I blink. My ears are ringing, my limbs heavy. I turn to him and freeze.
Blood seeps through his shirt. Slow at first, then faster, blooming crimson across his chest. His hands tremble as he reaches for me.
“Go,” he rasps.
“Jamie.” The word tears from me. “You’re—”
The next sound shatters what’s left of the world. A gunshot. Too close.
Jamie jerks. His body folds forward, his shoulder hitting the steering wheel. My scream catches in my throat. “No, no—Jamie!” I grab his arm, but it’s slick with blood. His breath stutters, shallow.
Movement outside. A shape through the shattered glass. Boots crunching gravel.
My vision swims. Through the haze, I see him. Those eyes—cold, pale, impossible to forget. I know them. I know that voice that once told me not to scream.
Miles wasn’t alone that night. He had help. And this man—this shadow—is stepping toward us now, calm as if he’s taking a walk.
Another gunshot. I flinch so hard my head slams against the window. Jamie collapses completely, his body sliding toward me. Blood splatters across my arm, hot and unreal.
Everything slows again. My breath shortens. I reach for the door handle, fingers slipping. A shape moves behind me—too fast—and a hand grabs my shoulder, yanking me back hard.
I scream. I kick. My nails scrape skin, fabric—something. Then rough hands shove a coarse fabric bag over my head. Darkness swallows everything.
“No!” I gasp, twisting, choking on my breath. “Stop! Stop it! Let me go—”
The bag tightens around my face. My lungs burn. I can smell smoke, gasoline, blood. My mind spins—too much, too fast. I try to claw at the bag, but my wrists are caught. My heart slams against my ribs, wild, panicked.
Through the muffled chaos, I hear voices. One low. One sharp. One that sounds like—
Miles.
And something colder that answers him.
The car shifts. Someone’s dragging me, my knees scraping over glass and asphalt. My head pounds, every nerve screaming.
Bits and pieces of memory flash. The ransom, the lies, my father’s death. The nights I tried to convince myself that Miles wasn’t the monster I remembered. That maybe I’d been wrong.
But I hadn’t been wrong. Not about any of it.
The panic claws up my throat. I twist harder, my chest heaving. The bag smells like sweat and dirt. I can taste the blood in my mouth, copper and bitter.
“Chloe…” A whisper near my ear. I freeze. I can’t tell whose voice it is—it’s close, almost gentle. “It’s okay.”
No, it’s not.
My hands slam against whoever’s holding me. I scream, the sound muffled and raw. My lungs ache. The night presses close—smoke, metal, the faint, awful gurgle of Jamie’s last breath somewhere behind me.
My tears blur everything inside the bag. My fingers ache from how tightly I’m clawing at the air. The world narrows to sound and pain and the desperate need to survive.
I can’t see, but I can feel them moving around me—their boots crunching, the shuffle of bodies. Someone curses. Someone else breathes too close.
Every instinct in me says fight.
Fight or die.
So I kick. Hard.
I hit something solid. A grunt. I twist again, screaming until my throat tears.
