Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“Samantha! Jim!” I yell, and my voice echoes back to me in the empty space.
“Unnnngh . . .” A groan sounds out from the far side of the desk.
Running that direction, I see Jim on the floor. “Oh, my God, Jim! What happened?”
He’s trying to move, but his face is contorted in pain and his jaw is locked tight. “Sa . . . man . . . tha . . .” he stutters out.
I realize he’s trying to point down the hall and sprint that way.
“No, no, no, no . . .” I say over and over. I don’t know what I’m saying no about, but nothing can have happened to her. I need her to be okay. “Samantha!”
In the room she holds her sessions in, I spy her phone and bag on the table. But it’s otherwise empty. No Samantha.
Running back to Jim, I find Carter and Luna standing next to him and my other brothers and Kayla coming in.
“What’re you doing here?” I say, but I don’t wait for an answer. “Jim! What happened?”
“I’ve already called 9-1-1,” Kayla says. “He keeps saying Samantha and I think Stephen? Or maybe it’s SamStephen? I don’t know, he’s slurring pretty badly.”
“That’s how he always talks,” I tell her as I drop closer to him, turning my ear toward his mouth so I can listen carefully. “Say it again, Jim. Who was here?”
“Sa-me-than,” he mumbles.
“See? Does that make sense to you?” Kayla asks.
Confused, I say, “Stephen? They might’ve had a counseling appointment? I don’t know her schedule.”
Jim makes a noise, and Cameron kneels down, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Try to be quiet. Help’s on the way. I think you’re having a heart attack.”
But Jim’s not having it. He takes a big breath, the pain causing his left shoulder to lift up almost to his ear. “Stun. Gun. Took. Her.”
There’s a beat where we all hear what he said without processing it, and then . . .
I get right in Jim’s face. Nose to nose, I look in his eyes. “Stephen took Samantha? He stun gunned you? Is that what you’re saying?” I demand urgently.
Despite the pain, he’s clear-eyed and fights to nod. “Tried to stop him.”
“Oh, my God,” Luna gasps.
The reality of the situation has become so much worse. Samantha isn’t missing. She’s been kidnapped.
“I’m calling 9-1-1 back to let them know we need the police,” Kayla says.
“I’ll call her mom,” Luna says.
This is my fault. I brought her here to help these guys, told her she’d be safe when she warned me that there’s no such thing, and exposed her to a threat none of us saw coming. And now?
I don’t know where she is. I don’t know how to save her.
“Samantha,” I whisper, the heavy weight of guilt and fear shattering my heart in my chest.
Cole slaps the shit out of me, his palm sending my face flying sideways as the smack echoes in the hallway. “No time for that right now. Pull it together, man. Tell us about Stephen. Why would he do this? Where would he go? Think.”
I fucking needed that.
Refocused, my brain starts spinning. “He’s a nice guy, one of the actual nice guys . . . I thought . . .”
Samantha
“Wakey-wakey,” a voice says from far away.
My head throbs, and I wonder how long I’ve been asleep. It’s kinda like one of those naps where you mean to sleep for twenty minutes but wake up the next day not knowing what year it is.
But this feels worse than that, and my bed feels hard as a rock, making my whole body sore as I try to sit up a bit.
I blink, trying to force my eyes open, but it’s like they won’t respond.
SMACK!
Something slaps across my face hard, popping me in the cheek right below my left eye. “Ungh!” I groan at the sharp flash of pain. That cut me, I’m certain. But it does help me get my eyes to flutter open a bit.
“There you are,” a blurry figure says.
The voice is familiar, but somehow not.
“What . . . what’s going on?” I mumble.
Now that I’ve pried my eyes open, I can see around me if I concentrate hard enough, but it hurts my head. Still, I force my gaze to zero in on things one at a time.
I’m in a room that looks . . . unfinished? Around me is raw drywall, beneath me is concrete subfloor, and there are tools and dust everywhere. There’s a work light shining creepily at the ceiling, throwing shadows everywhere. The place doesn’t look familiar at all.
But the face of the man kneeling in front of me does.
“Stephen?” I say in confusion. “Something’s wrong. My head—”
“Yeah, you hit it pretty hard when you fell.”
His voice is flat and emotionless, but for a split second, I think he’s here to help me. I don’t remember what happened or how I got here, but Stephen will help.