Jon tries to control his breathing. He tries to clear his mind. He remembers now. He was with Mia.
Fuck.
Panic whips through him again. He fights it down as he struggles to put the pieces together.
They were in the bar downstairs. He got drunk. Very drunk. They came up in the elevator. Kissing. Backed into her Airbnb.
Another wave of adrenaline slams through Jon. Someone else’s condo—he’s in a stranger’s condo. Naked and cuffed to a bed. He has to get out of here. He flicks his gaze wildly around the interior of the room. It’s dimly lit. Still dark outside. He can see the red glow of a clock on the other side of the bed. It’s 1:29 a.m.
Daisy! Daisy will be going wild with worry. She’ll call the cops.
Jon’s vision swirls again. His groin is sticky. His anus burns.Oh God.His clothes are in a bundle on the floor. There is an empty bottle of tequila. Three shot glasses. A whisky tumbler. Jon’s heart kicks.
There were others? Who in the hell was all here? What happened? Tears sear into his eyes. He’s shaking. He sees a key on the bedside table.
Handcuff key?
With his free hand he gropes for it and uncuffs himself. He sits up, rubs his face, then touches his groin. He’s had sex. His gaze shoots back to the glasses. But who with? What in the fuck has he done?
She did this. She drugged me. She spiked my drink. I should have realized something was happening downstairs. She was asking too many questions.
It strikes Jon like a mallet as he recalls Mia pressing him about his competition, asking for Ahmed Waheed’s name, him telling her that he’d hired a PI for dirt. And suddenly Jon is scared. Really scared. He has no idea what’s going on, what shoe will drop next. All he can think about is Daisy. Triage. He needs to think triage.
Daisy cannotfind out about this. Or Jon will be finished. He knows it with every fiber of his being.
A worse thought hits him.
What if Labden and Henry are behind this? Mia was observing him from the bar the night Henry invited him to that pub. Was it a setup? Did they know he’d fall for it?
Or what if Daisy is actually behind this? Testing him?
Jon drops his face into his hands, rocks back and forth, moans.
Think fast. If Daisy hasn’t already called the police, she will soon. He has to get out of here.
Jon scrambles on hands and knees, swaying, trying to avoid his own vomit as he gathers up his socks, tie, shirt, pants, shoes, underwear.
He finds his wallet and opens it. Everything is still in there. Including $250 in cash. This was not about petty theft.
He finds his mobile. At least they left his phone. He glances at the shot and whisky and wineglasses again and feels his stomach roil.
What did I do? What in the hell didtheydo to me? Why does my butthole burn?
Crying, Jon pulls on his pants, then his shirt. But as he sticks his arm into his sleeve, he sees a small round plaster stuck on the inside crook of his elbow. Jon freezes. Carefully, he peels off the tiny plaster. There is a small hole in his skin. Adrenaline explodes through his blood. He’s been injected with something. Panic snakes through him. This could be why he passed out, why he doesn’t recall anything. Unless...it’s something worse. Some poison, some virus that will still take effect maybe years down the road. Like AIDS.
He goes into the bathroom and stills as he sees a line of white powder next to a razor blade and a straw.
Shit.
Cocaine? Did he do drugs? He’s got to get out of here. Fast.
Quickly, he rinses his face, and he tries to squint at his reflection in the mirror. He looks like death. He remembers something. Mia straddling him. He tries to recall who else was in the room, when they might have arrived, but he can’t. He just can’t. He thinks of his sticky penis, his burning anal area. He doesn’t even want to begin to imagine whathappened down there. Jon’s eyes fill with hot tears again. With a burning shame. Humiliation. Horror. Raw fear.
He braces his hands flat on the bathroom counter and stares at his face in the mirror.
I don’t know what you did to me, Mia Reiter, but I swear, if I find you, I will kill you. I will fucking kill you.
THE PHOTOGRAPHER
