“No.”
She pushes herself more upright, bringing her knees under her and pressing her bound hands against the floor for balance. The rope gives her just enough room to brace herself without standing. I hear the scrape of her boots against the floor as she repositions.
“Did you see their faces?” I ask.
“No.” Her breathing deepens. “They had on masks. I think. It happened too fast.”
I nod once, keeping my movements small.
“Were you hit anywhere besides your head?”
She shakes her head slowly and then pauses, as if reconsidering.
“I don’t think so. I fell when they shoved me. I remember the pavement. And then a door slamming.”
Her jaw tightens.
“They grabbed you first,” she adds. “I tried to get to you.”
The image forms quickly, and I set it aside.
“I’m okay,” I tell her.
Her shoulders remain tight, drawn upward as if she expects a door to open at any moment.
“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly. “If I hadn’t insisted on dinner?—”
“This isn’t your fault,” I interrupt quietly.
She presses her lips together and nods once, though she doesn’t look convinced. Her eyes return to me again, scanning for blood, bruising, or anything out of place.
“You’re not dizzy?” she asks.
“No.”
“Any nausea?”
“No,” I repeat.
She studies me a second longer, then nods, as if checking off a mental list.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay.” Her voice trembles slightly.
I let my gaze travel across the room. Wooden pallets are stacked unevenly against one wall. A forklift sits near a secondary door, its tires sagging faintly, a thin line of dust outlining where they’ve rested. A large sliding metal door spans the far side of the building, sealed shut with no light slipping through its seams. The floor between us and the door shows scuff marks that cut through the dust, wide enough for two men to walk side by side.
“We were carried in,” I observe.
She nods once.
The low vibration beneath the floor returns once more, and the industrial light hums faintly overhead. A mechanical click sounds above us, followed by a short whir that momentarily changes the pitch of the light.
I lower my head and let my shoulders round just enough to look less alert than I feel. The warehouse stays quiet around us. Then a burst of static tears through the silence. It scrapes across the ceiling first, thin and sharp, before dropping into a low hiss that spreads through the rafters and lingers along the walls.
Lila’s arm brushes my shoulder as she adjusts on her knees, moving closer. Then a man’s voice comes through the speaker mounted somewhere overhead.
“Doctor Hale.”
The distortion blurs his voice, but not the authority in it, as if he expects to be answered.
