She’s leaning against the wall exactly where I found the cigarette, digging through her pockets. The timestamp reads 9:47 PM. Twenty-three minutes ago.
I hit play.
We watch in silence as Phoenix finds her lighter, cups her hand around the flame. The fire flickers to life, illuminating her face for just a moment?—
The bar door opens behind her. A figure emerges. Male, based on the build. He’s wearing dark clothing and something that might be a bandana over the lower half of his face.
My hand tightens on the mouse until it cramps.
The figure moves too fast for Phoenix to react. One moment she’s standing there, lighter flame dancing against her cupped palm. The next, a bag is being pulled over her head and she’s yanked off her feet.
“No.” Mason’s voice is barely a whisper. “No, no, no?—”
Two more figures appear from somewhere off-camera. They drag her toward the edge of the frame. Toward a dark shape that might be a truck or a van just outside the camera’s range.
And then she’s gone.
Mason makes a sound like someone’s ripped something vital out of his chest. He staggers backward, one hand pressed to his mouth, eyes fixed on the now-empty screen.
I rewind the footage. Play it again. Force myself to watch until I’ve memorized every detail.
The dull sheen on one of the kidnappers’ leather jackets catches the light. I zoom in until the image degrades into blocks of gray and black and not-quite-nothing.
But it’s enough.
The patches on the back are blurry, but I know their shape like I know the layout of this bar. Like I know the sound of that particular engine at the edge of town. I’ve been reading those patches from across rooms and parking lots for years, calculating threat levels and exit routes on pure instinct.
The coiled snake. The skull with the crown.
Unmistakable.
I straighten up from the monitor.
“I know who took her.”
FORTY-ONE
PHOENIX
The rope bitesinto my wrists.
I flex my hands behind my back, testing the give. Nothing. The knots are tight enough that my fingers have started to go numb. I can’t tell if it’s been minutes or hours since they threw me in this chair and trussed me up like a fucking turkey.
My ankles are bound to the chair legs, the rough cordage sawing painfully even through the thick fabric of my jeans.
The burlap sack is still tied over my head. Every breath I take pulls musty air through the loose weave, coating the back of my throat with the taste of rotted potatoes.
But underneath the discomfort, underneath the growing ache in my shoulders and the numbness creeping up from my fingertips?—
I’m furious.
When I get my hands on whoever did this, they’ll be lucky if I draw the line at traumatic castration.
I hear booted footsteps echoing on concrete only moments before the burlap is ripped off without warning.
I gasp, blinking against sudden harsh light. A single bare bulb swings overhead, casting moving shadows across concretewalls. Chunks of hair are stuck to my face with sweat and I’m sure I look like I survived a tornado.
But I’m not going to look terrible and give them the satisfaction of looking scared. All I need to do is channel one of the women I’ve played in movies who always inevitably get captured by the villain.
