"You're making noise," he growls. "Out here, that attracts the attention of bears or wolves or people you don’t want around you. So you can either walk inside under your own power, or I can carry you. Your choice."
"Fuck you." I spit the words at him and tighten my grip on the railing, but it does no good.
He sighs, a sound of pure exasperation, and then he's lifting me, actually lifting me, my feet leaving the ground as he maneuvers me through the door and into the cabin's interior. I fight the whole way, kicking and clawing, but it's useless. Whatever they gave me has stolen my coordination, left me weak and flailing.
The door slams shut behind us before he sets me down, and I immediately stagger, catching myself against the back of a chair. The room spins, then steadies. I can see more clearly now—a main room with a fireplace, sturdy furniture, but no signs of anyone else here but me.
"Who are you?" I demand, forcing my voice to steady, and I catch myself drooling and heaving for breath. "Where the hell am I?" This isn’t right. Nothing feels right. I'm a fucking outdoorsy person and I'm in great shape. I hike ten miles every week. Why is this fucking me up so badly?
"Doesn't matter." He moves to the fireplace, crouching to add wood to the dying embers. The firelight catches on his profile, highlighting the tension in his jaw and the strands of silver at his temple. "What matters is who sent you."
"Sent me?" The absurdity of the statement cuts through my fear and makes me pause for a second. "Nobody sent me. I was at a club in the city, some asshole spiked my drink, and I woke up here. So maybe you should explain why you kidnapped me."
He turns, and the look he gives me could freeze blood. "I didn't kidnap you. I found you stumbling around town square in forty-degree weather wearing that." He gestures at my dress—the black number I'd thrown on for girls' night, now torn at the hem and streaked with dirt. "No coat. No shoes. Drugged out of your mind. So either you're the world's worst tourist or someone dumped you here on purpose."
My knees feel weak and I sink into the kitchen chair I'm leaning on. No one sent me here. What the hell is he talking about? "Why would someone dump me here? I don't even know where here is."
"Sutter's Gap. Adirondacks." He straightens, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement makes his jacket pull tight across his shoulders, emphasizing the size of his barrel chest. I'm five-foot-seven and fit from years of hiking, but he's got six inches and at least eighty pounds on me. If this turns into a real fight, I'll lose.
It makes my throat clench and my body feel like a piano string ready to snap. I'm really trapped here with no way out.
"I need to call the police." I look around for a cell phone, a landline, anything. "I need to report what happened."
"No police," he grumbles as he crosses back toward me, and the way he says it leaves no room for argument.
"Excuse me?" My temper, never far from the surface even on good days, flares hot. "Someone drugged me and dumped me inthe middle of nowhere. That's assault. Kidnapping. I'm calling the cops." I start to stand but sway again, and he's right fucking there, catching me like he's some hero and not the villain of this story.
"You really want to involve them?" He takes a step forward, and I instinctively fall backward as he plants my ass back on the chair. "You really want to explain to a small town sheriff why you're walking around wasted in the middle of my town with nothing but a flimsy gown that could in fact make you look like a prostitute?"
"Oh, my God," I grumble as my head starts to spin again and I slump to the table over my folded arms. As my head hits the cold, hard surface, so does something else. I hear the clink and pause for a moment to regain my composure before sighing and then forcing myself back upward.
I look down around my neck where I feel the chill of metal and see something tucked between my tits. It's my chain. I put it on earlier tonight before I went out, but the charm dangling from it isn't mine.
I've never seen it before, and I barely get a chance to inspect it before the ogre's hand is grabbing it, snapping it off my neck.
"Give that back." I reach for it but he pulls it away, holding it above my reach.
"Tell me who sent you," he repeats, and I feel ready to pounce on him. He doesn't seem like he wants to hurt me. He's too busy playing cop, interrogating me, and I just want to go home.
"I don't know!" The frustration breaks through in a loud whine that morphs into a shout. "I don't know anything! I went out with friends, someone slipped something in my drink at the bar,and the next thing I remember is waking up here. Just give me my fucking necklace and let me leave."
His eyes narrow. "This isn't your necklace. You didn't put this on."
"How would you know?"
"Because you didn't even know you were wearing it." He's studying me now, looking for tells, for lies. I've been the one giving that look before, in the ER when patients try to hide their symptoms. "Someone put this on you. Someone who wanted to send a message."
"What message?" I'm shouting now, the fear and anger and confusion all boiling over at once. "I don't understand any of this! Why would someone use me to send you a message? I don't even know you!"
I cover my face with my hands and growl out my frustration because I'm clearly not getting through to this man. I wonder if I'm even making sense because as woozy as I feel, maybe I'm not. Maybe this is all some damn hallucination, or worse, a delusion. Maybe I'm just dreaming and this will all be over when I wake up.
The man grabs my wrists and pulls my hands away from my face, then shoves the thing in my face and demands, "Read it." He holds the bullet up with the engraving facing me, and I squint, trying to focus.
The letters swim for a moment, like they’re spinning in a circle, then they resolve and I can read them.
Queens, 2011.
The year I spent as a perioperative nurse in a trauma center, fresh out of school and drowning in cases I wasn't ready for. I don't understand what's happening. I remember a man was rushed into the ER with gunshot wounds who bled out faster than we could work. I was blamed for making mistakes but it wasn't me, but who would've known that? And why is that around my neck?
