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What do I know?
Someone—a man, I think—forced me in a van. Threatened to kill Georgia if I fought back. My eyes scalding, tears streaming down my hot face uncontrollably, so much pain. Blindfolded, tied up before I knew what was happening. My wrists, ankles, yanked back and bound behind me.
Then a hissed command, damp, hot breath hitting my face. “The van is soundproofed. So don’t bother screaming.”
In the car—the van—first a smooth ride, then bumpier. I’m not sure how long we drove, maybe an hour? Half an hour? Time is all messed up right now.
At first I tried begging. “I haven’t even seen your face,” I choked out, lungs still on fire. “You can let me go, and you won’t get in trouble.”
All I got was a chuckle and a satisfied, “Oh no, Charlie. I’ve been waiting a long time for this. I’m keeping you.”
Who? Who would do this?
Terror crashes into me again, cold and suffocating.
Think of Rylan. Focus.
I’m on something hard, but soft. A blanket on the floor? The fabric around my eyes is thick, slightly itchy, painful against my aching eyes. My wrists—I can touch the rope around my ankles, it’s smooth, tight but not pinching.
Aside from the spray, I’m not hurt. Yet.
Then I remember. The earrings. Rylan, his team, they must know by now that I was taken. Georgia would have told them. Unless—
What if he hurt her? I couldn’t see. What if he cut her? Killed her?
Panic rushes up on me, a runaway train colliding. Georgia. Is she hurt? Left in the parking lot? Dying?
The tenuous bands of my control snap, and I yank at the ropes binding me. Thrashing, gasping for air, throat constricting, whimpering, I need to get free.
A door opens. Shuts. Footsteps come toward me.
“Stop that. Now.” It’s that voice again, the one who took me. Irritated, almost angry. “You’re going to hurt yourself. And I don’t want abrasions all over your wrists. It won’t look right.”
That voice. It’s so familiar.
“I’ll untie you, Charlie.” It’s closer now, only feet away. “I need you to calm down, though. And don’t think about trying to fight me.”
Part of me—the primal, instinctive part—wants to scream. To fight back.
But what would Rylan do?
Be smart, not impulsive. So I force myself to stop struggling, to suck in shaking breaths, to swallow down the panic threatening to take over again.
“That’s better,” the voice croons, gentling. “I don’t want to hurt you. Not unless you force my hand.”
So I keep still while this person touches me, even though my skin is crawling. First my wrists, then my ankles, and finally the blindfold.
Blinking at the sudden light, the person in front of me is a dark blob at first. But then, as my eyes refocus, still teary and stinging, I see him.
It’s the man from the Hop-less Horseman. Skinny, pressed shirt, rumpled hair. The one who cornered me by the bathroom. The one Rylan and his team scared away.
I want Rylan.
My arms and legs are dead after being stretched behind me, but I manage to scuttle away from him. “Why?”
“Charlie.” He reaches toward me and I yelp, almost tipping over in my haste to escape his hand. “That’s not nice,” he scolds, his brow dropping.
Anger surges, dampening the fear for a second. “Don’t touch me.”
