And something does. A shout rings out from the far side of the square. Then another. Then chaos.
It happens fast.
Too fast.
The crowd surges forward, people pushing, shoving, voices rising in confusion. Someone yells about a fight near the Ferris wheel. Another voice shouts about a medical emergency.
Panic spreads like wildfire, people moving in every direction.
I tighten my grip on Maddie’s hand, pulling her close.
“Maddie, hold onto me,” I say, my voice urgent.
She nods, clutching me tighter.
Hopper turns toward us, his eyes scanning the crowd, his hand already reaching for me?—
But then, something slams into me from behind.
The air is knocked from my lungs, my vision blurs as an arm wraps around my waist, yanking me backward.
Maddie screams.
I try to hold onto her, my fingers grasping at nothing as she’s pulled from my reach.
“Hopper,” I scream, panic tearing through my throat as I thrash against the grip holding me.
I kick, claw, fight, but the person is too strong, dragging me back, back, back through the crowd.
People are rushing past us, not seeing me, not noticing, too distracted by whatever is happening near the Ferris wheel.
It was planned. A distraction to take me. I barely get another scream out before a rough hand clamps over my mouth. The smell of leather and sweat fills my nose as I’m shoved backward, my heels scraping the pavement as I’m dragged toward the alley behind the cider stand.
I twist violently, trying to break free, but a voice—low, rasping, familiar—growls in my ear.
“Don’t fight, Nysa.” Ice pours through my veins as I hear his voice. It’s that guy, the same from three years ago.
I freeze, my breath shattering, my stomach dropping into a freefall.
He shoves me forward, through the alley, toward the back parking lot behind the festival booths. I thrash again, twisting my head, biting down on his gloved hand.
He curses, yanking his hand back, but before I can scream, he grabs my hair and slams me against the side of a truck. Pain explodes through my skull, my vision blurring, my knees nearly buckling. The world tilts, spinning, going dark at the edges. I hear the truck door yank open. Feel the hard shove against my back.
And then I’m inside. The door slams shut. I lurch forward, trying to grab for the handle, but a fist collides with my stomach. It’s hard. Brutal. I choke on air, doubling over, the pain like a shockwave tearing through my ribs.
“Stay down,” he growls.
And then the engine roars to life, the tires screech, and we’re moving. The pain lingers, my stomach throbbing, my head still spinning from the impact against the truck.
But my fear?
That’s what’s overpowering everything else.
I jerk upright, hands shaking as I reach for the door handle again, but the child lock is on.
I slam my fist against the window.
“Let me go,” I gasp, my voice hoarse, broken, frantic.
