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“When and where?”
“Straight to the point.” The abductor laughed. “I like that. A lot. All right, I’ll be in contact, Mr. Baker. Soon. I think I’ll let you sweat it out for a while first.” They hung up.
I squeezed the phone, my teeth grinding. Bastard. Bastard. My phone pinged, and I opened a text from Melanie. She’d sent me the last known location of Summer’s phone. I used the coordinates and input them into my maps app, my stomach turning.
I had her location. Now, I had to find her and save her.
“I’m coming, Summer,” I whispered and charged back toward the hotel.
Chapter Twenty-One
Summer
My eyes opened and closed, opened and closed, and my head thrummed like someone had grabbed a hammer and decided to go to town up there. I worked my mouth, seeking moisture and finding none.
What the fuck just happened?
Memories trickled into the blackness in my mind.
First there was Matt, hot and delicious and standing behind me on the sand. His hand on my back. And then, the walk along the sand. And after that, Pamela had—
My eyes snapped open in the dark.
Pamela!
She’d pressed a swatch of cloth to my mouth, and I’d passed out. What the hell? Had she lost her goddamn mind? Was this about Matt?
I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark, all the while listening hard for any hint of where I might be. My hands were bound tightly at the wrists, behind my back, and I fingered the bindings searching for a weakness.
It was twine. Something that would be easy to break.
Question marks floated through my mind. Why the hell had this happened? What the fuck was it about? A part of me was certain that Matt was at the center of it all—after all, she’d flipped out after claiming she’d slept with him.
Focus. Where are you?
The ocean was close. I could hear the wash of water on the beach nearby. It was dark. No windows. Curtains drawn? No, was that a sheet? A sheet hanging over a window. There were cracks in the walls between wooden slats. The dark shapes of items materialized around me. A shovel? Trimming shears?
Good lord, was I in some kind of torture dungeon?
On the beach? Get real.
It was a maintenance shed of some kind. Obviously close to the sand, but where? Near the resort? I doubted that Pamela had the strength to carry me very far. Unless she’d been working with someone. But who?
The door to the shack swung open, and I caught a brief glimpse of the night sky, stars above and the moon, waning now. Pamela stood in the doorway, framed in glimmering moonlight and madness.
“Hey, honey, you’re awake.”
I opened my mouth, but she raised a finger.
“Now, I haven’t gagged you, but I suggest that you don’t do anything rash, all right? You scream, and I’ll be forced to cut your tongue out with those pruning shears, all right?”
“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “I haven’t done anything to—”
Pamela snorted and entered the shed. She slammed the door shut behind her and clicked on the single globe in the center of the room. “Typical bitch,” she said. “Of course you think this is about you or something you’ve done. I really don’t understand what he sees in you.”
“Matt,” I said.
“Matt.” She mimicked me, pulling a face. “Of course Matt, you idiot. Goddamn, I would have loved to have fucked him before we did this, but whatever. That’s fine. He’s going to pay up either way.”
So, this was about Matt. If I could keep her talking, maybe I could figure out why. What the hell had he done to piss her off to this extent?
“Look, I don’t know what this is about,” I said, “but I—”
“Of course you don’t know what this is about. You’re a friggin’ idiot. Duh.”
“That’s sweet. Look, just tell me what’s going on. I deserve to know.” I deserved to be fucking free, but I doubted that complaint would be met with much enthusiasm.
Pamela sighed, tossing her red hair back over one shoulder. She pouted. “It’s not like you’re even that important,” she said. “You’re just collateral damage.”
“OK. What does that mean? Who are you? I thought you were Emmy’s friend.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. And stupid.”
“Yeah, I got that part.”
Pamela paced to the sheet that had been nailed to the window’s sills and sides, and she peeked out into the night. “My dad needed me to step up, so I did. You and Emmy know me as sweet little Pamela Turner.” She spun back around, gesturing grandly with both arms. “My real name is Penelope Cruz.”
I snorted.
She lowered her arms and glared at me.
“Sorry, it’s just, when you say ‘Penelope Cruz,’ it makes me think of the actress Penelope Cruz,” I replied. “Frankly, you don’t hold a candle to her.”
