Melissa was struggling to remain conscious and to remain hopeful about a rescue. She was cold, and it hurt to breathe. She lay on her stomach, arms under her body, but she was still shivering. As much from fear as from the cold. At least it had stopped raining.

Melissa heard noises: a car, footsteps, a voice. She assumed it was Garthe returning; there was no reason for anyone else to be here. Though she hadn't really thought he was going to come back for her. She sensed lights in the foyer, and then a flashlight shone in her face. She flinched at the brightness. And then she heard the last voice she was expecting.

"Hey, Melissa. It's Michael. Kitt and I are here to take you home."

"Mi . . . Michael? Garthe . . . he –"

"Yes, I know. Now, let's get you out of here. If you roll towards me, I'll grab you and then Kitt can get us safely away from here. Kitt, be ready to pull away if the landing collapses."

Kitt replied, "I am ready, Michael."

"Michael . . . I can't," said Melissa.

"Sure you can."

"No, Garthe . . . he . . . 'm surrounded . . . by sharp glass." She was having trouble catching her breath and speaking loud enough to be heard.

"I didn't catch that last part, Melissa."

Fortunately, Kitt had excellent hearing. "I believe, Michael, Miss Knight said something about glass."

Michael let the flashlight play across the landing. Melissa caught the glint of the glass shards surrounding her as she shut her eyes against the brightness. She thought she heard Michael say something. But she couldn't make it out. And then she heard Michael's footsteps running away.

Before she could say anything, Kitt spoke. "Miss Knight, Michael has a plan. We should have you off that landing soon."

"Kitt?"

"Yes, Miss Knight?"

"I'm . . . so cold."

"I have already turned up the heat in the passenger compartment for you. Any other injuries we should know about?"

"It hurts . . . to breathe." Since she knew Kitt could hear her no matter how quietly she spoke, she tried not to take deep breaths. "Garthe . . . was so . . . mad. When we . . . got here . . . he kicked me . . . a lot. Before he . . . threw me . . .up here. And now . . . it hurts . . . to breathe."

"Are you coughing up blood, Miss Knight?"

"No . . . just hurts . . . to breathe."

"If you are not coughing up blood, then you have nothing to worry about, Miss Knight." When Melissa didn't respond, Kitt added, "Miss Knight? Miss Knight?" He sounded worried.

"I'm . . . sorry . . . Kitt."

"Whatever for, Miss Knight?"

"When . . . I saw . . . Garthe, I . . . froze. I knew . . . it was . . . him. And I . . . froze . . . instead of . . . calling . . . for help. 'M . . . sorry."

"Miss Knight, there is only one person who is at fault for you being here: Garthe Knight."

"But . . . if I had –"

"Miss Knight, even if you had called for help, Garthe would have just grabbed you and gotten away before anyone could have stopped him."

"But –"

"No 'buts', Miss Knight."

Melissa took time to catch her breath and to collect her thoughts. She wasn't sure which was harder. She then asked, "Kitt? Why do you . . . call me . . . Miss Knight?"

"It is your name."

"You call Michael . . . by his first name. You call . . . Ms. Curtis and . . . Dr. Barstow . . . by their . . . first names. You even called . . . Uncle Devon . . . Devon. Why . . . not me?"

"We can discuss by what name I should refer to you, Miss Knight, when we are safely home."

She heard Michael's voice. "Okay, Melissa, I'm back. I'm using some willow branches to clear off the landing. You can ignore the glass bouncing off Kitt's hood. He can take it; I've seen bullets bounce off him. And now, here's some more branches as padding. In case there's any little bits of glass left. Right, we're up to the last step. You just need to roll over, and then we're outta here."

She was glad he had narrated what he was doing. It meant the sounds she heard made sense, were less frightening. But he had asked her do something she just couldn't do. It already hurt so much just lying there. She couldn't imagine how much more it would hurt if she tried to move.

"I . . . I can't."

"You roll over three times: front to back, back to front, and then front to back once more. That will put you in my arms. Kitt backs up, and you'll be safe." Michael made it sound so easy.

"But it . . . hurts . . . so much."

Michael paused, and then said, in a very stern tone, "Melissa Alexandra Knight, you are not letting Garthe win this round. Now, on the count of three. One. Two. Three."

Michael had found the one thing that would motivate her. Melissa wasn't about to let Garthe get away with anything else, not after he had killed Uncle Devon. She forced herself to roll over, screaming from the pain. The moment she felt Michael's arms around her, she finally knew he was really there. She had feared he was a hallucination. She whispered his name while clutching at his shirt like she had clutched at her blankie when she was little.

She pressed her ear against his chest, hearing Michael's voice rumbling in his chest. Melissa couldn't focus on the words, but the gentleness of his tone got through to her. He moved and she grabbed even more tightly to his shirt. But he wasn't letting her go; he was removing his jacket and wrapping it around her. She welcomed its warmth.

She – finally – let herself sink into the blackness that had been threatening to overtake her since Garthe had left. But not because she had given up hope. Because she no longer needed hope: she knew – knew – that she was safe, that Michael and Kitt would get her home.

As they drove through the night, the blackness would sometimes recede, just enough for her to become aware of her surroundings. Her first thought each time was about Garthe: killing Uncle Devon, leaving her to die, planning to kill Michael. Then she would feel Michael's arms around her, feel him stroking her hair, and hear his voice. She would hear the road noises from Kitt driving them away from that house back home. And she would remember that Michael was alive, and – most importantly – he and Kitt would keep her safe so she could sink back into the blackness.