He was delirious from fever, Amanda realized, and breathed a little easier. Plainly weakened by whatever it was that afflicted him, he surely couldn’t do her any harm. All she had to do was to disengage her hair-gently-and run to fetch the authorities. She doubted that he would try to escape before she was able to lead them back here. He was clearly in no condition to run away; he probably couldn’t even stand.

Those silvery eyes were still fixed on her. She could feel the hand that trapped her hair shaking convulsively. Her eyes never leaving his, she reached out tentatively to touch that hand. Her movements were as gentle and unalarming as she could make them as she sought to unclench the fist that held her prisoner. His flesh was burning hot to the touch; his long limbs were racked by tremors. Unfortunately he seemed to have no intention of letting her go-if he even knew he was holding her. From the glassy blankness of his eyes, she questioned whether he did.

Amanda was afraid to be too forceful in her attempts to free herself, afraid that any careless movement on her part might provoke him into violence: he had already killed half a dozen people that she knew of.

“I’m cold,” he said suddenly, conversationally, sounding so normal that Amanda jumped. Inching a little farther away from him, as far as she could get without snapping her neck, she eyed him nervously. Was it her imagination, or did his eyes seem more aware than they had a moment ago?