Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
My stomach turns.
No.
Don’t assume. Don’t spiral.
Think smart.
Stay present.
The van hits a pothole and my shoulder bangs against the side panel. Pain shoots down my arm. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood.
I keep listening. Minutes stretch into something elastic.
The van slows at one point, idles, then speeds up again. Maybe a stop sign. Maybe a light. Maybe a checkpoint. My mind is grasping at scraps.
Then the sound changes again—less traffic noise, more wind. The hum of tires shifts like we’ve turned onto a different kind of road.
Gravel. My stomach drops. We’re leaving the main roads. Going somewhere quiet.
Somewhere hidden. The van rattles, the suspension protesting. My pulse spikes.
I fight the urge to scream. Screaming won’t help. Screaming will make them angry. Screaming will waste my air.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, grounding myself in the physical sensation. I remember something a counselor once told me after a particularly brutal patient death: Name five things you can sense around you immediately. The reminders you are in the land of the living.
I can’t see. So I do the rest.
I feel the sting in my wrists. I feel the cold vinyl under my thighs. I hear the bass thumping from the front. I smell stale sweat and cleaner. I taste blood.
My brain steadies a fraction.
Think smart.
I try to slow my breathing to match the bass. In. Out. In. Out. The van turns again. The gravel gets rougher, louder. Then the van slows.
The engine idles.
A door handle rattles. Panic surges up my throat like bile. I swallow it down. The sliding door yanks open.
Fresh air rushes in, sharp and wet. I hear distant sounds—maybe trees moving, maybe nothing at all. Hands grab my arm again.
“Get up,” a voice orders.
My legs are stiff when I stand. Blood rushes to my feet in pins and needles. I sway. A hand grips my elbow harder, steadying me just enough to keep me moving.
They guide me out of the van.
The ground beneath my shoes is uneven—dirt, maybe. Rocks. Leaves.
Forest? My breath comes faster despite my efforts.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, forcing the words out.
No answer. I take another step, and another. A door creaks open somewhere close. A building.
They steer me forward.
Inside, the air changes—warmer, stale, the smell of old wood and dust. The floorboards creak.
The door shuts behind me.
Darkness on darkness.
My own heartbeat is so loud it’s a roar.
One of them moves behind me. I hear the snip of something.
The zip ties loosen.
My hands drop, numb and aching. I rub my wrists instinctively, but a hand slaps mine away.
“Don’t,” he warns.
Then the blindfold is yanked off.
Light stabs my eyes. I blink hard, tears spilling.
The room comes into focus in pieces—bare bulb overhead, peeling paint, a metal chair, a table with nothing on it. The windows are covered.
Two men stand in front of me.
Their faces are still partly hidden—hats, masks, shadows—but I can see enough to know they’re not teenagers playing a game.
They’re grown.
Capable.
And they’ve done this before.
One of them holds the photo of my grandfather again. He sets it on the table like it’s a contract. “We’re gonna ask you some questions,” he prepares me.
My throat tightens. “What questions?” I whisper.
He leans forward slightly. “You answer right,” he says calmly, “your granddad keeps breathing.”
The other man shifts, gun still in his hand, still pointed in my direction like I’m not a person, just a problem. I swallow, forcing myself to meet their eyes even though every instinct is screaming at me to look away.
Think smart.
Stay calm.
Be useful.
Stay alive.
My voice shakes but I make it work. “Okay,” I say. “Okay. I’ll answer.” I commit but I’m confused as to what I could answer to help any of these men.
And in my chest, beneath the terror, something hard begins to form. Not courage. Not yet. Just resolve.
Because I don’t know what they want. But I know what I have to do.
Survive this.
For Grandpa.
For me.
And—though the thought nearly breaks me—for Miles, who doesn’t know yet that something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.
Fifteen
Miles
By the time I cross into Bella Vista, I’m running on fumes and fury.
Smoke’s still tight behind me, steady as a shadow. We don’t stop unless we have to. Gas. Piss. That’s it. Every second feels stolen. Every mile too damn slow. The closer I get to her town, the worse the pressure in my chest gets. Danae didn’t make it home.
The words loop in my head like a curse.
We roll through familiar roads—roads I’ve ridden before when I came to see her. Trees crowd the edges. Fields stretch out in dull winter brown. The sky hangs low, heavy with the kind of gray that presses down on you.
I don’t go to her house first.
I don’t go to the hospital.
I don’t even go to the Saint’s Outlaws clubhouse like originally planned.
I go straight to Dr. Reeves’ address.