Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

CHRIS

I was being kidnapped.

That was the only possible explanation.

Admittedly, it was a slow and mostly uneventful kidnapping, but even that made sense in a way.

It was my kidnapping, after all.

As Reed drove us down the highway, I ran through our conversation on a loop—well, the parts I could remember, anyway—trying to make sense of it all. He'd been grumpy the whole time we'd been in the car, but that hadn't been a red flag. I'd been nervous-babbling, even though I'd tried my hardest not to, and I'd figured he'd been regretting his choice of "pickup." I wouldn't have blamed him.

But then he'd started talking about his de-virginizing fetish with a body count in the hundreds and mentioned where we were heading—in retrospect, secure probably wasn't a word people used when talking about their homes with potential bed partners, was it?—and thrown my freaking phone out the window before refusing to take me home, and the conclusion was unignorable, as well as mortifying and high-key disappointing .

What I'd thought was my first date was actually an abduction.

Fortunately, Reed hadn't tied me up or dumped me in his trunk like the vigilantes did to John Ruffian in season five, and he hadn't actively attempted to murder or torture me either, unless you considered his totally off-key butchering of classic '80s songs to be a form of torture. Even when I'd broken my silence and demanded in a quavering voice to know what he planned to do with me, Reed had only given me a hard, angry look, told me to " drop the innocent act and stop with the drama "… and then offered me a granola bar and a bottle of water from his backpack, which might have been thoughtful under other circumstances, but which I'd refused on principle.

None of this made the situation feel any less fraught, though… it just meant that Reed was really bad at kidnapping.

If he'd been better at it, he'd have picked someone who had, like, access to nuclear launch codes, or friends in powerful places, or more than $267 in his bank account to ransom himself with. As it was, Reed was going to learn pretty soon that he'd kidnapped the absolute wrong guy, and once he did… well, I had no idea what he'd do. The idea of being killed or held captive was truly frightening.

Scarier than the time I'd walked in on Uncle Danny and his theater group reenacting a scene from Sweeney Todd in his garage and thought the blood was real.

Scarier than the time Nicky let his pet rat, Pickles, sit on my chest because he'd claimed it would cure my phobia of rodents.

Scarier than the time I'd cannonballed into the YMCA pool because Nonna assured me that my "swimming instincts" would kick in "just in time," only to find out when I was already in the water that my instincts had a really bad sense of timing.

But greater than my fear for myself was my fear of what Uncle Danny would do when he got home from his fishing expedition and learned I'd been kidnapped and/or killed. His face would probably go all red, he'd grab his chest and deep-breathe like he did whenever he got emotional, and he might even end up having another cardiac event like the one that had landed him in the hospital last winter. And it would all be because I'd been foolish enough to think someone as beautiful as Reed Sunday might actually want to hook up with me.

I couldn't let that happen. So I had to escape.

Think, Chris. WWJRD?

But when I tried to imagine what John Ruffian would do if he was being abducted in slow motion by a frustratingly gorgeous lumberjack-presenting accountant from Washington who'd lured him into his car with false promises of sexual gratification, I honestly couldn't say.

In episode twelve of season three, John Ruffian had pretended to be a mild-mannered assistant pastry chef while on the trail of a serial killer, when he'd eaten a coconut lime cupcake dosed with sleeping potion. He'd come to in a kidnap shack down by the railroad tracks in time to grab a wooden board, whack the lead pastry chef into unconsciousness, and save the beautiful Giselle from a grisly death.

Then, in episode three of season seven, he'd been impersonating a clown in a circus school when he was abducted by a mysterious scientist who called herself the Ringmaster. In that case, though, it had all been a misunderstanding—she'd thought John was an evil rival scientist and had kidnapped him to save the world, so in the end, they'd joined forces and done it together… before, erm, doing it together .

Since I had neither a handy wooden whacking board nor the ability to cobble together a plutonium death ray from a stack of gum wrappers, I knew I'd have to figure out something a little more Chris-Winowski-appropriate.

So I fell asleep.

Or at least I pretended to.

