“She’s in the middle of the fucking state. Almost a hundred and fifty miles away.”
Rafe mutters a series of curses.
As I’m watching her red dot, it starts flashing. A shrill alarm sounds.
My legs go weak.
She triggered the necklace. She hit the little button on the back, the one I told her would signal us if she’s ever in trouble.
“I need to get there. I need—” My voice cracks. “Fuck. I need to get to her.”
Rafe’s already on his phone, barking orders. But he pauses, his solemn gaze jumping to mine. “We’llget to her. And we’ll bring her home.”
CHAPTER 16
NOELLE
This can’t be happening.
It can’t.
This has to be a nightmare; the kind you wake up from half-convinced it’s real. The kind that lingers, the clinging memories keeping you awake until the sun rises, finally chasing the last of the fear away.
Except.
I’ve been awake for… crap. How long—half an hour? less? more?—and I’m still stuck in it.
Still feeling sick and dizzy, my head aching and nausea coming in waves.
Still so scared it’s hard to think clearly.
And the memories aren’t fading. It’s light out—I can tell from the sliver of light filtering between the blacked-out glass and the window frame around it—but this nightmare is still just as vivid as ever.
Swaying slightly, my head swimming as I move, I slowly circle the small room I’m in again. This time, I drag myfingertips along the wall as I go, feeling the cool concrete against my skin. I breathe deeply, hoping to clear the fog from my head. A mildewy aroma hits my nose, tinged with a hint of copper and lemon and ammonia.
When I reach the narrow window, I go up on my toes, trying to reach it. But my balance is off, so I end up crashing into the wall instead, rapping my forehead hard enough to bring tears to my eyes.
More tears, that is. Because I’ve been crying on and off since I woke up—first briefly, when I came to in a dark space that seemed a lot like a trunk, and again in here, whereverhereis.
And the longer I’m awake, the more sure I am thathereisn’t a nightmare.
I want it to be.
Oh, I wish so badly this was just a nightmare.
Turning slowly, so I don’t lose my balance again, I lean my back against the wall as I survey the room. There’s a cot in one corner, and in the opposite, a large bucket with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of what might be hand sanitizer beside it. To my right, a foggy mirror is tacked to the wall. To my left, a dressing gown hangs from a single hook. The floor is bare, a dull gray with several dull spots of brown scattered across it.
What are the brown spots?Why is there a bucket? And what is the dressing gown for?
The stubborn part of me still insisting this is all just a nightmare ignores the questions. Nightmares don’t make sense, after all. They’re just a crazy combination of memories and things our brains tuck away without us realizing.
Maybe this is just an extra-realistic nightmare,the stubborn part reasons. It would make sense, given that it’s been less than a month since Ken died and the extent of his depravity was discovered. And it’s not like this would be the first nightmareI’ve had because of my old boss. It’s just the first one I haven’t been able to drag myself out of.
If Webb were here, he would help. If he were lying in bed beside me, he’d hear me tossing and turning and he’d pull me into his arms, cuddling me and murmuring reassurances until the bad dreams drift away, just as he’s done before.
But he’s not here. Firstly, because I insisted on going back to my apartment in Williston. And second, he’s in Seattle, working his first out of town job since we started dating.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I dig my nails into my palms while muttering, “Wake up. It’s just a nightmare.Wake up.” Then I bite my tongue hard for good measure before opening my eyes again.
