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Down the block, the Witch's Brew was cozily lit, amber lights casting a glow that usually felt welcoming. Right now, it just pissed me off. Alex sat at a corner table, nursing a drink, her brown hair a curtain around her concentrated face as she scribbled notes on a napkin. She looked up, surprised, as my shadow loomed over her.
"Hey, Sawyer," she greeted, a question in her voice already guessing why I was here.
"Alex," I said, my voice barely above a whisper as I dropped into the seat across from her. "Hannah was supposed to meet me at Il Petrini tonight, but she's a no-show. That's not like her." The concern must have been clear on my face because Alex set down her drink, her expression turning serious.
She leaned in, her voice low to match mine. "I saw her about an hour ago? Maybe a little longer. She was heading over to the clinic to grab shampoo for Rufus."
"Rufus?" My thumb rubbed absently against the grain of the table, the surface sticky under my touch. "Why the hell would she go off to do that now?"
Alex's face paled as drew her brows together in contemplation. "I'm afraid that's my fault. I told her about an issue I was having. With Rufus, I mean. She said she'd run and get me the shampoo, said it was no problem. But she hasn't come back."
"Dammit." I ran my hands through my hair and rose from my seat.
"You're right, this isn't like her at all. I thought she just got caught up with something at the clinic. Figured I'd stop by there tomorrow morning. I'm sorry." Alex look pained, and I felt bad for worrying her, but my main concern was finding Hannah.
"Hey." Alex reached out, her hand grazing my arm. "Maybe she really did get caught up with something at the clinic. You know how it is around here; someone's cat gets stuck in a tree, and suddenly it's all hands on deck."
"Maybe," I muttered, though doubt laced the word like poison. I couldn't shake my intuition that something was off. I needed to see for myself, confirm she was safe. "Thanks, Alex."
"Of course. Let me know if there's anything I can do." Her fingers withdrew, and I turned toward the door.
"Will do." I threw over my shoulder, already halfway out.
I shoved my hands into my pockets, the keys to my bike jingling with restless energy. If she'd gone to the clinic first, then that's where I'd start. Hopping on my bike, I put it in gear, feeling that familiar vibration throughout my limbs. Only now, the feeling was a spiral instead of a comfort.
The night grew dark around me.
The salt in the air tasted like fear.
* * *
The clinic coming into view as I rounded the corner, and my heart kicked against my ribs like it was trying to break free. I could almost see her there, blonde hair catching the light, those green eyes scanning over some stray’s scraped paw. But the image was too ethereal, slipping through my fingers like sand.
The clinic's unlocked front door slammed against the wall as I barged in.
"Hannah!" My voice ricocheted, a desperate plea that went unanswered. The reception was deserted, the usual hum of the computers and clatter of pet tags absent.
I flipped the light switch, but nothing happened.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I muttered, my gaze darting around the ghostly quiet reception area. The place had a life of its own during the day, but at night, it took on a different persona—whispering secrets and hiding shadows that set every nerve on edge.
I pushed through to the back, where a single light flickered beyond the open back door, casting long, dancing shadows that played tricks on my eyes. My heart drummed a relentless beat, now thudding in my ears.
There was no sign of her, just overturned bottles and scattered papers—a scene of disarray that Hannah’s meticulous nature would never allow.
Whatever had transpired led through that back door.
“Damn it, Hannah. Where are you?” I rushed towards the open door, my breath hitching with every step. But when I got to the parking lot beyond, there was no one there. The only clue left behind was Hannah’s Mini Cooper, parked carefully by the fence.
This was it.
She had been here. And she had left against her will.
thirty-five
HANNAH
The rope bitinto my wrists like teeth of a rabid dog, each twist and turn of the coarse fibers rubbing raw the tender skin underneath. I stumbled again, cursing under my breath as the man behind me hurled me forward with an impatient shove.
