Chapter 28

28

Lydia Cole

I t's cramped in here.

Dark.

I can hardly breathe as I press my back against the cold wall of the shed. My breath plumes white in the frozen air.

"Hey," I say to the girl lying on her side.

I don't know who she is, but late last night she was shoved through the door in haste. She dropped to the ground, flat on her face, and lay as still as a corpse for almost twenty-four hours as far as I can tell.

When they shoved her inside, the board used to cover the small window over the door dislodged just enough to let in a seam of light once the sun came out. And now that the moon is full, the entire shed glows an eerie shade of blue.

I'm weak.

No water for days will do that, right before it kills you.

These beads I've been sucking on taste like sawdust mixed with something acrid. It took me a good while to figure out it's kibble of some sort.

Damien and I weren't big on pets. We traveled so much for our work, and for research purposes, too.

I'm not too familiar with pet food.

I guess I'm making up for lost time.

I guess I'm the pet.

The night chill seeps through the thin walls, and I shudder, pulling my knees closer to my chest. Every small noise startles me, from the scurrying of a rat to the distant howl of wind. It's been days now, or maybe it's been hours?

Time blurs when you're waiting for a nightmare to end. And it will end, even if it's the end of me.

But there's been a new development—a plot twist if you will.

A girl, younger than me, but old enough to be one of Damien's tramps, I suppose. And even if she is— was , I feel sorry for her.

The girl looks pretty.

She has red hair, lots of it. It's a color I would have died for—or dyed for. But I was never brave enough to go in that direction. I've always played it safe. That's one thing I'm determined to change. No more playing it safe, if I ever manage to get out alive.

A soft moan breaks the silence, and I scoot her way.

"It's okay." My voice comes from me in a threadbare whisper. And even that manages to strangle me.

I haven't heard a voice in days, not even my own.

"Come on," I whisper. "You can do it. Wake up. You've got a nasty gash on your head. Whatever you do, don't die on me."

I also saw that her hands were cuffed behind her back. I tried to remove them. Not sure why I'm not cuffed. I should probably be insulted.

But I don't have the heart to tell the girl exactly how dire the situation is. She'll figure it out soon enough. That is, if her brain hasn't been scrambled.

She stirs as she lifts her head a notch, her body still cocooned on its side.

I move in front of her so she can see me in the dim light—if she can manage to open her eyes.

And then her lids flutter and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Confusion and pain quickly etch across her face.

"Who—who are you?" Her voice is raspy and just barely above a whisper as she tries to orient herself in the gloom.

"My name is Lydia," I whisper back without meaning to, but at the moment this is top volume for me. "Lydia Cole. Are you okay?"

She squints in the dim light and groans as she struggles to sit up.

"Lydia Cole?" she repeats and her words slur as she manages to land on her bottom. "I've been looking for you." She pants out a sad laugh. "I guess I found you after all," she grunts as she tries to free her hands.

"You're cuffed," I say. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I think so. My head is pounding."

"Sorry about that." I lean in. "What do you mean, you've been looking for me?" I ask, mostly because my curiosity is piqued. "Did I make the news? What's happening? Are Cornwall and Cynthia okay? What about Damien?" His name comes from me with a growl. I'm not so sure I care to know. My mind has run rampant with theories and he has propagated all of them.

"Your friends are dead." She takes a deep breath as if trying to keep from passing out. And now I feel like passing out as well.

"No." It comes from me in a whimper. "No, please, tell me that's not true."

"I'm sorry." She sniffs hard. "Your husband is fine. He sustained a minor head wound and a bullet through his hand. He's been released from the hospital. He's cooperating with the authorities." She jangles her cuffs and it sounds like music. "I'm Special Agent Nikki Knight. I'm sorry we're meeting under such hellish circumstances. Do you know who took you? Have you seen their face? Heard their voice?"

"None of the above. But boy, am I glad to meet you. How did you end up here?"

"Walking back to my car, dark alley, jumped from behind. I don't know what happened or who hit me. My guess is Owen Marcus."

"Owen is behind this?" I choke on the thought. "That man is psychotic. I wouldn't put this past him."

"He's not your first choice?" She sounds surprised by this.

"He's on the short list. I'll admit, I didn't pin him to the top. I have no idea who's behind this." The voice I heard the other night was raspy, heavily disguised. It could have been anyone.

Am I still protecting him? Even now?

Or maybe I'm too weak to care. Ironic because being too weak to care most likely landed me in this predicament.

"It doesn't matter much who did it," Nikki says. "Because they just messed with the wrong woman." She wiggles and hops and soon her arms are in front of her body. "We're going to get out here." She moans hard one more time. "That is, when the room stops spinning. Any idea where we're being held?"

"I know exactly where we are." I glance at the door that refuses to budge. "We're in Sugar Pine Lake, in the shed below my cabin."