Four missed calls.
All from Rachel.
Shit.
I tapped Ellie’s name first, but it went straight to voicemail. Then, I called Rachel, walking toward the far end of the room, where I could hopefully hear myself fucking think.
She answered on the first ring. “Sawyer?”
Something was off. Her voice was tight. Clipped. Not panicked, but close.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Where’s Ellie?”
She hesitated. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”
“What?”
“I thought it was weird. Usually, they show her on the screen, but I’ve been watching since kickoff and...nothing. Not even once. I figured maybe she was late or didn’t want the attention, but I kept checking. And?—”
“She’s not here,” I said. “She never made it.”
There was a beat of silence.
“She texted me,” Rachel said. “Right when she left her place. Said she was on her way.”
“She was coming? I thought maybe she changed her mind.”
“Of course she was coming.”
“Rachel…” My voice dropped. “She didn’t come. I don’t know what happened, but she’s not here.”
“…she never made it.”
FORTY-NINE
Ellie
The backof my skull throbbed as I forced my eyes open. Panic rose like smoke, curling around my chest, but I held it down—swallowed it whole until it sat heavy in my stomach.
Something rough pressed between my teeth, the sour taste of cloth filling my mouth. I tried to spit it out, but the knot at the back of my head held it tight, forcing me to breathe through my nose.
I blinked, taking in my surroundings. The warehouse stretched out around me. Concrete ran in every direction, scarred with cracks that spider-webbed toward the walls. Grime streaked down from broken windows high above, and debris lay scattered everywhere—broken pallets, cardboard boxes, and twisted metal that caught the harsh light from a single bulb swaying overhead.
My ankles were tied to the chair legs with duct tape that bit into my skin. Rope circled my wrists so tight, I could feel each pulse throb against it. Every shift only made it cut deeper.
Maybe six feet away, sitting on an overturned crate as if it were a velvet throne, a woman watched me. She hadn't moved when I stirred, hadn't even blinked. Her posture was too relaxed—one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in her lap like she was waiting for afternoon tea instead of holding someone gagged and bound.
But it was what sat beside her that made my blood turn to ice—a red plastic gas can. My muffled sound barely made it past the gag. Her lips curved the slightest bit.
“Good. You're up.”
She stood, the scrape of the crate legs echoing in the space. My pulse hammered as she crossed the short distance between us. Without a word, she reached behind my head, fingers brushing my neck as she tugged at the knot. The gag came loose, and I sucked in a shaky breath.
The air smelled like gasoline. My stomach dropped.
For a second, she watched me like she was studying what I'd do with the small mercy she'd given.
Then, I saw it—something in the shape of her mouth. The way her chin tilted just slightly to the right. Features I'd memorized from a grainy newspaper photo, imagining them softened by years of pain.