I leaned my head against the window, closed my eyes, and let my breath go deep and even, not even stirring when Reed slaughtered the lyrics to "Livin' on a Prayer"— Doesn't make a difference if we're naked or not? Did he even hear himself? It was not endearing. Not even a little—though I did allow myself to make a discontented, sleepy sound like I was experiencing a nightmare because I sort of thought I was.

Gosh, I really hated that I'd been so wrong about Reed Sunday.

Sometime later, Reed slowed the car, and I could tell we were pulling off the highway. Streetlights flashed brightly through the car windows at regular intervals, and I tried to memorize every turn we took and how many seconds passed between each, in the unlikely event that I was able to steal his keys and make a getaway. By the fourteenth (or was it sixteenth?) turn, I was hopelessly confused and convinced he was driving us in circles.

And then we stopped, and the engine shut off.

A shiver ran through my body. This was it. We were there… wherever there was. Now was the time when he'd tie me up or throw me in a pit or…

"What in the seven fucking hells," Reed muttered like he was talking to himself. But since the only other sound in the world was the tick tick tick of the car's engine as it cooled, every word carried like a gunshot. "I am going to kill Janissey."

I didn't know who Janissey was, but I figured if Reed was busy killing them, he'd be too busy to worry about little old me.

I cracked my eyes open and peered out the side window through my lashes. We seemed to be in a quiet, middle-class suburban neighborhood, not too different from the one where I'd lived with my dad as a kid. The houses were old and a bit run-down— lived-in , Nonna would say—but with tidy yards and flowers on the stoops. Television light glowed through the thin curtains of the house next door. I didn't see a single thing that could have made Reed so cranky…

Until I turned my head slightly and caught a glimpse of the house directly in front of us.

The bright pink house in front of us.

It was a two-story, older home with an enclosed porch and no shutters, giving the house a weirdly wide-eyed, unhappy look, and the pink color—which, seriously, not even kidding, glowed in the dark— made it seem like the house was vaguely embarrassed about something.

If I had to guess, that something was probably the flamingoes.

Fake plastic birds were staked across the entire front yard in tidy rows, like a strange crop ready for harvesting. Another flock climbed the trellis on the left side of the house. And one lone bird perched on the roof like it was surveying the neighborhood.

Despite my anxiety about what was supposed to happen now, I found myself fighting the urge to laugh. Weren't kidnap shacks supposed to be… unobtrusive?

Reed Sunday was definitely a terrible kidnapper.

Beside me, Reed snorted. "You can stop pretending to be asleep now."

Shoot . I'd forgotten for a moment that I was at least as bad at lying as Reed was at kidnapping. Nicky used to say that he couldn't tell me anything because I'd tattle without saying a word. But it was annoying that Reed had caught on so quickly. This didn't bode well for my escape plans.

I groaned loud and long like I was emerging from a deep sleep and stretched out in the seat. I blinked my eyes open innocently. "Oh. Hello." I pretended to glance around for the first time. "This is quite a place. I can, um, see why you made the effort to bring me all this way."

Reed shook his head, popped the latch on the door, and stood. I tried and failed not to notice how his shirt rode up when he stretched his arms above his head or how glimpsing the trail of hair there made my blood thrum with something that should have been fear but wasn't.

"Let's go."

"Sure," I agreed. " Or … wouldn't it be better if we stay out here? It's a nice night, and the view is—" I gestured toward the lawn. "Colorful?"

"Stop messing around." He closed his door, darted a glance around the neighborhood, then pulled a backpack and a large duffel from the back seat. "Get inside. You'll be safe there."

Would I, though ? Reed kept saying things like that—that I was safe, that I'd be fine, that he'd take care of me—and I hated to admit it, but some part of me seemed to believe it, otherwise I knew I'd be a heck of a lot more panicked than I was. Nonna always said I was too trusting. I had to keep reminding myself that if I were really safe, he would've turned around and let me go when I asked him to.

