The aluminum bat cracked against the ball, sending a line drive straight toward third base. Viv crouched, gloved it clean, and fired to first, the ball popping into the mitt before the runner was halfway down the line.
“Nice one, Viv,” Tatum called from shortstop, her red ponytail bouncing as she jogged toward Viv. She was a cute sophomore with a scattering of freckles across her nose and a wicked arm that was deadly on double plays. She leaned in, smirking. “You know the cop watching from the dugout? Kinda hot.”
Viv glanced toward the dugout. Officer Tso sat alone on the wooden bench, arms crossed, sunglasses tucked into his collar. He looked fit beneath the Fish and Wildlife jacket. Not exactly “hot,” in Viv’s opinion, but solid. Steady. The kind of guy who saw more than he let on. He gave a quick nod as her gaze met his, and Viv looked away before he could read too much in her expression.
She wasn’t used to being watched. Not like this.
Coach Weaver called, nodding with approval as she tucked her clipboard under her arm. “All right, hustle it in. Batting practice next.”
Viv motioned to the school. She needed to use the bathroom.
Tso frowned.
Viv wiped her forehead and gave him a short wave to signal she was fine. Not disappearing. Not running back to the lab. She just needed to hit the restroom.
Coach blew the whistle. “Batting lineup in five!”
Viv jogged past the benches, peeled off toward the locker room, and pushed the door open. The scent inside hit her instantly: a mix of lemon disinfectant, fabric softener, sweat, and someone’s too-sweet cherry body spray. Her cleats clicked over the tile as she headed straight to the bathroom.
Her bladder was screaming.
The light in the bathroom flickered once. She ignored it and ducked into the first stall. Quick, no time to mess around. She’d be first up for batting if Tatum volunteered to catch again.
She flushed, stepped out, and walked to the sink. The mirror was cracked along the top edge, warped enough to stretch her reflection. She washed her hands, still half-focused on timing and swing mechanics.
Then she looked up.
John Fitz stood in the doorway.
He looked exactly as she remembered. Short. Round. Hair combed too neatly. Like someone’s weird uncle who talked too close. His Oakridge Solutions ID wasn’t clipped to his collar now. There was no mask of professionalism. Only purpose.
Her heart hit once, hard. “Wrong room.” She’d left her phone in the dugout. She didn’t take her eyes off him.
His answer was silence.
And then he moved.
Viv pivoted and bolted for the door. He was faster than he looked. She hit the tile hard when he grabbed her from behind and slammed her against the wall near the showers. Her shoulder cracked the tile. The sting registered distantly.
She twisted and slammed an elbow into his ribs. He grunted but didn’t let go. His hand clamped over her mouth as she tried to scream.
The smell of him hit her next. Chemicals. Rubber gloves. Something sharp and acidic beneath the surface.
He shoved her into the corner. She kicked his shin, hard, and tried to scratch his eyes, but he turned at the last second and slammed her against the bathroom mirror. The glass didn’t break, but it shuddered.
Viv struggled harder, muscles burning.
“Should’ve kept your nose out of it,” he muttered, breath hot on her ear. “Little girls don’t belong in grown-up places.”
Viv bit his palm.
He cursed and jerked her sideways, toward the narrow window above the second sink. It was half open from earlier in the day. She kicked and shoved, but he was stronger than he looked, all solid muscle beneath the round frame.
Her hip hit the sink hard. Her fingers scraped porcelain. Her voice rose in her throat, but he caught her again, slamming her head to the side just enough to daze her.
The last thing she felt before the cold hit was his grip on her sweatshirt collar.
Then they were out the window.
