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I always knew Brett was bad news, but never like this.
A drug addict? A thief? I knew he was both of those.
But I never imagined he’d escalate to kidnapping and assault. And I’m terrified that’s not even the worst of what he has planned.
What is Brett going to do when Cash gets here?
I wanted to warn Cash when Brett called him—to tell him it’s a trap, that Brett has a gun—but I couldn’t get anything out past the tape over my mouth. Just muffled cries that earned me a stinging slap across my face, and Cash snarling over the phone, “Don’t touch her!”
Now Cash is on his way here and I’m helpless to do anything. I’m restrained with zip ties around my wrists and ankles, and Brett keeps jabbing his gun at me, laughing maniacally when I instinctively flinch away.
My head is throbbing from where Brett smashed it against the car window—I’m dizzy and nauseous and pretty certain I have a concussion. And my nose is sluggishly bleeding from the slap he just gave me.
Brett hasn’t touched me anywhere else yet, but when he told Cash he might take me for a spin, I had to force back the vomit that threatened to come up.
To make things worse, I’m almost sure Brett is on something. He can’t stay still, his gaze constantly darting around the room, and some of the things he’s saying sound absolutely insane.
“This is all Cash’s fault,” he ranted after ending the call. “He’s always been trying to fuck things up for me. It’s his fault our parents are dead.”
As Cash’s parents died when their private plane crashed when Cash was only sixteen, and he was hundreds of miles away when it happened, I have no idea how Brett came up with that.
“And you!” Brett spins on me, grabbing my chin with punishing fingers. He drags me up from the couch, holding me eye level with him. “You were helping him all that time, weren’tyou? Feeding Cash information so he could turn me in to the cops.”
Oh shit.
I can’t speak, can’t even shake my head at him. All I can do is stare back at Brett, my heart in my throat, hoping he doesn’t kill me right now.
“You’ll both be sorry,” he spits, and flings me back down on the couch. Terrified tears spring to my eyes and I try to force them back—if I start crying, my nose will get all stuffed up and I won’t be able to breathe.
Brett sets to pacing around the small living room again, every few seconds spinning to point the gun at me and cackling, “My rules now.Myrules.”
This is so bad. Fear and guilt are crashing over me in waves.
Whydid I get in the car with him? Why didn’t I call Cash to verify? Why didn’t I call someone at Blade and Arrow to come get me?
I know the answer, though. I was too scared, too panicked to think clearly. When I got the call at school—the main office put it through to my classroom—Brett was the last person I imagined hearing from.
Glenda, our kind but nosy secretary, rang my classroom phone, saying, “Ari, dear. I have a call for you. He says it’s an emergency, but didn’t give a name. Should I put him through?”
My heart jumped to my throat. Who would call me on the school number instead of my cell phone? Trying to keep the nervous wobble from my voice, I told her it was fine.
Then she transferred the call, and everything imploded.
All it took was two sentences.
“Ari, it’s Brett. Cash has been in an accident.”
Heart stuttering, I gasped, “What?”
Sounding so similar to Cash, for a moment I tried to cling to the idea it was a terrible joke. And then Brett continued, “As next of kin, I was just contacted. He’s at the Westchester Medical Center.”
My legs turned liquid, and I sagged over my desk. “What happened?”
Then the news got even worse. “He was shot, Ari.”
I couldn’t speak. Brett softened his tone. “I thought you would want to come with me. I’m near the school now. Do you want a ride?”
Of course, I told him yes. I couldn’t think beyond my terror. Trying to drive myself, finding Brett at the hospital, searching for news about Cash—of course,I would go with Brett.