Reed pulled open my door impatiently, leaned in to unbuckle my seat belt—good gravy, the man smelled like forests and fresh breezes, which didn't seem fair at all—then firmly (but surprisingly gently) hauled me out by the elbow. He shut the door, locked the car, and dragged me around the side of the house before I had a chance to take more than a single breath of cool night air.

I licked my lips. Wasn't there some saying about not allowing your kidnapper to take you into their lair? Actually, I was pretty sure it was actually about not allowing them to get you inside their car, but I'd failed the fudge out of that.

I could practically hear John Ruffian in my head, yelling, Run! Go! This is your chance ! in his deep, growly voice. But I was nearly as bad at running as I was at swimming and lying, and I had no doubt Reed would catch me before I made the sidewalk, so I needed to bide my time. To make it seem like I was going along with him and lull him into a false sense of security while I executed a flawless getaway.

Somehow.

"Nice place you've got here," I said politely as Reed located a box on the side of the door and scanned his fingerprint. "I know some people might be concerned about your flamingo obsession, but I think it's quirky, and quirky things are the best things?—"

"I don't have a flamingo obsession." The door lock clicked, and Reed pulled me into the kitchen. He flipped on the light and propelled me into a corner of the kitchen while he made a quick tour of the house, turning on more lights as he went.

It wasn't until later that I'd realize I could have left then, while he was distracted, but in the moment, I was a little too distracted myself .

There were ducks everywhere .

Ducks danced across the floral border near the ceiling and the curtains that covered the single window. A duck teapot sat on the old-fashioned stove. Ceramic ducks held napkins, salt, and pepper on the warm pine table. From atop the upper cabinets, a phalanx of wooden ducks with bright blue and pink bows around their necks stared down at us accusingly.

"S-so, not a flamingo obsession," I said faintly when Reed came back into the kitchen, tucking something into the back of his jeans under the hem of his flannel. "But more of an obsession with birds in general? That's great. Like what you like , that's what I say. It's not creepy at all!"

"Huh?" Reed glanced around like he'd never seen the room before, then ran both hands over his face, digging the meat of his palms into his eyes. "Janissey," he muttered like an oath. Then he dropped his hands and said forcefully, "Ignore the decor. It's no big deal. What's important is the house is clear. High-quality door locks with biometrics. Easily defensible. Unbreakable glass on the windows." He gave the ducks a dubious glance and added, "Though I'm planning to check the whole place over more thoroughly, just to be sure."

My eyes went wide. Biometric locks? Unbreakable glass? That was… concerning. Okay, more than concerning. It was… low-key psychopathic. Nothing good happened behind biometric locks, I was sure.

And why was he telling me all of this? Did he know I'd try to escape? Was that what his other kidnappees had done?

"No need," I assured him quickly, trying to sound like the most enthusiastic abductee who'd ever been abducted, despite my racing heart. "I'm sure it's very secure. And I'm really—" I managed a huge fake yawn and gestured aimlessly with my hands. "—gosh, just exhausted. You know the kind of exhausted where you can barely move a muscle? That kind of exhausted. So, so exhausted I can barely stand. It's been a long day, what with all the—" Kidnapping . "—driving. Besides, I'm much more cooperative and docile when I've had a good sleep," I said earnestly.

Reed frowned. "Okay. But you should eat something first. The kitchen's always stocked. We've got—" He threw open a tall pantry cabinet. Every single shelf, floor to ceiling, all the way to the back, seemed to be filled with red-and-white cans of soup, and all of them appeared to be chicken noodle. He moved to the next cabinet and threw it open to find… more soup.

And then more in the next.

And the next.

I pulled my cuffs down over my hands and pushed up my glasses. With each cabinet he opened, Reed seemed more agitated, and I felt the bizarre urge to comfort him before I reminded myself that we were definitely not on the same side here.

"How fun and not at all strange!" I said brightly. "Who doesn't love soup? So… moist. But could I rest first? I know it's only eight o'clock, but I really am tired."

"Yeah." Reed rubbed the back of his neck wearily. "Same. Let's head upstairs."

"T-together?" I squeaked.

