Page 6 of Wicked Heat

And I’m terrified I’m about to finally meet the ghosts that have haunted me ever since.

Three

I fight a wave of nausea as I wait, certain more words will appear. Either that or the voice will return. Or the black will fade into an image of the room where we’d been held. But there is nothing except a silence that seems to last an eternity.

By the clock it’s not even been thirty seconds.

Then I hear a whimper. It’s me. “Please.” My voice is thick, the words slurred. “Don’t hurt her.”

“Strip, bitch.” It’s that familiar, filtered voice again. “Strip, or I’ll play with the little girl instead.”

I start to shake. I don’t remember that. The voice is mine, but I don’t remember the threat at all. My mouth has gone completely dry, and my hand is holding the phone with such intensity it’s a wonder the damn thing doesn’t shatter.

This is a nightmare. It can’t be real. How can this be real?

But it is, and I don’t understand what’s going on, and when the sound finally dies and the screen flashes a new message, I cry out in a freakish mixture of horror and relief.

One hour. Scan again.

The words disappear, replaced by others, then still more after that.

No police. No law enforcement or private security. Disobey, and there will be consequences. Dire consequences.

I draw a tremulous breath.

This is our little secret, Brianna.

Set a timer and scan in one hour. Fail to do so, and you will know the full meaning of regret.

One second. Then another. I set the timer on my phone for fifty-nine minutes. Then I glance at the clock. Eight-seventeen. I make a mental note just in case the timer fails me. I have to do this right, have to follow the rules. Whatever they want, I must do it.

Then I just sit there, holding the phone, terrified it’s going to ring. Equally afraid that an hour will pass, and I’ll never hear from my tormentor again, and that horrible recording will one day be played for the world. And when it airs, there will be video, too.

Just the thought makes my stomach curdle.

I’m trying to control my breathing when the message fades, the white letters swallowed by blackness until I’m left staring at an inky black webpage.

It’s over.

Except, of course, it’s not. This is merely a break. A reprieve. And the only thing I’m truly certain of is that it’s going to get a lot worse.

I don’t even think of ignoring the command to scan the QR code again in an hour. And I’m sure as hell not going to the police. Not yet, anyway.

But I’m also not going to just sit here like a terrified victim, even if that’s what I am.

Instead, I force myself to draw one breath, then another. I need to calm down. I need to stop my hands from shaking. A much harder task than it sounds, and it takes all my effort to force my trembling index finger to tap my phone screen so that it pops back to life. And then there I am, staring at that completely black page again.

Grimacing, I get on with my task, tapping to highlight the URL in the address bar at the bottom. I click copy, then drop the address into my Notes app, feeling just a little smug. I have no idea if that will help me at all, but at least I’m doing something.

Now, what else can I do?

Okay, I think. You can handle this. Step one: quit shaking. Step two: get home. Step three: scan the code again. Step four: focus. Who could be behind this? Who would do this to you when everyone involved in the kidnapping is dead?

At least, I think they are.

I don’t have any answers. But I tell myself it must be a joke. Some horrible, vile, in-very-bad-taste joke.

Unfortunately, I don’t believe that at all.