GRACE WITHERSTONE
Grace Witherstone didn't want to die on a Tuesday. Tuesdays were boring. Just another weekday filled with corporate drudgery, too much caffeine, takeout dinners, and watching TV until she fell asleep on the couch.
Dying on a Tuesday was stupid.
Yet here she was, on a freaking Tuesday, tied to a rusted metal chair in an abandoned warehouse. In her short silk nightgown. No slippers. Just cold concrete, damp air, and nerve-wracking terror.
Grace's face ached from being slapped repeatedly, and she focused on that pain to keep her fear in check. She felt cold to the marrow of her bones, which was 20% rainy weather and 80% stomach-churning terror.
The rough rope chafed her skin, and her butt had gone numb from sitting on the unforgiving dented seat. Her toes curled against the freezing pavement. Man, she really regretted not wearing fuzzy socks. Then again, who planned for being yanked from a cozy bed, knocked out, and stuffed into the trunk of a sedan?
