Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
“Good,” he affirmed. “Sleep.”
“You too.”
The line went quiet. I went to bed wrapped in the echo of his voice, my body heavy with contentment and exhaustion. Sleep came quickly, deep and dreamless.
Until it didn’t.
A sound pulled me out of it—sharp, wrong.
I lay still, heart pounding, listening. Another sound. A soft metallic click. Not loud. Deliberate.
Adrenaline flooded my system, cold and fast.
I slid my hand under my pillow where my phone lived, fingers closing around it without turning the screen on. The apartment was dark, the kind of dark that pressed in on you, every shadow suddenly suspicious.
I told myself it was nothing.
I told myself it was the building settling.
Then I heard it again.
Closer.
I moved slowly, every step deliberate, padding out of the bedroom barefoot, my pulse roaring in my ears. The living room loomed ahead, bathed in faint streetlight bleeding through the curtains.
That’s when I saw him.
Masked. Dressed in dark clothes. Standing near my door like he belonged there.
The gun was already raised.
Time slowed.
“Don’t scream,” he instructed calmly. “Do exactly what I tell you, and you won’t get hurt.”
My mouth went dry. My hands shook, but I kept them visible, raised slightly, palms open.
Okay, Nita. Breathe. Think. Overreactions got people killed. Playing it smart allowed me a chance to keep breathing.
“I won’t scream,” I agreed, forcing my voice steady.
“Good,” he replied. “Grab your coat. Shoes.”
I did as instructed, my movements careful, deliberate. Every training instinct screamed at me to memorize details—height, build, voice—but the mask obscured too much. He planned this. And planned it well.
He backed toward the door, gun never wavering. “Phone stays here.”
I hesitated.
“Now.”
I set it down on the table.
He opened the door and gestured. “Move.”
The hallway was silent. Empty. My heart hammered with every step as he guided me toward the back stairs. Smart. No cameras there once we got to the bottom.
The night air hit me like a slap as we stepped outside.
His car waited at the curb, engine idling. He opened the passenger door, motioning me in.
I slid into the seat, every nerve on fire. He restrained my wrists with ziptie cuffs. I fought to keep my anxiety at bay. Panicking right now wouldn’t help.
As he drove off, the city lights receding into darkness, my thoughts spiraled. I tried to count the stop lights, or gage the miles. But my mind was all over the place. All my training left because my brain and my heart wouldn’t stop thinking of the people I loved.
Dante.
Char.
The girls.
The only thing I could cling to was the hope—thin but vital—that my doorbell camera had caught something. A face. A car. A license plate.
Something.
As the city disappeared behind us and the night swallowed the road ahead, I closed my eyes for a brief second and held onto one thought like a lifeline.
Please. Let someone find me
The car ride felt endless, even though I knew—objectively—that it couldn’t have been.
Time warped when fear took over. Every turn stretched too long. Every stoplight felt like a countdown to something worse. I focused on breathing evenly, on not giving him the satisfaction of panic, on staying present enough to remember details later—sounds, turns, the way the road changed from smooth pavement to something rougher beneath the tires.
Eventually, the city thinned out. Streetlights gave way to darkness. The hum of traffic faded into nothing but the engine and my own heartbeat.
When the car finally stopped, my muscles were shaking from holding myself together.
“Out,” he ordered.
I obeyed.
The air smelled different here, damp, earthy, old. A door opened somewhere ahead of me, metal groaning softly, and then we were moving again, down a short set of steps, the temperature dropping with each one.
A basement.
The light flicked on with a harsh buzz, revealing concrete walls stained with age and moisture. Exposed pipes. A single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. No windows.
My stomach dropped.
He guided me to the center of the room where a thick metal post had been bolted into the concrete floor. Without ceremony, he produced a length of chain and a padlock. My wrists were already numb as I extended them for him to bind me somehow. Except he surprised me when he looped it around my ankle instead—tight enough to be secure, loose enough that I could move a few feet in either direction.
Just enough rope. Just enough mercy to pretend this wasn’t what it was.
“There,” he said. “You’ve got room.”
I followed his gaze. A bucket with a toilet seat snapped onto the top sat a few feet away. Nearby, folded with deliberate care, was a thin blanket and a single pillow.
The details were almost worse than the threat. This wasn’t chaos. This was preparation.
“Sit,” he instructed.
I lowered myself to the concrete, the cold seeping instantly through the thin fabric of my night clothes. My ankle tugged against the chain, the sound loud in the quiet room. I forced myself not to flinch.