Where am I?
Rising to stand, I sway slightly. My balance is off.
His name.
I search my memory for a name, something to call the monster who took me.
Did he tell me who he was?
No. I heard him on the phone. Or maybe the other men said it?Team 6. Sanitize the room.
They called him Boss. Nothing else. Only a title.
The memories hit in violent, strobe-light fractures.
A vase of white hydrangeas shattering on white marble. The metallic tang of copper in the air. The dead man’s eyes staring at the ceiling. A man with eyes like the void, his arm locking around my throat.
I gasp, my hand flying to my neck. I feel the phantom pressure of his arm, the terrifying strength of his body pinning me to the wall. He was so cold. So efficient. He didn’t kill me. He killed the man. Put two bullets in him without blinking.
But he took me.
“He’s going to kill me,” I whisper to the empty room. “He’s just waiting.”
Tears prick at my eyes, hot and stinging. I squeeze them shut, fighting the urge to crumble.
No.Don’t you dare cry.
Crying gets you nothing. Crying makes you weak. Tired women make mistakes. Hysterical women die.
I take a deep breath, forcing the air past the lump in my throat.
I am Iris Hale. I am the daughter of Judge William Hale. I have survived a lifetime of psychological warfare disguised as parenting. I’m not some helpless victim to be discarded in a stranger’s bedroom.
I need to assess my environment. Analyze what he missed. Find what I can use.
I walk to the bathroom. It’s en-suite, separated by a frosted glass door. Inside, it is all black marble and chrome. A rain shower large enough for two people. A deep soaking tub.
On the vanity, there are toiletries arranged with military precision. Aesop soap. Molton Brown shampoo. A new toothbrush, still in the wrapper.
I check the drawers. Empty.
No razor. No scissors. No heavy glass tumblers.
A shiver traces my spine. He removed anything sharp. Anything I could use to hurt myself. Or him.
I walk back into the main room and go to the windows.
The view stops my heart.
The ocean.
Endless, gray, churning ocean crashes against jagged black cliffs hundreds of feet below. White foam sprays high into the air, battering the rock. There is no beach. No coastline. Just a sheer drop into violent water.
I press my face against the glass, trying to look left and right. I see nothing but scrub brush clinging to the precipice. There is no city skyline. No familiar landmarks. Just the storm and a sky the color of a bruise.
My fingers skim the glass. It’s thick. Cold.
I tap it with my knuckle.Thud.
