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“You don’t have anything,” I snarl, bringing up my right leg in an attempt to knee him straight in the balls.

My attempt is made nearly impossible by my persistent lack of balance and coordination, as well as my height disadvantage. He grabs me, spinning until my back is firmly against his front and we are both facing Callum.

“Oh, Callum,” my captor calls out, his voice taunting.

I feel the rumble of his words against my back, and the proximity of my body against his makes me want to reach over and rip the mask from his face. I’d bet he wouldn’t be so damn smug with his identity on display.

“Be a good boy and come here. Will you?” my captor taunts.

Callum turns slowly, the movements choppy and uninhibited. I stare in confusion, wondering why the hell he’s listening. Why isn’t he rushing over to help me?

“Callum?” I ask, my voice barely above a cracked whisper, likely inaudible against the steady rainfall.

“Save your tears, love,” my captor mocks. “You’re going to need them for the final show.”

I tilt my chin up toward the mask, searching for answers. A low chuckle slips down to me as he tilts his head in return. When I avert my gaze toward Callum, he’s closer than he was seconds ago. Glancing up at him, I track his furrowed brows and tension all the way down to his clenched fists. He stands still before me, a tremor running through him that terrifies me.

“Lydia,” he breathes out, his voice low and full of the kind of regret that makes my skin crawl. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, love.”

Sorry for what?

I want to scream the words, but my pleas are silenced by a large, gloved hand against my mouth. I bring my hand up, struggling as I dig my nails deep into the fabric—deep enough to mark the flesh beneath it. And then, I arch my neck and bite down on my captor’s hand as hard as I possibly can. All the while, Callum stands frozen before us, his fury evident in the way his body shakes uncontrollably.

“You fucking bitch,” my captor calls out, releasing my mouth to grab my wrists and tug them sharply behind my back.

I try to fight him off, I really do, but he’s so much stronger than I am. When I glance up at Callum in panic, his face is filled with rage. The seconds blur into nothing as the realization of his stillness—his compliance—finally finds me. The strange sound that started playing right before I passed out, right before Callum drove us off the road.

“What the hell did you do to him?” I yell at my captor.

“You’ll see,” he says, followed by that sickening laughter that makes me want to rip through my own skin.

My eyes dart back to Callum as I search his face for answers that I know he won’t be able to provide. Callum is under the control of our captor, his mind at the mercy of this masked psycho who wields the power.

I feel a hand release one of my wrists momentarily and watch as Callum tracks the movement happening behind me. Callum’s eyes widen in shock, quickly morphing into absolute horror. My blood chills at the sight, my breath catching in my chest. But before I can turn to see what’s got Callum so afraid, something cold and hard is pressed against my right temple. I swallow.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I hear my captor speak from his place behind me, his voice barely audible over the roaring of my pulse inside my ears. “Our friend Callum here is … going … to—”

I half turn, looking up as the masked psycho stutters and then screams. I jump, startled by the unexpected sound. What the hell is happening? I turn toward Callum, noting that his eyes are narrowed and his expression is one of equal confusion. Callum’s forearms flex as he fights with the compulsion holding him captive, but he doesn’t make a move my way.

“No, stop it. This is what I must do!” my captor screams.

I turn again, staring up at the mask as he screams out to the rainfall around him. I glance around, looking for someone else. Is he going mad? I sure hope so, because this might be the only chance I’ll ever get to make a move against him.

And although I know it’s a long shot in the dark, I have to try.

37

The Watcher

The voices, the sounds—they’re everywhere and nowhere all the same.

As I tighten my hold on Lydia’s wrists and the gun that I still have pressed against her skull, I try to make sense of what’s happening to me. The feeling of my mind slipping grows closer, that inevitable tug seeking to tell me the truth.

I must act with haste.

If Callum doesn’t do exactly as I say or tries to take her from me again, then I’ll kill him. I will end his life and make her watch. The sound demands an echo. I have to do this now.

“Let them go,” I hear a deep voice somewhere off to my left.