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Andre drags me through a doorway, and I stare at the tiny room in confusion before the sound of doors sliding shut clues me in.
It’s an elevator.
The ground beneath my feet starts to move, and I twist in Andre’s hold to look at the floor indicator.
When it changes from one to two, I let out my breath.
Nothing about this situation is good, but I feel like going below ground would somehow be worse.
The number changes to a three as the elevator slows to a stop.
Andre doesn’t give me any sort of warning; he just starts walking, painfully yanking my hair with every step.
I’d kill for my crossbow right now.
I try to pay attention. Try to focus on how many doors we pass and which way we’re walking. But it all looks the same. Same stupid slippery floors. Same lack of taste.
I’m pulled to a stop as Andre opens a dark wood door. I barely get a glimpse of the room before he shoves me forward so hard that I fall. My hip connects with the floor first, and a jolt of pain shoots through my body.
Groaning, I roll onto my knees, readying myself for whatever is coming next.
But Andre doesn’t follow me in. He slams the door shut between us, and I hear a lock turn. From the outside.
“You’re such a little bitch!” I yell and frantically rub at my hip, trying to soothe the sting.
When the pain subsides enough to move again, I climb to my feet and take in the room.
It’s an empty office.
And it’s as pretentious as the rest of the house.
On one side of the room is a seating area with three high-back chairs covered in green velvet and a glass and gold coffee table, all on top of a patterned rug. On the other side of the room is a giant dark-stained desk in front of matching bookcases that cover the entire wall behind it. But the shelves are empty, and that might be the worst part about this room. Then again, it could be the orange silk curtains surrounding the wall of windows across from me.
It’s like someone went into random furniture stores and bought the most expensive things they could find and expected them to work together.
Money really doesn’t buy taste.
Of course, I think of Hans.
Sweet, quiet neighbor Hans. Who lives alone in a small house, has a normal vehicle, and wears plain clothes. But apparently has more money than I could even imagine.
Tears build in my eyes again, but this time, I can’t blame Evil Andre.
I’m scared.
And I miss Hans.
I sniff and sniff again.
Be sad, but be productive.
Wiping the back of my hand across my cheek, I’m reminded I was hit in the face recently and wince.
Okay, tears can stay.
I turn back to the door I was pushed through and try the handle.
It doesn’t budge.
