“You’re not locking me up in a cellar, are you?” I yelp. “I am very much an indoor kid. I do not like damp, wet spaces—there are centipedes and spiders. Wait, how do you even have a cellar in a penthouse? Oh! They used to smuggle alcohol in this building. I remember from elementary school. I mean, I guess I could get down with aPhantom of the Opera-type thing—”
“Do you ever shut up?” He turns to me abruptly, and I crash into him. Lulu crashes into me.
“Well, I’m the fat, funny friend, so I’m just doing my job.” I do a little hoedown jig. Even my dog looks disgusted.
Graham looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “I kidnapped the wrong fucking girl. Thewrongfucking girl.” He opens the door. “Here is where you’ll be staying until I figure out what to do with you.”
It’s not a storage closet—it’s a huge bedroom with a seating area and a couch. My bags are on the coffee table. There’s a breakfast bar with snacks, a little mini-sink, and a fridge. There’s a big TV across from a fancy king bed with a mound of pillows. Everything is creamy whites and pale seafoam blues, with millions of dollars’ worth of art on the walls.
“A Central Park view!” I belly flop on the bed. “So soft.”
“Please take a shower before you get on that bed.”
I drag myself off.
“Bathroom is there. Closet is there.” His face goes dark. “I have your phone and your laptop, so don’t think about calling for help.”
He turns abruptly and heads to the door, my traitorous dog following.
“Is the minibar free?”
“Once you sober up,” the deep voice calls, “then we’ll talk.” He slams the bedroom door behind him.
“Yes, I don’t blame you for not wanting to be around her,” I hear him say to the dog.Mydog.
The wine has twist-off caps. Um, what the hell? Right—because I’m technically kidnapped and corkscrews could be a weapon.
I pour myself a big glass of pinot grigio and select a bag of gummy bears from the tray on the cabinet.
“Maybe I need to be rationing these,” I muse as I strip off my clothes and head to the bathroom.
It’s all marble-clad with brass accents and deep-green wallpaper with little pink flowers. It is—ugh—my dream bathroom. I stare down at the people milling around in Central Park as the tub fills up. I take a big swallow of the wine.
I’m starting to sober up, and I can’t be panicking right now.
I’ll never be able to run in Central Park again.
“You don’t like running,” I remind myself.
I need to take photos. I need to add this to my Pinterest.
“You’re just going through social media withdrawal.”
But honestly, what was I thinking? He’s right—I am a moron. I should have escaped when I had the chance. When Piper finds out, she’s going to throw things at me.
I’m pathetic. A man shows a crumb of affection, and I just cave for him. I need my phone. I need to disappear into my safe digital world—a book, a little scrolling on real-estate TikTok.
But of course, when I dig in my purse, there’s no phone.
“I’m not going to make it.” I’m hyperventilating. I bang on the windows. “Help! Someone, help me, please! I’m trapped! I don’t have my phone! I need something to write with—lipstick!” I don’t wear lipstick. I have cherry ChapStick and a broken eyebrow pencil.
I slump down on the floor and start crying.
“I want my dad.”
Something beeps from my overflowing tote bag stuffed with papers and binders. Is that—
“Yes! My work phone! We’re saved! We can call for help. We can get out of here. We can go home. Maybe get a therapist. Sure, my mom’s going to be pissed, but isn’t she always disappointed, when you think about it?”