He grabbed his bags and gave me a strange look before turning me and giving me a little push toward the stairs in the center of the house. "Of course. I'm going to check out the bedrooms again. Lesson one in my line of work is trust but verify, and since every aspect of this day has been fucked, I'm not feeling super trusting. "

"In your line of work," I repeated. Reed made it sound like kidnapping was a career. Like he had a LinkedIn profile. "Have you been, um, doing this long?"

"You could say that. Thirteen… no, fourteen years now."

Halfway up the stairs, I paused, turned, and blinked at him. "And you've never been caught?"

"Caught?" He looked equally puzzled. "You mean, have I ever had a job go wrong? Sometimes plans get fucked-up, and I have to roll with it." He shrugged. "Sometimes— once —I fucked the plans up." His face went granite hard. "But that's not going to happen this time."

The words were a threat—they had to be, right?—but they didn't feel threatening. Instead, they made my insides go warm and gooey, which was even more concerning than the biometric locks.

Was this early onset Stockholm syndrome? Or had I gotten my mental wires crossed earlier, thinking Reed was unbearably hot and possibly interested in me, and now they were having trouble un-crossing? It suddenly seemed even more imperative to get out of here before this got worse.

I faced forward again, marched up to the landing, and deliberately turned right, toward the first bedroom. "Your family has no idea what you really do, do they? Webb always sounds so proud when he mentions you?—"

Reed's bags hit the floor with a thud, and a pair of strong hands gripped my shoulders, stopping me before I could take another step. "You don't get to talk about my family," Reed growled. "Understand?" For the first time since we got here… for the first time all night, really… Reed's green eyes were cold, and he looked truly threatening.

I nodded. "Definitely, yes. I mean, definitely no . I mean, who's Webb? Never heard of him."

Reed passed me into the bedroom while I stood frozen in the doorway. The room was sparsely furnished—only a twin bed and a chair—but otherwise looked normal. No chains, no bars on the windows, no instruments of torture. He checked the empty closet—maybe looking for weapons I could use?—and beneath the bed. He bypassed the uncomfortable-looking wingback chair and headed for the window, doing something complicated to the latch before yanking to make sure it was locked tight.

"You should be fine here," he said shortly.

"Yes. Yup. I'll be fine. Sleeping here. Alone and by myself." I nodded. "Good plan, Reed. You're doing great."

He gave me a narrow-eyed look. "Bathroom's down the hall. You can shower and… fuck. You don't even have a change of clothes, do you? And naturally, there's nothing in this house for you to wear unless we knit something out of fucking soup can labels or go all Sound of Music on the curtains . "

I pressed my lips together, fighting a smile—which was a totally inappropriate reaction, but you just don't expect your grumpy kidnapper to blindside you with a snarky musical reference, do you?

Reed threw his head back and glanced at the ceiling as if praying for patience, then demanded, "Strip."

My smile disappeared, and my breath caught. "P-pardon?"

"Strip. Jeans off. Now. I'll take your clothes and wash them."

I blinked. "Y-you're gonna do my laundry? Really?" Needless to say, this had never happened in a John Ruffian episode.

Reed folded his arms over his chest and watched me stonily. "Didn't you mention your jeans were wet earlier?" He cocked his head to one side. "Do I need to repeat myself?"

"Yes? I mean, no . I mean… Okay." My hands shook as I moved them to my waistband and undid the button.

I'd thought about this, when I'd first gotten into his car tonight. Imagined doing a sexy striptease for him, if I could get up the nerve. And obviously— obviously!— I had no interest in doing that anymore, but those dang crossed wires, and, yes, okay, the way Reed was watching me with total absorption made it hard to remember why not.

I slowly undid my zipper… and my baggy jeans fell to my ankles in an utterly un-seductive whoomp , leaving me in my boxers and my stretched-out and slightly worn striped sweater.

Reed stared at me, and his eyes flared with something—impatience, maybe? Probably impatience—that made my stomach flutter and my mind go blank.

