My door opens next.
Not Suttons.
Mine.
My heart stutters.
A man leans in, blocking out the light. He’s not from Crimson Ridge. I know it instantly. His movements are too clean, too purposeful. His eyes flick to my face like he’s confirming something.
Like he’s found what he came for.
“No,” I gasp, scrambling backward.
He grabs my arm.
Pain blooms as he hauls me out of the SUV. I kick, twist, scream, the sound raw and animalistic. I reach for Sutton, fingers brushing air as she shouts my name again, terror tearing through her voice.
“Peyton!”
Someone slams the door shut behind her.
The street erupts into noise — horns, shouting, footsteps — but it all feels distant, muffled, like I’m already underwater.
The man drags me toward a van parked too perfectly, engine running.
I fight harder.
“Let me go!” I scream, desperation clawing up my throat. “You’ve got the wrong?—”
A hand clamps over my mouth.
“Shh,” a voice murmurs close to my ear. Calm. Certain. “No. You’re exactly the right one.”
Then it hits me.
This isn’t some mix up.
This isn’t some random wrong place at the wrong time.
This is about me.
I’m thrown inside the van, metal biting into my back as the door slams shut. Darkness swallows me whole. The engine revs, the vehicle lurching forward as my fists slam uselessly against the walls.
I scream Sutton’s name until my throat burns.
The van accelerates.
And as Crimson Ridge disappears behind us, one thought cuts through the terror, sharp and undeniable…
Maybe my father and Colter were right.
And now I’ve dug too deep.
42
I wakeup choking on air that tastes like rust and dust.
My head throbs, a deep, nauseating ache that pulses behind my eyes. When I try to move, pain lances down my arms. They’re bound. Wrists tied to the arms of a metal chair with something rough and unforgiving. Rope. Maybe zip ties layered underneath. My ankles are bound too, feet flat against cold concrete.
