He shoved me in the back seat and zip-tied my wrists together before I had a chance to fight back. Then he flipped me over, pressed a damp cloth against my face, and soon after, everything went black.
Sometime later, I’m not sure how long, I woke up in the dark. My wrists and ankles were bound together, and there was a wad of fabric stuffed in my mouth.
I tried screaming. I pulled at my bindings. But I was still too weak and disoriented to do much. The last thing I remember before passing out again was trying to trigger the necklace.
Did I, though?
Does Webb know I’m in trouble?
Or is he going about his day, thinking everything is fine, that I’m fine, and he’ll show up at the diner?—
A sob bubbles up.
The tears I’ve been sniffing back come bursting free.
I’m not stuck in a harmless nightmare. This one is real.
And Webb?—
Oh,Webb.
I want him so badly.
My sobs come faster as I imagine him walking into the diner, his gaze searching for me. Wondering where I am. Eager to see me.
And Doug. What did he think when I didn’t show up? Did he think I flaked out on him? That I quit?
My sobs become more violent, wracking my body. I bury my face in my knees, rocking against the terror I can no longer escape.
Stop it,my inner voice of logic orders.This isn’t helping. Get up. Look around the room again. If nothing else, trigger the necklace, in case it didn’t work the first time.
The voice of logic makes sense. But it’s easier said than done.
What would Webb do?I ask myself. Would he sit here crying? Or would he do something useful?
Do something useful,is the obvious answer.
So I take a shuddering breath. Then another. And another. When I’ve finally got control over my body again, I press the back of the necklace hard, feeling thankful that at least the zip ties around my ankles and wrists are off now, so I know I’m triggering it properly this time.
Or maybe it worked before, and Webb’s already on his way to… wherever I am.
I trigger the alert a third time for good measure before pushing myself to my feet. I have to brace myself as my balance comes back, swallowing hard against the bile rising in my throat. Then I cautiously cross the room to the mirror, hoping against hope that I might be able to break it and use a piece of glass for a weapon.
Would he really,the annoying voice of logic asks,put you in a room with a mirror you could break? Honestly? That would be pretty stupid, wouldn’t it?
Probably. But it can’t hurt to try.
So I take a deep breath to ready myself, then slam my fist hard against the mirror.
I yelp as pain explodes in my hand. But to my dismay, the mirror doesn’t break.
Though I know, rationally, that it’s most likely plastic—it would be pretty stupid to use glass given the circumstances—I draw my fist back to hit the mirror again. But just as I’m bracing myself for the inevitable pain, a voice snaps, “Stop that!”
With a yip of surprise, I spin around.
The man who took me stands inside the doorway, glowering. Behind him, a hallway beckons. But before I can make a run for it, he slams the door shut. Then he locks the doorknob and pockets the key. “Don’t do that again,” he warns. His gaze moves from me to the mirror and back again. “You can’t break it, anyway. It’s plastic. All you’ll end up doing is damaging your hand. And that just won’t do.”
Scuttling backwards, I press myself flat against the opposite wall from him. My voice wobbles as I say, “Let me go. Please.”
