72 Hours. Dana Marton

      She followed his gaze to the vent opening high up on the wall and swallowed. Another tight, dark place. She tried not to think of her great-grandmother’s tiger-maple hope chest her cousins had locked her in for two terror-stricken hours on a hot summer afternoon when she’d been six.

      “You’ll be fine,” he said.

      Did he remember her telling him that story? That came as a surprise. He hadn’t spent enough time at home during their year-long engagement to notice much about her. He certainly hadn’t noticed that the relationship was falling apart. But, apparently, here and there on the odd occasion, he had actually paid attention.

      “I’ll be fine,” she agreed, because she had no other choice. Whatever happened, she wasn’t going to freak out, mess things up and jeopardize the lives of others.

      Parker climbed his stack and had the cover off in seconds. He pulled himself up, half disappeared inside, then slid back out and dropped to the top of the boxes again. “Come on.” He extended an arm to her.

      She took it and ignored his hands moving lower on her body as he helped her to inch higher and squeeze in. The space seemed insanely small and devoid of air. She closed her eyes for a moment to calm herself. Parker’s shoulders were much wider than hers. If he fitted, she had no reason to fear that she would be stuck. And there was air, there really was, she just couldn’t draw it as long as fear constricted her lungs. All would be well as soon as she relaxed.