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“Your phone.” Jacob jostles my arm.
I shake my head. “My phone died hours ago.”
“Well, something’s buzzing.”
I twist around, eyeing our hockey bags. The lightbulb goes off, and the buzzing stops. I lunge for the zipper, almost falling into the backseat. I manage to find the burner phone, and almost immediately, it starts up again.
“Shit.” I answer it before Jacob can question it. “Hello?”
“Knox Whiteshaw, just the man I was hoping to speak with.” Luke Abernathy’s voice is ice-cold. “I’ve texted you a photo. Listen very closely…”
I put it on speakerphone, sinking back into my seat. Jacob glances down at it, then refocuses on the road. Abernathy details exactly how our game is going to go, in excruciating detail about points, goals, assists. Like he can orchestrate the whole thing.
Joel will play.
Church will play.
I will play.
And if none of us get on the ice, Aurora dies.
The effort it takes not to chuck the phone through the window at that is extreme.
He leaves out Jacob, though, which leads me to believe he doesn’t know about my best friend’s involvement.
We exchange another look when Abernathy ends the call, and I open the photo he sent. Aurora is in chains, hanging by her wrists. Her feet barely touch the floor.
My heart jumps into my throat.
“Okay.” Jacob blows out a breath. “Plan B. Don’t freak out.”
“I think we’re on Plan F—forfucked.” I cover my face. “This is a disaster. Iamfreaking out. Where the fuck is she?”
“We follow his rules and everything will be fine,” he assures me. “We’ve got nothing else to go on, Knox.”
“Or, we follow his rules and he decides that we’re actually good for something, and he has us do it again and again and again until we’re dead or arrested.” I glare at him. “Let me out.”
He squints at me. “What? Why?”
“You have his directions—I don’t know, make up something to Coach.”
“You don’t?—”
“I have his cloned phone.” I hold it up. “And I’m going to do something crazy. Okay? Okay.”
He pulls over, and I hop out.
“Just show up to the arena and act like everything is fine,” I tell him.
He grunts. I slam the door before he can tell me again that I’m an idiot. IknowI’m an idiot. I let Aurora walk out while I fucking slept like a baby.
I didn’t fight hard enough for her.
Goddamn it.
I open his phone and scroll through the settings. There’s an app that teenagers use—which is kind of strange for a grown man to have it, honestly—but it tracks location. I don’t know ifheknows that, because he’s at least thirty-five.
Shit, Melody is thirty-four.
