Nothing.
The narrow hallway seemed too quiet. The air too still.
I stepped out, looking left and right.
No Darla.
“Darla, where are?—”
A hand clamped over my mouth from behind.
I tried to scream, but it came out muffled and panicked. An arm like a steel bar locked around my waist, hauling me backward. My phone fell from my fingers and clattered across the tile.
“Got her,” a man’s voice muttered. “Hurry.”
Another figure appeared in my periphery, and they dragged me through a side exit I hadn’t even noticed.
I thrashed, kicked, fought, but I was no match. My head hit someone’s shoulder. Hard. Instant searing regret tore through me.
I’d snuck out. Lied. Gotten Darla involved.
And now—the baby.
My baby. Jonathan, Alex, or Devin’s baby, too.
I opened my mouth to scream, but the world went black before I could make a sound.
28
DEVIN
The second we stepped through Jonathan’s front door, I knew something was wrong.
It was too quiet. Not peaceful-quiet, not late-night-winding-down quiet—dead quiet.
Alex noticed it too. He paused mid-step, hand drifting toward the gun under his jacket. Jonathan’s jaw tightened the way it did whenever he was half a second from snapping.
“Frankie?” I called out. My voice echoed into the darkness.
Nothing.
Not even Darla’s usual greeting. And she was always hovering nearby, fussing over something. A coil of dread twisted in my gut.
We moved deeper into the house, and I swear the shadows felt heavier with every step.
The lamps were still on, one in the living room, one in the hallway leading to the back—but the place looked…disturbed. A pillow on the floor.
A small table knocked slightly askew.
Jonathan’s breath went sharp. “Something happened.”
We found her in the den.
Darla.
Tied to a chair, gagged, eyes wide and swollen from crying.
“Jesus—” I rushed her first, ripping the gag out. She sucked in a desperate breath, tears spilling harder. Alex cut the ropes from her wrists while Jonathan scanned the room, already looking for threats.
