He was calling her from the front seat of the car! She shouted over Whitney's voice, “Dougie? Dougie, what the hell? Answer me.”

But he didn't answer, and Kim was quaking in the cramped trunk, tied up like a chicken, sweating like a pig, Whitney's voice seeming to taunt her.

“Doug! What do you think you're doing?”

And then she knew. He was showing her what it was like to be ignored, teaching her a lesson, but he wouldn't win. They were on an island, right? How far could they go?

So Kim used her anger to fuel the brain that had gotten her into Columbia premed, thinking now about how to turn Doug around. She'd have to play him, say how sorry she was, and explain sweetly that he had to understand it wasn't her fault. She tried it out in her mind.

See, Dougie, I'm not allowed to take calls. My contract strictly forbids me to tell anyone where we're shooting. I could get fired. You understand, don't you?

She'd make him see that even though they'd broken up, that even though he was crazy for what he was doing to her, criminal for God's sake, he was still her darling.

But – and this was her plan – once he gave her an opportunity, she'd knee him in the balls or kick in his kneecaps. She knew enough judo to disable him – as big as he was. Then she'd run for her life. And then the cops would bury him!

“Dougie?” she yelled into the phone. “Will you please answer me? Please. This really isn't funny.”

Suddenly the music volume went down.

Once again, she held her breath in the dark and listened over the pulse booming in her ears. And this time, a voice spoke to her, a man's voice, and it was warm, almost loving.

“Actually, Kim, it is kind of funny, and it's kind of wonderfully romantic, too.”

Kim didn't recognize the voice.

Because it wasn't Doug's.