Chapter 2
Two
The night air is cool against my bare arms as I cross the asphalt to where I parked Maisy, the adorable Mini Cooper convertible my parents got me as a congratulations present when I sold Reveries . I guess they'd been paying attention every time I mentioned how much I love my former boss's car.
Now I open the passenger door and put the basket in before circling back to the driver's side. I hesitate only a moment, then climb in and start the car. I consider putting the top down, but it's been raining on and off all day, so I leave it up and maneuver my way onto the street. But I don't go to Burbank. Not yet.
Instead, I pull into the first coffee shop I see. I'm already over-caffeinated, but I order a latte at the drive-through anyway, then slip into one of the parking places so I can sip it while I rummage in my goodie basket. Because, hey, why wait to see what else is in there? It's not like I'm in a hurry to get to my imaginary party.
I roll my eyes at my own self-pity. After all, technically, I'd had plans. They'd just gone kablooey. My bestie, Aria, with her screwy work schedule. And Kari with whatever emergency kept her from coming. She hadn't said. Just called the bookstore and asked Leah to pass along the sorry-see-you-soon message.
To be honest, that was fine by me. That little emotional factoid twists in my stomach. After all, Kari was the first friend I made after moving to LA, and we've always vibed. But I can't deny that there's been some distance between us ever since?—
No.
The word blares out like a foghorn in my mind, because no way am I letting my thoughts go there. Not on such a great day. Hell, not ever. Not ever, ever again.
Raindrops.
Roses.
Whiskers.
Kittens.
It's a stupid mantra, but I learned the hard way that my mom's advice to channel Julie Andrews really does work. And with every repetition, I push the approaching darkness back just a little bit more. Then, for good measure, I text Kari and tell her I'm sorry she had to bail, but that I'd probably see her tomorrow at Upper Crust, the cafe/bakery where she works.
I take another sip as I glance around, then frown when I notice the burly forty-something man standing a few feet from the coffee shop's door. He's wearing sunglasses, so I can't see his eyes, but it looks like he's staring right at me.
I think back, trying to figure out how long he's been there. Yes . He'd been there when I pulled into the space. He's still there. Is he watching me?
Why would he be watching me?
Panic courses through me, turning my body to ice, and I clench the steering wheel, forcing myself to do the breathing exercises that my therapist taught me in those long months after the kidnapping when every little glitch seemed to set me off. A sideways look from an unfamiliar man. A car behind me following the same route to the grocery store. A stranger asking to share a table in a coffee shop.
A man staring at me for no reason.
Stop.
Deep breaths. I remind myself to take deep breaths. And once I'm calm, I'll get the hell out of there.
Then I see him extend a hand as a well-dressed woman approaches. They hug, he leads her into the coffee shop, and I slump in my seat, relief and irritation rushing through me. I'm past that . I'm fine.
Or, at least, I'm trying to be.
I take another sip of my latte, forcing myself to stay right here in the parking lot to prove the point. And since I now need a distraction, I turn my attention back to the gift basket. In addition to a Ripped Bodice tee and a card thanking me for coming to the signing, there are goodies from fans, including a pair of earrings that have little covers of the book and a framed print that has a romantic quote from Ace done in beautiful calligraphy. When I find a box of pralines, I remember the woman who'd insisted her family take a detour in their journey from Louisiana to Disneyland so she could come meet me at the signing.
After I've looked at everything, I arrange it all back into the basket—albeit not as neatly. I'm about to start up the car again when I notice the envelope tucked in between the decorative purple tissue paper and the wooden weave of the basket itself.
I pluck it out and can immediately tell there's a gift card in there. Probably for the store, and since my reading habit is voracious, I'm grinning when I rip open the envelope.
It's not from the store, but I'm still smiling when I see the QR code stamped on one side of the light green plastic and the words SCAN ME in giant black letters on the other. As I follow that order, I make a bet with myself that it's either a fan doing a reading from my book or a video of a book club discussion.
At first, all I see is a completely black screen. Then words appear.
Watch.
Listen.
No incoming calls.
No incoming texts.
No distractions at all.
Your full attention is required.
I roll my eyes at the antics of whoever put this together, and I upgrade my guess to a dramatic reading. Maybe even a scripted version of Chapter One. I settle back in my seat and watch the letters fade.
As the screen returns to black, I hear a crackle and background noise. The hum of an air conditioner, maybe? I'm not sure, but something about the sound is familiar.
I turn up the volume, then stiffen when I hear a choking gasp.
No. Please, no .
Every cell inside me turns ice cold, and I start to shake, making that same choking, terrified sound that's coming out of my phone.
No. No. Please not again. Please, no.
"Strip." The filtered voice is all-too familiar, and my throat seems to close. It's getting harder to breathe. I want to pull my feet up onto the seat and curl into a ball. I want to disappear.
I want to close this webpage and get away from this voice out of my nightmares.
I can't.
Even if my hands weren't shaking so much, I still couldn't close the site. I want to scream, to toss my phone into the street. To drive away and never look back. But I can't.
Somehow, I have to be brave.
Tears stream down my cheeks as the voice speaks again. "Strip or I'll strip the little girl."
The words are coming through the phone—I know that. But I'm hearing them almost seven years in the past. In the memory that is playing in my head. A lost, dark memory of those long, horrible hours.
Taken . Held against my will, helpless and terrified and completely unable to protect the sweet baby girl who was my charge. Little Anne, not yet two, who'd been snatched along with me.
Everything inside me wants to close this screen. To stop the voice. To block the images that will surely come. But I can't. Because the people who would do something like this are the kind of people who mean what they say. I don't know what they want from me, but I know they want something. And if I want to protect Anne—to protect myself—I have to keep watching that horrible black screen. I have to wait for the next words.
I taste saltwater and realize that I'm crying. The screen is still entirely black. That voice is silent. But I hear Anne calling out for me, her words woozy and soft.
My entire body is shaking from the inside, as if I'm naked in a freezing room, and the only thing I can hold onto is the knowledge that right now Anne is healthy and happy and safe with her parents on a private tropical island. That, and the absolute certainty that she remembers nothing of the kidnapping.
I do, though.
I remember being locked in that room. Fighting the urge to sleep and knowing that they had drugged me. Battling the ice-cold terror that the drugs would kill me. Struggling to stay awake to comfort Anne.
Failing, and then spiraling down into a dreamless pit of darkness, as hollow and empty as death.
For years, I've told myself that nothing happened in those missing hours. That they kept me knocked out so that I wouldn't fight or scream. But now, listening to that message and staring at my phone screen, I know that I'd fed myself a lie. Things happened.
Bad things. Horrible things.
And I'm terrified I'm about to finally meet the ghosts that have haunted me ever since.