The word sits in my chest like something solid and sharp. I press my hand flat against my thigh, grounding myself against the feeling before it can spiral into something worse. “I don’t understand,” I say. “Why me?”
Brooke doesn’t lie. “We don’t know yet.”
That should make it easier. It doesn’t. It makes it worse. Because if there isn’t a reason, then there doesn’t have to be one next time either.
My stomach twists. I push the thought away before it can root. “I need to call my mom.” The need hits suddenly, sharp and urgent. I need to hear her voice. I need to hear something normal. Something that isn’t this room, these walls, these people.
“Okay,” Brooke says gently. “We can do that.”
I look up at her. Relief hits first. Then hesitation. “What do I say?” That’s the problem. Not the call. The words. “I was almost abducted, drugged, and now I’m in a biker clubhouse with men I don’t know and a woman I just met telling me I’m safe.” The thought is so ridiculous it almost makes me laugh.
Almost.
But there’s nothing funny about it. “I can’t tell them that,” I say.
“No,” Brooke agrees.
“They’ll panic.”
“Yes.”
“They’ll come here.”
“Probably.”
“They’ll call the police.”
“Most likely.”
“And then what?” I ask, my voice tightening. “What happens then?”
Brooke doesn’t answer right away. That’s answer enough.
I let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through my hair. “I don’t lie to them,” I say. “I don’t… hide things like this.”
“I get it,” Brooke says quietly. “But right now, it’s not about lying. It’s about buying time.”
I look at her. “Time for what?”
“For us to figure out who has your name,” she says. “For you to not walk back into something you don’t see coming.” That lands. Harder than I want it to.
I lean back slightly against the bed, staring at the opposite wall without really seeing it. “So what do I say?”
“Something simple,” Brooke says. “You’re safe. You had an emergency. You’ll call them soon. You’re with people who are helping you.”
“That’s not a lie,” I mutter.
“No,” she says. “It isn’t.”
I let out a breath that feels like it’s been stuck in my chest since I woke up. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate not telling them.”
“I know.”
“I hate that they knew my family’s names,” I add, my voice dropping.
