How to explain? I certainly can’t tell the truth. This is a conversation I’ll have to have a hundred times—starting at lunch with my agent and editor. “I decided I needed to see the world,” I say, which narrowly avoids being a lie. “So I flew to Paris and then took a tour in the countryside. Ended up in Italy, and now I’m home.”
He whistles. “Very nice. And impulsive. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”
That makes me laugh. “I didn’t think I had it in me, either.”
And that part, at least, is the truth. I survived a kidnapping and imprisonment in a French church. I escaped a high-security appartamente in Paris. I evaded ex-military forces and confronted an international thug. That’s the reason why I don’t quite fit into my life here; I’ve become someone else, someone who can do those things.
Bemused, I pay for my mocha frappe and head outside.
A man sits on the corner stroking a guitar. The sound filters through the bustle and honking.
Sunlight bounces off cars that zoom around each other on the busy street, a rush of yellow taxis and black Ubers. A few delivery trucks and vans break up the color.
From a few streets away I hear shouting. Some kind of parade or maybe a protest. From here they sound the same. A memory rises in my consciousness. Twelve months ago there had been a protest outside the airport in Paris. Shouting that suddenly grew quiet as I rounded a corner.
It seems almost like a dream when the white van careens into my sight. It swerves hard toward the curb. My body knows what’s happening before my brain does. I’m already taking a step back. The mocha frappe falls to the ground. The guitar’s song ends on a clashing note.
Time slows down.
I can smell the exhaust from the street, the garbage from the sewer. I can feel the hum of the city beneath my feet. I’m turning, running, racing toward the coffee shop. It’s become my safe haven in this moment. If I can just make it to the flickering neon latte, I’ll escape.
The white van speeds past me and splashes a puddle onto my slacks.
I stand there feeling stupid, so damn stupid. My drink is spilled, the man with the guitar is gaping at me. What’s wrong with me? It was twelve months ago that the white van abducted me in Paris. That wouldn’t happen to the same girl twice.
The odds would prevent that, wouldn’t they?
There’s heat behind me. A presence. I turn but time’s still slowed down to a crawl. I only have a glimpse of a black SUV, and then something dark covers my face. A hood. I scream, but it’s muffled. Hands are firm and careful as they tie my wrists behind my back.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” says a voice that sounds familiar.
Alarm streaks through me.
He’s lying. He has to be lying, so I strike out with my foot. It connects with hard muscle and bone. There’s a muttered curse word, and then I push myself away from his hold. It only succeeds in knocking me against the side of the SUV, and then everything fades away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Holly
My eyes open to pitch black.
I wait for the room to come into focus. I could be staying anywhere—a farmhouse in France, a penthouse in Italy. Nothing happens. This is the complete kind of darkness, the kind without even shadows. My lungs burn, as if I’ve been holding my breath. I gulp down damp and moldy air. I curl my fingers against stone. Faintly slick. Gently warm.
Where am I?
Memories drop into my mind like rain in a puddle. I remember the long flight and fear for my sister. I remember the man playing the guitar on the street.
A shudder works its way through my body, lingering in aches and tension, waking up pain as it goes. I move myself to a sitting position with a soft groan. The floor feels slightly uneven, large stone tiles strewn across the floor.
I crawl forward. Something hard meets my face. My fists close around iron bars.
No. Not again.
This is a dream. It has to be a dream. Doesn’t it?
The darkness closes in on me. It becomes a tactile force, squeezing my lungs. I don’t want to stay here, in this pitch-black prison. I can’t stay here. There’s no oxygen. I gasp through the fist around my throat. I’m going to die here, before anyone can touch me, and that seems almost like a gift, except that the body fights anyway. It wants to live.
“Breathe,” comes a voice from the inky void. I choke on air.
“Elijah,” I gasp out. It’s twisted that I’d actually be relieved to have him here. Anything is better than being alone right now. Even the presence of the man I left behind.
There’s quiet.
I’m not alone in the dark, though. My fists curl around iron. “Answer me.”
“I’m not Elijah.” And he’s not. He’s missing the rough timbre of Elijah’s low voice. His voice is more fluid and slightly accented. I recognize it immediately.
“Adam,” I say, wondering. And then again. “Adam.”
I become a force of fury. I fly toward his voice, not even caring if there are iron bars between us. There aren’t, there’s only air. And I land on him with my fists and my fear. I beat against his strong chest, using it to channel all of this horror.
“How dare you,” I gasp out. “How dare you keep doing this.”
“Calm yourself, ma petite,” he says, grasping my wrists in the darkness. “I’m not the one who brought you here. I’m not the one you’re angry at.”
I’m still struggling, inconsolable. “I don’t care. I don’t care.”
He has the temerity to laugh, a soft chuckle that makes me more angry. “Then beat me until I’m broken. I think I might welcome the pain tonight. It would make the symmetry complete.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, yanking away from him. I stagger backward, tripping over an uneven stone tile, falling to the rough ground.
“Are you all right?”
“No,” I say, tears pricking my eyes. God, I don’t want to cry in front of him. He won’t be able to see me, but he can hear it, sense it. The new Holly is stronger than that. I clench my teeth together and lift my head. “Why did you kidnap me again?”
“I will say it again, though you will not believe me. I did not kidnap you. I’m as much a prisoner as you are, this time around, ma petite.”
A match strikes, and flame reaches through the bars. The first thing I see is Adam, disheveled and dirty, leaning against the wall, looking a little worse for the wear. Only next do I look through the iron bars at the man who’s holding us here.
The man who abducted me off the New York City streets.
“Hi,” I whisper as if we’re meeting for the first time.
Elijah gives me a small nod, his voice low and grave. “Hi back.”
“What are you doing there?” It’s a dumb question. An obvious question. I can’t help but ask it because I don’t want to imagine the obvious answer.
“I’m exacting a little revenge,” he says.
I begin to tremble, even though it’s not cold here. Not like France. “Where are we?”
“We’re still in New York City.”
“You’re insane. You can’t just do this. You can’t just kidnap me here.”