I shuffle away.
My kidnapper hovers in the open space, still sporting that blank expression. He points to a door on the opposite wall from the window. “Bathroom. Shower.” Each clipped word drops into the room like a stone. “Everything you’ll need is in there.”
“What if I need to be home?” Home feels like a fairy tale now. My tiny studio with my salt lamps and crystals and vision board…all those manifestations that never quite manifested…
“If you cooperate, you won’t be here long.” His inflectionless reply is far more ominous than an actual threat.
Does that mean I’ll be free…or dead?
The distinction is important—critical even—but I can’t bring myself to ask for clarification.
His eyes narrow. “So stop with the bullshit. Tell me what this key opens. And tell me what the wordsInsuranceandSafety-237mean.”
My heart lurches against my ribs.
I know what the keyusedto open. The key belonged to my father’s room at the Alibi Club, the hotel and bar on Isla de Huesos, the tropical island he died on fifteen years ago.
My dad emailed me pictures of that very key. He sent photos of the island, of his hotel room, just like he always did while away on a job. Apologetic for being gone so often, he involved me however he could.
He’d share pictures, ask me questions, and tell me to keep things organized for him, so when he returned, we could work on mysteries together. I’d been so proud to be the little Doc Watson to his towering Sherlockian intellect.
This trip started out no different…except at the end, he died in a fire that ravaged the Alibi Club and other surrounding buildings. Or maybe he died of a gunshot wound. The medical examiner couldn’t make a clear determination from his charred remains.
Right before his death, my father was investigating a big mob meeting. And this guy who kidnapped me? Definitely mafia. I know this in my bones.
And I also know exactly what “Safety-237” refers to. My father’s old document safe, kept in a storage room in my mother’s mansion.
Assuming it even still exists. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d tossed the thing years ago.
But the moment this mafia man learns that, I become expendable. And not in the “I’ll leave you behind” way. In the “there will no longer be ayouto leave behind” way. I saw what he did in that alley.
I can’t tell him anything. And I can’t tell him nothing.
What does that leave?
Vibes.
“The key…” I force my voice into that gentle, instructive tone I use for live streams. “It’s a symbol of blocked passagesin your energy field.” My hands rise, fingers tracing invisible lines in the air between us. “I’m sensing some serious resistance in your third chakra. Right here.” I point vaguely toward his solar plexus. “It’s keeping you locked in patterns of control and violence rather than flow and harmony.”
A muscle jumps in his tight jaw.
“And 237? That’s actually a powerful angelic number.” I’m bullshitting as I go, but the words cascade smoothly, thanks to my years of reframing hard truths into spiritual packaging. “It signifies divine protection and alignment. I could do a tarot spread for you to help you understand what messages the universe is trying to send?—”
He moves so quickly, I barely see him.
He towers over me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
I stumble back involuntarily, pressing against the wall as he inches closer. His hands slam down on the drywall behind me, caging me in.
His eyes scan my face like he’s reading a book written in a language he can’t translate. He’s searching for a weak point.
Heart stuttering in my chest, stone dropping through my stomach, I give him the same smile I give my ring light. Dazzling and empty.
I know I can’t keep up the act. Not with the way his eyes drill into mine, peering past the mask and into the depths of my soul.
He really is a shark. A predator.
Terrifying and immense and…magnetic.
