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A shadow moved in front of the round glass door, and anger overtook the crippling fear.
“Let me out of here, you son of a bitch!” I roared. Ignoring the piercing pain in my ankle, I threw all my weight into the door to try and push it open.
“Let me out!” I cried, a wave of dizziness making my head swim.
The shadow moved again, and I swiped my hand over the wet, tinted glass so I could better try to make out who it was.
Click. Click. The sound of something unlatching made me spin around at the metal walls enclosing me.
Water burst out of the side, rushing into the small tank in great, sloppy bursts.
I recoiled, holding my arms up, trying to keep it away as water flooded the bottom, sinking the already saturated clothes I sat on and trying to sink me too.
And then the person who’d just shoved me inside this washing machine, locked the door, and turned it on walked away.
Leaving me here to die.
21
Kruger
I’m a charming guy. And I kiss good too.
So color me surprised when she didn’t instantly reply to my flirty text. Or any of the ones after them either.
Then my calls dropped. Twice. Now they were going directly to voicemail.
I went from surprised to freaking the fuck out.
“Something’s wrong,” I told P, slamming the door to my locker and snatching my keys.
His head poked around his open locker door. “What?”
“Jess isn’t answering. The calls are going straight to voicemail.”
“Let’s go,” he said, pushing his own locker shut as we headed out. On the way, I pulled up the app I’d installed on her phone.
Yep. A tracker. Look, if you’ve been around here a while, then you understand this app is essential to Elite. If you’re new here, welcome. We track our significant others because we learned the hard way what happens when we don’t.
Prism swore, yanking his phone away from his ear. “Straight to voicemail for me too.”
“Tracker says she’s still at her dorm,” I told him, jumping behind the wheel of my Audi.
“You put a tracker on her phone?” he asked. Then, “Good call. Send me the info later so I can add it to my phone too.”
See? It’s what we do.
The drive to her dorm was short, made even shorter by the way I put the pedal to the metal and parked illegally at the curb. The second I got out of the car, my phone beeped, and I glanced down at the text.
I’m doing laundry in the basement. No service.
“She’s in the basement doing laundry,” I called as I jogged up the walkway. “Hey, hold that door!” I hollered to the girls coming out. They did, and I rushed past them with barely a glance and a muttered thanks.
The door banged loudly when I shoved it open into the stairwell and rushed down. The text should have made me feel better. I knew where she was. What she was doing.
But oddly, the closer I got to the laundry room, the more panicked I grew. By the time I made it to the bottom of the stairs, my heart was galloping, and I leaped forward, skipping the last three steps. The second my feet hit, I pushed off and rushed through the door leading into the laundry.
It was bright and well-lit. A couple washers were on, but the room was empty.