What next? Too late, I remembered that I hadn't taken my shoes off first, so I turned and bent to ease the pants over them?—

Behind me, Reed made a garbled noise, and when I turned with my pants in hand, he grabbed them and quickly backed away. "Never mind. I have to do things. Security things. Right after I take a shower. So… here." His duffel sailed across the room and landed heavily on the bed. "Borrow whatever you want for now."

Then he stalked out of the room, clutching my jeans in one large fist, and slammed the door closed behind him.

I blinked. Was that it? No stern warnings that I was his prisoner? No threats about what might happen if I tried to escape? It felt strangely anticlimactic.

I sat down on the bed uncertainly. Something in Reed's bag made a soft, metallic clink at the movement. Frowning at the closed door, I opened the zipper.

It was mostly filled with clothes—large, soft, good-smelling sweatshirts, T-shirts, jeans, and a pair of sweatpants so big that even when I tugged a pair on, rolled them up, and cinched the waist as tight as possible, I probably still looked like a kid playing dress-up. Beneath the top layer of sweatshirts, I found the source of the noise: a multitool, two boxes of bullets, and a small holstered gun that looked exactly like Uncle Danny's.

Holy, holy crap.

I wouldn't—couldn't—use a gun. Uncle Danny had insisted on taking me to target practice as a teenager so I could learn to protect myself, but as much as I'd wanted to please him, I could barely make myself hold a weapon, let alone fire it. Something about feeling the hunk of metal in my hand, knowing that it had the power to hurt and maim and kill, felt too wrong. After the third or fourth time, I'd told Danny very seriously that I thought I might be allergic to gunpowder, and he'd never taken me to the range again.

But Reed didn't know any of that.

I mentally downgraded Reed from "bad at kidnapping" to "worst kidnapper ever." And while I should have been thanking my lucky stars, I actually felt a little bit… sorry for him? I knew what it was like to try your hardest, to be determined, and to never be quite good enough—not strong enough, not hard-edged enough, not dominant enough—to be taken seriously.

But after spending a long moment staring at the pile of clothes—two weeks' worth, at least, so how long was he planning on keeping me here?—and watching the weapon shine dully in the overhead light, I realized how foolish I was being. When I heard the shower turn on somewhere down the hall, I realized I might not get another shot, so I wrapped the gun in a T-shirt and hid it under the mattress, tied my borrowed sweatpants a little tighter, slipped my shoes back on, grabbed the multitool, and headed for the window.

Having watched Reed check the lock earlier, it was easy enough to repeat his steps and get it open, and since I was pretty handy with tools—a consequence of occasionally, not often, and never intentionally breaking things was that I'd learned to fix them—it only took a second to jimmy the screen out of the way. I heaved a leg over the sill, grabbed the flamingo-bedecked trellis I'd noticed earlier—John Ruffian would be so proud of my situational awareness—and started to climb to freedom.

Unfortunately, it seemed the trellis wanted freedom, too.

The second my entire weight was on the thing, whatever had been attaching it to the house detached without warning, and I tumbled to the lawn in the side yard with pieces of rotting wood and several decorative pink birds on top of me.

"Whoa," a man's voice said appreciatively. "That was freaking sick , bro. You looked like Superman. Until the landing."

It took me a moment to remember how breathing worked and two more to confirm my entire body was still operational. Once I did, I adjusted my glasses, levered up on an elbow, and looked around. Next door, a man wearing nothing but underpants, flip-flops, and a blanket cape leaned over his front porch railing to watch me. And in his hand, he held a cell phone.

"Thank the stars," I said under my breath. Then, a little louder, I croaked, "Sir, I need you to call the police. Immediately."

His eyes widened, and I noticed belatedly that in his other hand, he held a cigarette. I sniffed. A very pungent cigarette.

"No way, Superdude. Whatcha wanna call them for?"

"I— oof —" I pushed to my feet, wincing, hitched up my pants, and hurried across the grass between us, dodging around the flamingoes. "The thing is, I think I've been kidnapped."

He blinked. "You think ?"

"N-no, I know. I know I've been kidnapped. Just… really poorly." I darted a glance back toward the house, but Reed seemed to have missed my escape. "Could I please borrow your phone? I wouldn't ask, but my kidnapper threw mine away, even though it was brand-new and really special to me, and…" Not the point, Chris . "Please?"

