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“Where are you?” I demand.
“I’m going to fix things with my mom.”
“That’s her?” Griffin pulls on my arm, tugging the phone away from my ear. “Nat. Listen to me?—”
“I will come back, I swear,” she insists. “But I have to make things right.”
“But, Natalie, we found?—”
I shake my head at Griffin. She’s already ended the call before we could tell her what we’ve found. I have no idea exactly what it means, but I doubt she has the first clue what she’s gotten herself into.
20
NATALIE
They’ll understand. And even if they don’t, it’s not my problem. This is my journey. My mission. All I ask is that they stay the hell out of my way. It would be nice if they didn’t end up getting themselves hurt somehow. Who knows what the people Mom is working with would think if they knew people were on my trail. I’d feel guilty if anything happened to them, of course, even if I never asked them to follow me. What a surprise, a couple of stubborn men refusing to listen to reason.
Once I’ve ended the call, I stare out the windshield where an abandoned power plant stretches halfway to the sky. They definitely built them differently back in the day. Everything was grander, almost unnecessarily opulent. Now, it may as well be a crumbling castle, abandoned for who knows how long. The area around it is pretty grim, empty, overgrown, and forgotten. It fits my mood: dark and uncertain. This is most definitely the location Mom sent me, but I’m starting to wonder if it was a wise decision coming here alone. What has she led me to? There could be anything out here, hiding in waist-high weeds, crouched in shadows cast by the imposing structure.
A structure that is guarded even now. That tells me this isn’t merely an abandoned building. In front of the entrance—a gaping hole, thanks to the fact that the doors have been removed—are four black vans. Inside the building, there’s nothing but darkness from where I sit. What’s waiting? Or should I say, who?
Before I make another move, I take a photo with my phone and send it to Trent, Dallas, and Griffin. Between the three of them, they’ll be able to find it even if I give them no other information. Sort of an insurance policy in case things go tits up.
And now there’s nothing to do but what I came here for. My feet crunch loudly over broken glass as I approach, my eyes sweeping the area, searching for trouble. None has presented itself by the time I reach the entrance. I square my shoulders and remind myself Mom wouldn’t have sent me this address if I’d be in danger, then step into the darkness.
Where I am immediately descended upon by three men dressed in black, men who immediately overpower me without saying a word or even breathing hard. I should’ve known. I fight as hard as I can, kicking, twisting, and trying to use my lower center of gravity to knock them off their feet, but it’s no use. They have my number, making quick work of binding my hands behind my back and dragging me to what might have been an office at one point but is now nothing more than a dingy room with a floor whose tiles are half pried up and what looks like mold growing on the ceiling. Charming. And here I am, breathing it in.
At least they left my ankles unbound. Once I’m alone with the door locked, I work my way to my feet and pace the room dimensions. Eight by twelve. There’s enough light coming in through a grimy window that I can search for something sharp to cut through the duct tape around my wrists, one of which throbs more painfully than ever thanks to the fight. There area few random pieces of old furniture sitting around, including an old metal desk whose corners might do the trick. I should be able to cut the tape if I’m careful not to slice my wrists while I’m at it.
They didn’t rough me up too badly, though I’m sure that could change. What I want to know most of all is why. What’s it all about? Why bring me here if she knew I was only going to be thrown into what’s basically a cell?
It doesn’t take much time before I know. Before the lock clicks and the door opens, and I’m suddenly face-to-face with my mother.
At first, I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing. “Mom?” I whisper, squinting like that will do anything to change what’s in front of me. Like that will erase her black eye or reduce the swelling to the rest of her face.
Her peaches-and-cream complexion has gone red, purple, and green. A patchwork of bruises in various stages of freshness. Somebody has beaten the hell out of her, and more than once.
“What happened to you?” I whisper as horror squeezes my heart and tightens my chest until I can barely breathe.
“Don’t worry about it.” She always did have a way of sounding cold and dismissive when she didn’t want to discuss a certain topic. I don’t think it’s ever been this important, though. Did they do this to her? They’re supposed to be working for her, aren’t they? At least, that was always my belief.
She runs a hand over her limp blonde locks, taking a deep breath. “You came. I’m glad. I was hoping you would find a way.”
“Why did you want me to come here?” I keep my voice at a whisper in case there’s somebody listening outside.
“This is all part of the bigger plan.”
“And what is the bigger plan? You’ve never told me. You keep hinting at it, but how am I supposed to be a part of anything if you won’t tell me what you’re going to do?”
Rather than answer, she takes a seat in a wheeled chair with cracked vinyl covering its seat. Something squeals horribly, even though she barely weighs as much as a bird. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look this thin. “I hope you never have to make the sort of decision that’s been left to me. I hope you never know the sort of pain I’ve been through. It’s not the sort of pain that comes with a broken bone or a wound. It goes much deeper than that when it comes at the hand of your own child.”
Her eyes narrow, and her brows draw together. “It would’ve been bad enough, losing Jonathan. But the fact that your brother was behind it?—”
“Mom, how many times do I have to tell you?” I blurt out before she can finish. “That’s just not true.”
She rubs her hands over her slacks, which I notice are dirty and wrinkled. “What did he say to you? What did it take for him to brainwash you the way he has?” she asks, sounding disappointed.
She’s one to talk about brainwashing. Her brain is practically squeaky clean at this point. “I know he had nothing to do with it, Mom. He was devastated. It wasn’t his fault. Remember when we used to play out in the yard?” I ask suddenly, trying to laugh when all I want to do is sob. “All I ever wanted was to be like them. They were always brave and confident. They weren’t afraid of anything.”
