sorry, too."
Finally, Amy sat up—and gave Darcy her first good look at her face in the fading light.
As ravaged as she was with fatigue and starvation and God only knew what unspeakable things had been done to her, Darcy could now see what the missing-persons report had described as a twenty-five-year-old white female. Blond. Blue. Five six. One hundred and fifteen pounds. Only there wasn't much more than ninety pounds left to her, if even that.
"So, what did you do to land in Camp Wish-I-Were-Dead?" Amy asked with a tentative smile—as if it had been a very long time since she'd had reason to use one.
Amazing. After all that had happened to this young woman, she still had the backbone to crack a joke. She was half-starved, bruised and battered, and probably ill, yet she'd found a way to stay alive and stay sane.
"Seems I know a little too much about something I shouldn't know anything about," Darcy said, figuring no good would come of exposing Amy to her suspicions. "What about you?"
"Just the opposite. I was trying to find out something I know nothing about. I must have asked the wrong questions of the wrong people." She gave Darcy another hesitant smile. "So ... I suppose it's a stretch to hope you've got a fail-safe escape plan in the works."
"Sorry." Darcy didn't tell her about Ethan or her hope that he would come for her. This woman couldn't take any more letdowns. "But if we could figure out how to fire that relic of a grenade launcher we could wreak some serious havoc."
"Guess we're pretty much screwed then, aren't we?"
Yeah, Darcy thought, but didn't say as much. They were pretty much screwed.
"How badly are you hurt?" Darcy asked.
"I don't know. My ribs are awfully sore. I think... I think I might be sick. I... I get the chills sometimes."
Darcy touched the back of a bound hand to Amy's forehead. As she'd suspected all along, it was warm. "You have a fever."
"Yeah. I figured as much."
They fell silent for a time before Amy broke it. "What I said ... about not being crazy? It's ... it's true ... most of the time."
The single tear leaking down her dirt-streaked cheek told the rest of the story. Most of the time, she wasn't crazy—but some of the time, it was very, very hard not to fall into that pit.
Darcy reached for her and, looping her bound wrists around her, drew her close again.
And then Darcy held on while Amy cried.
All sorts of night sounds reverberated through the rain forest as Darcy lay on her side drifting in and out of a restless sleep.
Beside her, Amy shivered. The fever, Darcy thought. It was getting worse.
They hadn't had much more opportunity to talk after Amy had cried herself dry, because their guard had returned to his post. Fortunately, though, since Amy had quieted down they'd been pretty much ignored.
For how long was anybody's guess.
Darcy didn't know how Amy had survived this long. Darcy had never been so tired. So deep in her bones, weary in her mind exhausted. And yet she couldn't truly sleep. Some of the problem was psychological; she recognized that she was afraid they might shoot her or Amy while she slept.
Other reasons were physical. Pain for one. Hunger for another. But a pressing need to empty her bladder was the most compelling.
When she'd finally been given water, she'd drowned herself in the warm, stagnant wetness of it, not knowing when she would be offered more. Their daily food ration consisted of some kind of cold mush that might have been a mixture of corn, rice, and wallpaper paste. With little more than a cup of the gruel to sustain her since morning, there wasn't much to hold up the urine flow.
On a deep sigh, she conceded that she had no choice. Careful not to wake Amy, she pushed herself stiffly to a sitting position. God. She felt like she was a hundred years old. Every joint ached. Her head throbbed. Insect bites burned and itched. And
Finally, Amy sat up—and gave Darcy her first good look at her face in the fading light.
As ravaged as she was with fatigue and starvation and God only knew what unspeakable things had been done to her, Darcy could now see what the missing-persons report had described as a twenty-five-year-old white female. Blond. Blue. Five six. One hundred and fifteen pounds. Only there wasn't much more than ninety pounds left to her, if even that.
"So, what did you do to land in Camp Wish-I-Were-Dead?" Amy asked with a tentative smile—as if it had been a very long time since she'd had reason to use one.
Amazing. After all that had happened to this young woman, she still had the backbone to crack a joke. She was half-starved, bruised and battered, and probably ill, yet she'd found a way to stay alive and stay sane.
"Seems I know a little too much about something I shouldn't know anything about," Darcy said, figuring no good would come of exposing Amy to her suspicions. "What about you?"
"Just the opposite. I was trying to find out something I know nothing about. I must have asked the wrong questions of the wrong people." She gave Darcy another hesitant smile. "So ... I suppose it's a stretch to hope you've got a fail-safe escape plan in the works."
"Sorry." Darcy didn't tell her about Ethan or her hope that he would come for her. This woman couldn't take any more letdowns. "But if we could figure out how to fire that relic of a grenade launcher we could wreak some serious havoc."
"Guess we're pretty much screwed then, aren't we?"
Yeah, Darcy thought, but didn't say as much. They were pretty much screwed.
"How badly are you hurt?" Darcy asked.
"I don't know. My ribs are awfully sore. I think... I think I might be sick. I... I get the chills sometimes."
Darcy touched the back of a bound hand to Amy's forehead. As she'd suspected all along, it was warm. "You have a fever."
"Yeah. I figured as much."
They fell silent for a time before Amy broke it. "What I said ... about not being crazy? It's ... it's true ... most of the time."
The single tear leaking down her dirt-streaked cheek told the rest of the story. Most of the time, she wasn't crazy—but some of the time, it was very, very hard not to fall into that pit.
Darcy reached for her and, looping her bound wrists around her, drew her close again.
And then Darcy held on while Amy cried.
All sorts of night sounds reverberated through the rain forest as Darcy lay on her side drifting in and out of a restless sleep.
Beside her, Amy shivered. The fever, Darcy thought. It was getting worse.
They hadn't had much more opportunity to talk after Amy had cried herself dry, because their guard had returned to his post. Fortunately, though, since Amy had quieted down they'd been pretty much ignored.
For how long was anybody's guess.
Darcy didn't know how Amy had survived this long. Darcy had never been so tired. So deep in her bones, weary in her mind exhausted. And yet she couldn't truly sleep. Some of the problem was psychological; she recognized that she was afraid they might shoot her or Amy while she slept.
Other reasons were physical. Pain for one. Hunger for another. But a pressing need to empty her bladder was the most compelling.
When she'd finally been given water, she'd drowned herself in the warm, stagnant wetness of it, not knowing when she would be offered more. Their daily food ration consisted of some kind of cold mush that might have been a mixture of corn, rice, and wallpaper paste. With little more than a cup of the gruel to sustain her since morning, there wasn't much to hold up the urine flow.
On a deep sigh, she conceded that she had no choice. Careful not to wake Amy, she pushed herself stiffly to a sitting position. God. She felt like she was a hundred years old. Every joint ached. Her head throbbed. Insect bites burned and itched. And
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