The man blinked at me with unfocused eyes. "Superdude, I want to help you, but I can't call the cops. This is my grandma's house. Cops come poking around, they're gonna ask questions." He leaned over the railing and dropped his voice to a stage whisper. "Like why Gran's got more plants than the legal limit in her garden out back. You feel me?"

I shook my head, confused. They put limits on gardens in Massachusetts? That was awful, considering the plight of butterflies and other pollinators due to habitat loss and pesticide use, but— Once again, not the point, Chris .

"I won't call the cops directly, I promise," I agreed. "I'll call…"

It hit me then, how few people I could call to help me take care of this . Nonna was gone, and Uncle Danny was someplace in Alaska, Van was out of town, Nicky wasn't speaking to me, and I didn't know anyone in the Hollow well enough to ask for help except maybe Webb, and—I glanced back at the house again—I couldn't call him for obvious reasons.

The circle of people who loved me had never been huge, but it had shrunk a lot in the past year, and realizing it made my chest ache.

"I'll call Mrs. Rose," I said, with a confidence I didn't feel. "My old neighbor. I think she has a sister in Massachusetts. She'll help me."

A querulous female voice from inside the man's house called, "Kenny? Kenny! Who's out there?"

"No one, Gran," Kenny called back. He took one last drag off the cigarette in his hand and held it for a second before exhaling, then set it on the railing.

"It better not be those Davis boys," she yelled. "I told you not to have them over when I'm watching my programs. Don't make me come out there."

Kenny rolled his bloodshot eyes and lowered his voice. "The woman loses her mind if she misses an episode of John Ruffian ."

I brightened. "She's watching John Ruffian ?" I moved toward the steps. "That's so cool! Do you think she'd mind if I came inside and?—"

He moved to block me. "Trust me, bro, neither of us wants that," he whispered. He darted a glance over his shoulder and handed me his phone. "Here. Have at it. But no cops."

I made a crossing motion over my heart and quickly dialed Mrs. Rose's number, thankful she'd made me memorize it back when I was fourteen. She answered on the first ring.

"Listen, scammer, I don't care how much you say I owe the IRS, I am not sending you any more gift cards," she yelled.

I pulled the phone away from my ringing ear and remembered why Mrs. Rose, lovely as she was, was perhaps not the best person to call.

"Mrs. Rose? It's me, Chris. Chris Winowski. I need your help. I've been kidnapped?—"

"Chris? Oh, hello, honey!" she yelled even louder. "How are you? I was just talking to Mabel about you—you remember my growly Mabel-baby who tried to eat your sweater that one time? I was telling her you were up in Vermont?—"

"Mrs. Rose," I interrupted in a whisper, glancing back at the flamingo house, where all seemed to be quiet… but for how much longer? "I'd love to hear about Mabel the Pomeranian, but right now, I've been kidnapped?—"

"Kidnapped?" She laughed lightly. "Oh, sweetheart! I told your uncle, I said, ‘Danny, that boy watches far too much television. All he does is fantasize about life instead of living it.' But did he ever listen to me? Noooo?—"

I felt my face go red. She was talking so loudly I was sure Kenny could hear every word. "Mrs. Rose, this is no fantasy," I whispered. "Please listen. I'm being held at a house in a town called—" I turned to Kenny expectantly.

"Springfield?" He made it sound like a question, which did not fill me with confidence.

"In Springfield, Massachusetts," I repeated into the phone. "Please write this down. The address is—" I covered the phone. "What's your address?" I whispered.

"612 Maple. Two blocks from the Stop and Shop," he said obediently.

I relayed this information, too .

"Well, sweetheart, what do you want me to do about that?" she wondered. "I could call the police for you?—"

"No cops!" Kenny shouted into the phone.

"Doesn't your sister Paula live in Massachusetts?" I asked desperately. "Maybe she could come get me?—"

But even as I spoke, Kenny's eyes tracked over my shoulder and widened, and I knew it was too late.

