Naked or not, she was leaving.

Jamming the pelt under her arms for a better grip, she sprinted to the front door. Made of rough-hewn lumber, it had only an old-fashioned wrought-iron latch as a lock. She flipped up the metal strip and yanked on the handle.

Her barrier to freedom didn’t budge. A hot flush crept up her body. No. She wouldn’t panic. Try again.

She jerked harder. Nothing.

Cursing, she dropped the fur, grabbed the handle with both hands, and used every ounce of her 110-pound frame to dislodge the recalcitrant door.

“Aren’t you cold?” a composed male voice asked from behind her.

Kara froze, the sharp edge of the door’s handle cutting into her fingers. Biting her lip, she waited. Who was he? Would he rape her? Kill her? Let her leave?

“Here, this might help.” Her shirt and jeans landed in a heap beside her.

She glanced at her clothing. That was good, wasn’t it? Would a rapist toss her her jeans? Unless he wanted her off guard, wanted to trick her into trusting him. She gave the door one more subtle tug.

“That’s not the way out.” The voice sounded amused.

Kara paused. Of course not, why would she think that? Obviously, she should be scrambling up the chimney or searching for a mouse hole. The hysteria from the night before returned.

Her bare foot brushed against the rough material of her shirt. Glancing down, she saw the folded edge of Kelly’s “missing” flyer poking out of the pocket.

Kelly. Kara had let her down for a week. Doing nothing to find her — trusting in the police. Now, one day after she’d found a clue, as worthless as it had proven to be, this.

Her fear began to bubble and change inside her until it had evaporated, leaving pure cleansing anger in its place. Reaching down, she jerked up her clothes and began tugging them on. Fully dressed, she spun to face her captor.