Prologue
KAYLA
The last thing I remember when I wake up is getting whacked on the back of my head after hearing an ominous male whisper from behind—“now she’ll understand what it feels like to lose everything”—while I was checking on the stove in the kitchen.
Marina, the owner, had texted to let me know she forgot to switch the stove off and asked me to check on it. I was surprised she did because she never forgets anythingandlives closer to the diner than I do.
I got her text and tried calling back, but she didn’t pick up. It didn’t strike me as odd, though, because, well... Marinaisodd. So, I drove to the diner, walked into the kitchen… and everything afterward is a big, fat nada. I think I blacked out, considering I don’t remember being put in the pantry, where I’m lying on the floor with my hands tied behind my back. The strong scent of bread and cinnamon invading my nostrils. Yeah, it had to be the pantry.
I try to pry my eyes open through the thunderous pounding in my head, but it freakin’hurts. I wince at another internalboomof pain.Ouch.
As I manage to finally open my eyes and look around, I start to understand the full extent of the little pickle I seem to have gotten myself into. At first, I don’t see a single shred of light, but as my eyes adjust, I notice a slight flickering under the door leading to the kitchen… followed by the stench of smoke.Oh, fuck.
I try to yank on my restraints, but they must be formed from zip ties pulled tight, because some sort of plastic digs into my skin, worsening when I move my wrists. My attempts turn fruitless and painful mighty fast. More smoke creeps in, and my head begins pounding even more violently.
I feel like I’m on the verge of a stroke—my blood pressure must have skyrocketed after what was surely a pretty hard hit to the head, resulting in me falling into the abyss I’m slowly climbing out from, paired with the spiking anxiety from waking up in the darkness trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.
I’ve been struck in the head before—where I grew up, getting a concussion was just another Wednesday—but that was nothing remotely close to this. Smoke inhalation along with head trauma… that doesn’t sound like a healthy combination.
Ceding to the ties, I peer around in hopes of finding something to cut them. Thankfully, my eyes eventually adjust to the complete darkness, so I can faintly grasp the shapes of objects around me again, but I know well enough that the only arsenal this five-by-five pantry possesses is piles of canned foods, pasta boxes, and rolls. There won’t be anything sharp in here unless you consider bread a weapon—which I do, but only for my love handles.
I try to stop panicking for a second. I can still walk with my hands tied behind my back. Lightbulb moment over here.
I’m dizzy but manage to stand up and wobble to the door. With my back turned to it, I try to pull the handle down, but it’s locked. Figures. If somebody went through all the trouble of shoving me in here, they’d make sure the dang door is locked. A girl can still hope the bad guy hasn’t got a whole lotta brain cells floating around in his head, right?
How do I get myself out of this? I’ve never been abducted before, so all the knowledge I have is from movies and logic.
Well, logic is telling me that I can do much better if my hands aren’t tied behind my back. Unfortunately, there are no sharp objects in close proximity available. I pull the restraints again, going as far as trying to pull them through my feet from behind my back—a feat that appears much easier in movies than in reality.
There’s more smoke now, and I start coughing, my vision blurring as heat rises to my face. I’m about to black out again.Fuck.
“Kayla!” A voice comes through the door, cutting through the haze of smoke and confusion of my fading-away consciousness. “Kayla, where are you?” The voice is louder now, and I try to peel my eyes open. I try to say something, but my tongue is swollen and refuses to cooperate, so only a pitiful moan comes out, barely audible.
“Kayla!” the voice keeps calling, and it sounds awfully like Justin Attleborough—the same Justin Attleborough who hates my guts. “Kayla!” He sounds close, and I try to say something back, but only a barking cough comes out. “She’s in there!” His voice is closer now, and the door comes flying open with a loudthud.
Justin Attleborough’s enormous frame barrels through the door, and he immediately drops to his knees in front of me.
“Fuck, what happened to you?” he says, touching my cheek with… ashakinghand?
What’s going on? Is the end of the world upon us?I suddenly forget that I’m tied up in the pantry and the diner is ablaze because Justin fucking Attleborough, a man who only sneers and growls at me, calling melovelynames like “trailer trash” and so on, is touching my cheek too gingerly for my comfort. His eyes are frantic with worry.
He draws his hand away, and a red stain is smeared on his palm. Oh crap, is that my blood? Am I bleeding? I hadn’t felt it. I try to touch my head, forgetting my hands are still bound.
“My hands,” I croak.
“Jus, it’s getting fucking bad in here— hurry the fuck up!” A voice shouts—it sounds like Alex. Alex is here too?
“Are you hurt somewhere else?” Justin ignores the call, inspecting my head.
“I don’t think so,” I say with a slight headshake, causing another wave of nausea to roll through my body.If I throw up on Justin Attleborough right now, I will voluntarily die in this fire.
“Justin!” Alex shouts again, just as more smoke barrels inside the small space.
“We need to go,” Justin says, poking his head through the pantry doorway. Whatever he sees makes him wince.
I try to move forward, but my knees meet the tiled floor with a painful thump. “Fuck,” I hiss. Justin’s next to me in a second. He sweeps one arm under my knees and another under my back, lifting me up as if I’m no heavier than a stuffed animal.
The restraints pull tighter, but I don’t complain because smoke is everywhere, and it’s getting difficult to breathe; the only thing I want right now is to get out of here and suck in a lungful of pure air.