I turned oh-so-slowly and found a very wet, almost naked, seriously irate Reed Sunday running toward me. Despite the small, pink towel clutched around his waist, he jumped over the flamingos like hurdling lawn ornaments was a part of his daily workout, all the while eyeing Kenny with killer intensity.

I sighed. "Never mind, Mrs. Rose," I said, bleak and resigned. "I'll figure something out. In case I don't make it, tell Mabel I forgive her for eating my sweater."

I shoved the phone into Kenny's hand, then turned and held my arms out, shielding him. "Please don't blame Kenny," I cried as Reed approached. "He did nothing wrong. He's only trying to help me, and it's not his fault?—"

Reed careened to a stop directly in front of me and cupped my jaw in two large hands. "Jesus Christ," he breathed. I could practically see his pulse pounding in his throat. "Are you okay?" His eyes roamed up and down my body, from my glasses down to my borrowed (and now slightly grass-stained) sweatpants, and then he patted my back and torso like he was checking for invisible injuries. "What happened?" He pulled me closer so my cheek and the edge of my glasses got squashed against the damp, hard, hot wall of his chest as his eyes scanned the neighborhood. "Where are they?"

"Um?" What was happening here ? Oh God, how did he smell so good? "Who?"

"Superdude fell," Kenny volunteered helpfully, pointing to the remnants of the trellis. He tucked his blanket cape closer around him. "While he was climbing down."

Reed pulled back, leaving me damp and chilly. His confused gaze shifted from me, to the house, and back again. "Wait. You… climbed out? Of your own volition?"

"Escaped," I corrected, lifting my chin, because if I was going to be punished, I at least wanted it known that I'd made it out using my smarts and survival instincts, which were fearsome and finely honed, despite what Uncle Danny thought, and despite the fact that my kidnapper wasn't a particularly competent?—

"The whole point of protective custody is to not escape!" Reed exploded. "Jesus. You might be the worst protectee I've ever worked with."

I gaped at him. "Protective custody? P-protectee? But I'm not?—"

"Yes, you fucking are, at least until your uncle's testified as part of his plea deal. ‘Chris is scary,' Ernie said. ‘Chris is a weapons expert.' Nobody said, ‘Chris is foolish enough to climb out a fucking window and practically beg to be captured by—' Shit ," he broke off with a shake of his head. "I'm not discussing this out here when I don't have a weapon or a clear sight line or—" Reed hitched up his towel. " — pants! Get in the house." He turned and stabbed a finger at the unmistakably pink building beside us. "Now ."

"W-weapons expert? But I'm not… Oh." My stomach clenched. "Oh, no."

"I swear to God, Chris." Reed's towel slipped an inch, and he grabbed it with both hands. " Now ," he roared, so loud Kenny winced .

"I guess I could call the police," Kenny offered reluctantly. "If you think he's, like, going to kill you, or?—"

"Kill him?" Reed snorted. "At this point, I feel like I'm trying to keep him from accidentally killing himself."

"Thank you anyway, Kenny," I said in a low voice, shoulders sinking along with my spirits. "But don't do anything to endanger your grandmother's garden. Besides, I think I know what happened here, and it's all a terrible misunderstanding." I patted his hand. "Thank you for your kindness."

"If you need anything, Superdude, you come right back!" Kenny said as I turned to follow Reed. "And you —" He tried and mostly failed to focus his bleary eyes on Reed. "—be nice to him, you hear? Or I'm gonna tell my gran."

"Fucking Christ," Reed muttered under his breath. He gave me a none-too-gentle nudge, so I hiked up my borrowed pants and trudged obediently through the field of flamingoes toward the front door he'd left hanging open.

It was strange and wrong and maybe a little pathetic, I decided as I reluctantly marched up the front steps with Reed on my heels, that I dreaded going inside more now than I had the first time. But, in retrospect, things had been really straightforward, back when I'd thought Reed had kidnapped me.

I realized the truth was far more hecking complicated… and more embarrassing, when I hadn't thought I could get more embarrassed.

Reed had taken the wrong Chris.