached toward the wall and grabbed the molding around the door with both hands. She held on as tightly as she could. With an angry jerk, he yanked her fingers off the wood trim. Pain shot from Olivia’s fingertip as her nail tore. Was she bleeding? Just in case, she thrust her hands forward once more and wiped her fingers across the bright-white trim paint. In the dark, she couldn’t see if she’d left a mark.

  He carried her into the garage, then closed and locked the interior door.

  In one last desperate move, she pulled out her right earring and dropped it on the floor. Then she did the same with the left one.

  But that was the best she could do. He put her in the cargo area of her car. The Prius didn’t have a trunk, just a hatch. She’d be able to sit up, possibly draw attention to herself as he drove. Before her hopes rose, he pulled a rope from his backpack and tied it around her neck. He drew it tightly enough to dig into her throat. Then he forced her body into a tight curl and snugged the rope around both her ankles and wrists.

  She flinched as the sharp prick of a needle pinched her thigh. Fear burst fresh in her mind. He’d injected her with a drug. Soon, she would be truly vulnerable.

  Something soft fell over her body and head. She touched it with her fingers. The lightweight throw she kept over the back of the sofa?

  The vehicle shifted as he closed the cargo hatch.

  Olivia wiggled, testing the restraints. The slightest movement of her body tightened the noose around her neck. If she tried to escape, she’d strangle herself. She would have to lie still and wait to see where he took her. Maybe she’d be able to escape later. But considering how easily he’d nabbed her, the odds didn’t feel good. He’d planned tonight down to the smallest detail. He’d been prepared.

  She clung to the thought that he hadn’t killed her yet. He’d gone to great trouble to take her alive. But why?

  Fear cramped her stomach as drowsiness overtook her.

  Maybe she didn’t want to know what else he had planned. Not that she would have a choice. Whatever was going to happen to her, she was helpless to prevent it.

  But no plan was perfect. She couldn’t give up.

  For now, all she could do was hope Lincoln came looking for her.

&nbs
p; And that until he found her, she could survive.

  Chapter Three

  Defense attorney Morgan Dane ushered Lena Olander into her office.

  The woman’s watery-blue eyes were red rimmed and swollen. She’d been ugly crying.

  Guilt weighed on Morgan. “Would you like some coffee or tea, Mrs. Olander?”

  “No. Thank you.” Mrs. Olander clutched a small brown purse in both hands. She wore dark jeans and a light-blue sweater. Limp straight hair brushed her shoulders, and there was a clear line three inches from her roots that indicated she’d suddenly stopped coloring her gray hair blonde. “I have to get back to the farm before lunch. Kennett doesn’t know I’m here. He wouldn’t approve.”

  “Kennett is your husband?” Morgan asked.

  Mrs. Olander’s head bobbed in a tense nod. “He likes his meals on time.”

  “You own a dairy farm, correct?” Morgan had Googled the family. Olander Dairy was a midsize family-owned commercial dairy farm.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Olander’s gaze roamed around the office without focus.

  Morgan closed the door and gestured to the two guest chairs that faced her desk. “Please, sit down.”

  Mrs. Olander eased into the chair as if every bone and muscle in her body ached. Though tall, broad shouldered, and physically fit looking for a woman in her midfifties, she acted frail. Her upper body curled forward, as if protecting her vital organs from a possible attack.

  Morgan rounded her desk and sat. “What brings you to my office?”

  “I want to hire you.” Mrs. Olander set her purse on her knees, her fingers digging into the brown leather like a raptor’s talons. She opened her purse, removed a tissue, and blotted her eyes, wincing slightly as if they were sore. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about.” Morgan’s job was guiding people through some of the most traumatic times of their lives.

  Mrs. Olander sniffed. “Are you familiar with Erik’s case?”

  “I know the major details.” Morgan had skimmed through a number of articles.

  A few weeks before, Erik Olander had been convicted of murdering his wife, Natalie. The trial had held the media’s attention for a solid week.

  “My son is innocent. Erik would never have killed Natalie. He loved her.”

  “He was convicted of strangling her with a lamp cord.”

  “He didn’t do it. A man broke into their home and killed Natalie. It was like that movie with Harrison Ford.” Mrs. Olander circled a hand in the air. “The one where he played a doctor who was falsely accused of killing his wife.”

  “The Fugitive?”

  “That’s it.” Mrs. Olander nodded.

  “Natalie had been researching domestic violence shelters at the library the day before her death.”

  The fact that Natalie had utilized the library’s computer suggested her husband had monitored her internet activity.

  “She was mentally ill.” Mrs. Olander’s response sounded rehearsed.

  “Natalie had never been diagnosed with a mental illness,” Morgan said.

  “No, but she was always as jumpy as a deer. She must have had anxiety.”

  “The prosecutor painted Erik and Natalie’s relationship as abusive, and several witnesses testified that she was afraid of your son.”

  “I never saw any bruises.” Mrs. Olander looked at the floor and shook her head hard. Was she trying to convince herself? “She was paranoid.”

  Morgan had prosecuted domestic abuse cases. Some men were very skilled at not leaving visible marks, but she didn’t argue with the woman.

  “He deserved a fair trial.” Red splotches colored Mrs. Olander’s sharp cheekbones. “His lawyer barely tried. He wanted Erik to plead guilty. Now he says he has someone reviewing Erik’s trial, but he seems to have lost interest. He doesn’t return my calls.”

  Morgan had seen nothing in the articles she’d read to indicate the case had been controversial in any way. The jury had deliberated for only a few hours before returning a guilty verdict.

