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But she’s not there.
This is getting worrisome. She’s not the type to just bail. Unless …
Unless this has all been her revenge for what I did to her. Could she … no. She couldn’t possibly … but it would be one hell of a punishment. A very deserved punishment. All those years, me acting like I hated her, only for her to make me care and then vanish on me?
Vengeance is best served cold, isn’t it?
No. She isn’t that person. She will be in the library, bedroom eyes and wearing nothing but her knee boots. I’m sure of it. I open and close the door behind me, just in case she’s naked in here somewhere. “June? Are you here?”
A stifled “Oh my god,” is giggled in a far corner beyond the stacks.
Swiftly, I walk in. “June, are you okay?—"
“Not June,” Jessalyn says as she comes around the bookshelves. She’s straightening her skirt. Her hair is the least neat I have ever seen it, and her lipstick is smeared. “Um, Anderson, I haven’t seen June since you left. Everything okay?”
“Uh, sorry.” I can’t help but chuckle at her predicament. “No, I can’t find her. I’ll be going now.”
“Don’t um, don’t mention this to anyone. Please. I beg you.”
“I didn’t see a thing, Jessalyn. Have a good night. Sorry to bug you.”
She smiles, and I dip out. I’m ten feet into the hall when I recall her fiancé wasn’t at the party. Doesn’t matter. Not my problem. I?—
My phone buzzes with an alert. I got a text. Thank god—it’s from June. But when I open it, it’s a picture of her, tied to a chair in some place that looks like a basement. What in the fuck is going on?
-
Chapter 36
JUNE
It’s all but impossible to do anything but sit here and freak out. I heard a click earlier—like the fake camera sound my phone makes when I take a picture. After that, an annoyed sigh. But when I called out, no one said a word. I don’t know if I’m alone or not. These people move like cats, apparently.
Until they don’t.
Heavy, echoey footsteps alert me to a presence, but I didn’t hear the door scrape open. Must have come from another door. Sounds like boots, but I still cannot see them. And they’re dragging something on the floor. A chair, maybe? They’re close, too, so I guess they’re behind the light.
Then I can see the outline of him. It’s definitely a him, too—unless they’re a beefy, broad-shouldered woman. He sits down, and I still can’t see his face because he’s right behind the light. I get only the shape of my captor and the faint distinctive sound of leather rubbing on leather. His coat.
And he’s a big one. Like a breathing threat.
A deep voice rumbles, “How did you meet Anderson West?”
Well, shit. That’s not exactly what I thought he’d ask about. What does he know already? They know my name. They think he and I are together. What does it matter how we met? Is this a test? To see if I lie to him? What would they do if I did? The man has no discernible accent—he sounds just like every other person in Boston.
My mouth is dry, and my head is spinning with questions. Fewer details seem the best route. I rasp out, “School.”
A grunt of acknowledgement. “How long have you been together?”
“Not long.”
“Would you say it’s serious?”
“I’m wearing his ring.”
He pauses. “Would you say it’s serious?”
I thought I answered. What is he saying by asking it twice? “You just asked me that.”
