Page 4 of Locked in Wonderland

“Perhaps you’ve got the wrong flat.”

“No!” I shook my head for extra emphasis. “I thought that too. But it’s flat eight, and this is the only flat eight. His name’s Warren White. Blond hair, blue eyes, extremely handsome. Nice. Kind. You must know him.”

She thought for a few seconds, just long enough that it gave me hope. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I don’t, and he sounds like someone I’d remember if I’d ever met him.”

My heart was pounding so hard it felt like I might pass out. It must have shown in my expression, the woman grabbing my arm. “Come inside. You look like you need to sit down. I’ll make us a cup of tea, and I’m sure I’ve got some biscuits hidden in the back of the cupboard somewhere.”

I let her tug me inside. Not because I wanted tea or biscuits, or a sit-down, but because I wanted the opportunity to tell her how ridiculous it was to deny Warren’s existence while surrounded by his stuff.

Except everything inside was wrong.

A cream sofa with flowery cushions had replaced Warren’s black leather one. The coffee table was wood now, rather than glass, topped with women’s magazines and a bowl of pot-pourri instead of a sleek horse ornament that I’d jokingly once told Warren was only there because it was heavy enough to use against a burglar. I’d touched it, hefted its weight, felt how smooth it was.

The television was smaller and flanked by candles. The pictures on the wall were in the right place, but everything else about them had changed: the shape, the color of the frames, and the subject. Even the air smelled different. Polish and flowers instead of a musky masculine scent.

Not one trace of him remained in the living room.

The woman was talking, but I wasn’t hearing a single word of it. I pushed past her, ignoring her protests, and went into the bathroom. Where Warren’s mismatched bottles used to crowd the basin, there were identical glass dispensers, all neatly labeled. Purple butterflies had replaced the neutral geometric patterns on the shower curtain.

Bedroom next, the woman gaping at me as I stood in the doorway. It told the same story. White cushions on the bed where there’d been none. A completely different bed than the one I’d woken up in this morning. Warren’s headboard had been black; this one was white. No clothes on the floor. No phone charger snaking across the carpet.

I backed out of the room, forcing the woman to take evasive action so I wouldn’t step on her foot. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t…”

She didn’t stop me as I headed for the door. No doubt she regretted the impulse to invite me in and was relieved that I was already on my way.

It felt like I hadn’t taken another breath until I left the building. I made up for it then, doubling over and filling my lungs with cold air.

Was I mad? Was that what was going on here? Did Warren not exist, just as Thornton had tried to tell me?

I fumbled the watch off my wrist, bracing myself before turning it over. If it were blank, then…

It wasn’t. The engraving was still there. I hadn’t done that myself. Warren was real.

He had to be.

So why was everyone trying to convince me he wasn’t?

Chapter Three

Morning found me leaning on the seafront railing, my gaze fixed on the ghostly outline of Wonderland through the clinging sea fret.

Whatever had happened to Warren had a link to that place. Given it had been emblazoned across the side of the van in two-foot-tall letters, I didn’t think I’d be winning any prizes for detective work. The more I thought about it—and I’d done more thinking than sleeping last night—the more it seemed like the obvious place to start. If the police weren’t prepared to do anything, then it was up to me to rescue him.

“You don’t want to go there.”

I turned to find a man leaning casually against the railing less than a foot away. He was handsome in a composed, deliberate way, as though he knew just how to arrange himself to best effect. His dark hair was neatly cut, the kind that never seemed to fall out of place, and it set off the clear blue of his eyes—eyes that showed a sharp intelligence, as if they were always measuring what they saw.

He wore an immaculately tailored suit, dark and understated. Nothing about it called for attention, yet it was impossible not to notice. He carried himself with an ease that suggested confidence without explanation. In short, he was a man who made an impression. One you weren’t likely to forget in a hurry.

He stepped closer, holding out his hand. “Nico Ravenscar.”

I shook it. “Lysander Carroll.”

The handshake was perfunctory, and I mourned the briefness of it. To disguise my reaction to him, I focused back on Wonderland. “Do you know anything about it?”

“More than most.”

That piqued my interest enough to turn back to him. “It’s a party island, right? Why would you tell me not to go there?”