  “Why do you think Erik’s trial was unfair?” Morgan asked.

  She probably would have advised Erik to take a plea deal too. The case against him had been solid. He could have received twenty-five years rather than life in prison. He was only thirty-two. He would have had some years left after his sentence had been served. Convicted, he’d been sentenced to life without parole.

  Mrs. Olander’s lips puckered. “Because the jury foreman didn’t disclose the fact that she’d been a victim of domestic violence.”

  “How do you know this?” Morgan made a note on her legal pad.

  “She was interviewed last week.” Mrs. Olander’s chin came up. “The TV show host did a better job of researching her background than the court.”

  The court did not research every juror’s background. Prospective jurors filled out a brief questionnaire and were questioned during jury selection in a process known as voir dire.

  “Being a domestic violence victim would not automatically disqualify her from serving on the jury,” Morgan explained.

  A deep, despondent frown dragged at Mrs. Olander’s mouth. “Well, it should.” Her eyes misted. “How could she possibly have been fair to my Erik?”

  While a juror with a personal history of domestic violence might identify with Natalie, it was hardly a given. The situation wasn’t as cut and dried as Mrs. Olander thought. She’d probably watched too many episodes of Law and Order. In real life, courtrooms were far less dramatic.

  “The juror would have been asked if there was anything in her background that would make her incapable of being impartial,” Morgan said.

  “Clearly she lied.” Mrs. Olander blotted her eyes with the tissue again. “My son’s conviction should be overturned.”

  “It’s not that simple. Even if the juror’s background did prove to be grounds for appeal, the best possible outcome for Erik would be a new trial. The court would not just set him free.”

  Mrs. Olander’s shoulders caved in. “Well, it should. The woman concealed her background. If that isn’t enough to overturn his conviction, what is?”

  “There are no perfect juries,” Morgan said. “This is understood by the court. Every person who serves on a jury brings a lifetime of experience with them. The court asks only that jurors enter each case with open minds and base their decisions solely on the evidence presented at trial.”

  “That’s not right!” Mrs. Olander spat out the words. “How can a prejudiced juror not be grounds for appeal?”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t grounds for appeal, only that it wasn’t a certainty. How long ago did the juror’s domestic abuse allegedly occur?”

  “I don’t remember exactly.” Mrs. Olander rubbed the brass clasp of her purse with her thumb. “Maybe twenty years or so. What does it matter?”

  “That’s a long time ago. The juror may have truly believed she could be impartial.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Is Mrs. Olander speaking from personal experience?

  Morgan let it go and changed the subject. “What is your financial situation? Erik’s defense must have been costly.”

  “Yes. It was.” Mrs. Olander’s frown nearly met her jawline, and her swollen eyes were bleak. “And business hasn’t been good for years. Small farms like ours are being squeezed out of the market. Only the big operations can survive.”

  “You sold the farm.”

  Mrs. Olander nodded. “We took out a mortgage to pay for Erik’s initial defense, but it wasn’t enough. We couldn’t keep up with the new attorney bills and make the mortgage payments. We’re behind on everything. We’ve lived in that house for twenty-five years, but the truth is the cows barely earned enough to feed themselves. We have to move out soon. I thought I’d care, but I don’t.”

  “Appeals involve large amounts of legal research and the writing of long, intricate briefs, which translates to many billable hours. An appeal would be expensive.”

  Mrs. Oland
er’s eyes were desperate. “My son is sitting in a prison cell, and he will remain there for the rest of his life unless we do something.”

  As much as Morgan sympathized, mother to mother, the case wasn’t right for her. She opened her desk drawer and withdrew a small notepad. On it, she wrote the name of a larger legal firm in the area. They occasionally referred clients back and forth, depending on the circumstances. Some clients were better served by a one-lawyer shop, like Morgan’s. Others—like Erik Olander’s appeal—required a full staff of clerks.

  Also, Mrs. Olander’s seeming lack of grief for her daughter-in-law seemed off to Morgan. Everything about the woman felt wrong. Morgan’s instincts said Erik Olander had killed his wife in a fit of rage, exactly as the prosecutor—and the evidence—had described.

  She tore the paper from the pad and offered it to Mrs. Olander. “Appeals aren’t the sort of cases I usually handle. I’m a trial lawyer. You need an appellate lawyer. It’s a different process that requires a different skill set. You will get the most for your money if you hire an attorney who specializes in appeals.”

  “You’re turning me down?” Mrs. Olander stared at the slip of paper as if it would bite her.

  “Yes. You really need a bigger firm.”

  Mrs. Olander took the paper, held it at arm’s length, and squinted. Her face fell. “They already said no.”

  No doubt they hadn’t seen legs on the appeal either.

  “I’m sorry.” Morgan empathized, but she couldn’t change reality for Mrs. Olander.

  Mrs. Olander set the paper on Morgan’s desk. “You were my last hope. I’ve seen you on TV. You always seem so . . . righteous.” Her gaze rose, meeting Morgan’s. Mrs. Olander’s eyes were filled with disappointment, sorrow, and pain deep enough to scar the soul.

  Yet she had spoken of her dead daughter-in-law almost with disdain. Had her maternal instincts blocked out her feelings for Natalie? Or had her son’s case drained Mrs. Olander to a point where she had no remaining emotional reserves?

  Mrs. Olander studied Morgan for a few heartbeats; then her mouth pressed into a bloodless line. “What do I owe you for your time today?”