Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
My heartbeat is louder. We pass old pallets, abandoned machinery, trash bags stacked like bodies. My stomach twists.
There’s a man in the center of the warehouse. He’s tied to a chair, his head hanging forward. His shirt’s stained dark at the collar. His face is bruised. One eye swollen shut. His mouth split. He’s barely breathing.
My chest seizes. The men shove me down onto my knees beside him. My knees hit concrete hard, pain shooting up my legs. They grab my arms and pull me upright again, tying me to another chair. Rope this time. Rough and scratchy. It bites at my wrists, already irritated from the zip ties.
One of them yanks my chin up. “Sit still.”
I glare at him with every ounce of defiance I can find.
He laughs, then steps back.
The other man looks at the beaten stranger like he is a piece of furniture. “Don’t talk.”
Then they leave, their footsteps echoing away.
Silence floods the warehouse.
My breath is loud in my ears. The overhead light buzzes and flickers, making the shadows jump. I twist my wrists, testing the rope. It’s too tight. Too strong. I swallow back panic, forcing myself to look at the man beside me.
His head lifts slowly. His one good eye finds mine. It is bloodshot. Tired. Sharp anyway. He looks at me like he is seeing something impossible. His voice comes out rough, broken, but clear enough. “Salem,” he whispers.
My blood goes cold. He knows my name. I stare at him, my throat closing.
He swallows hard, wincing. “I’m sorry,” he rasps.
My voice shakes. “Who are you?”
His breath is shallow, and then he says the words that split the world in half. “I’m your father.” And the lights flicker again, like the building itself is holding its breath.
TWENTY-FOUR
OZZY
The nozzle clicks, and the sound is too normal for what my gut is screaming. I hang the pump back, cap the tank, and glance toward the store again. Through the front windows I can see the clerk behind the counter and two aisles of junk food. No Salem. No movement in the hallway entrance either. I wait a beat because I told myself she was just washing her hands or checking her face or breathing through the panic that never fully leaves.
Another beat passes. Then another. The uneasy feeling that has lived under my skin since the warehouse lead crawls up my spine and hooks in deep.
Salem does not take this long. Not when she’s nervous. Not when she wants back in the car. Not when she knows we are exposed in a public place.
I step toward the entrance and the bell jingles as I push the door open. Warm air hits my face along with the smell of burnt coffee. The clerk barely looks up. My eyes sweep the room fast. Two customers at the far end. One at the cooler. Nobody who looks like her.
I keep my voice controlled. “Restrooms.”
The clerk jerks his chin toward the hallway like he cannot be bothered.
I move down the hallway with my pulse already climbing. The lights buzz overhead. The restroom door is shut. I knock once. “Salem.”
No answer.
I push the door open.
Empty.
My stomach drops so hard it feels like someone punched me from the inside. I step into the restroom, scanning the corners like she could be hiding behind the trash can. The sink drips. The mirror is spotted. The air smells like cheap soap and stale fear.
Salem’s gone.
I back out, moving faster now, head snapping left and right. The hallway is empty. The side door at the end is slightly ajar, and cold air cuts through like a blade.
Fuck no.
I jog to it and shove it open, stepping outside into the rear of the store where the light is weaker and the shadows are thicker. My eyes catch tire tracks in damp gravel and a smear on the wall like someone was shoved against it.
My chest goes tight and hot. Rage and panic rise together, a violent mix that makes it hard to breathe. I spin back around the building and reach the front lot. I scan the road, the pumps, the far end of the lot. Nothing.
My hands shake as I grab my phone. Fuck, this is my fault. I’m an idiot. I let her out of my sight. I ignored the knot in my gut because I wanted to get her back to Rainmaker and pretend we were safe for another hour. I wanted to believe the world would give her a break.
I call Dean first. He answers on the second ring, calm like always. “Ozzy.”
“Salem’s gone,” I say. My voice sounds rough, like I swallowed gravel. “Kidnapped. Again. Gas station off the highway, ten minutes from Rainmaker. She went to the restroom, and she never came back out.”
There’s a pause, quick and sharp, the sound of a mind shifting into mission mode. “Any witnesses,” Dean asks.