Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
My pulse hammers, and my stomach twists as I drive. Every second ticks slower than it should. Every red light, every idle driver on the stretch of road in front of me, feels like a personal obstacle, a countdown to something worse.
Betty’s words loop in my head, a mantra I can’t shake: She should enjoy her early nights while she can. She’s about to disappear.
I grit my teeth. My hands tighten on the wheel until the veins stand out across my skin. I’ve raced towards deadlines before, bargained deals under pressure, but this is different. This is her. My mind keeps playing through the possibilities: she’s alright. He just wants to frighten her. He wouldn’t dare do anything to her. He’s not a murderer. Maybe. But deep down, I know that wouldn’t explain the terror in Betty’s voice.
The industrial district approaches, the streets emptying of life. It’s like a ghost town, full of rusted warehouses, broken windows, weeds cracking through the concrete. Faded signage swings in the wind. My stomach knots tighter with each turn of the wheel.
And then I see it. Unit seventeen. Joseph’s old warehouse. Seventeen, Hawthorne Trading Estate. A forgotten relic of shipping containers and dreams that never quite left the ground. It looks abandoned. Dead. But I know enough to sense when something isn’t right. And every one of my senses is screaming at me right now.
I park a short distance away, not daring to go closer in case I am seen. There are no cars I recognize here. No lights on. Nothing to suggest activity. Nothing that confirms my fears or eases them.
I step out of my car, my boots crunching over gravel. The cold bites at my cheeks, sharp against the adrenaline coursing through me. I start walking along the side of the building, scanning every shadow, every corner. The wind whistles through small gaps in the corrugated metal. The warehouse seems impossibly still. Too still.
The back door is slightly ajar. My pulse spikes. Then my cell phone rings. I fumble it out of my pocket to silence it as I don’t want to give myself away. That door being open means something. Either Jo is indeed in danger and giving myself away might mean I can’t save her, or she is perfectly fine, and Sheldon has brought her here for some legit reason. In that event, I don’t want either of them to spot me and know I came here like some action hero in one of those bad movies I told her I liked watching.
The screen lights up with her name. Jo. Relief floods through me so hard I nearly drop the cell phone. My hands shake as I swipe to answer. If she’s in there and she hears me, I don’t care. She can torment me about this for the rest of my life as long as she’s ok.
“Jo …”
A deep, distorted voice cuts me off. It’s not Jo. It’s mechanical, flat, completely unrecognizable. Whoever this is has to be using some sort of voice-disguising software. I still know exactly who it is, though. Sheldon. It has to be. The idea of Jo going to his apartment, being grabbed as she was leaving and being brought here of all places by someone else is too far-fetched to even consider.
“You want to see her alive?” the voice hisses. “Then do exactly as you’re told.”
My stomach drops.
“Who is this?” I ask evenly, forcing myself to sound calm. “Where’s Jo?”
There’s a pause filled only by the faint, mechanical hum of breathing.
“You don’t ask questions. You obey.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who is this?”
I play it like I would have if I had no idea what was going on, and I got this call. I feel like me knowing it’s Sheldon and Sheldon not knowing that I know this might work to my advantage.
“Money. You’ll pay what is required if you want her unharmed. Fail, and she dies.”
“Look, this isn’t funny. Put her on the phone now,” I snap, just as I would if I didn’t know anything.
“Axel.”
It’s Jo’s voice. She is alive if nothing else. But she sounds terrified. I resist the urge to burst in there now because he must be close to her if she’s talking on the cell phone he’s holding. He could hurt her if I startled him.
“There. Now, no more messing around. You will do what I say,” the mechanical voice growls.
I pretend to play along. “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll sort it out. You don’t need to hurt her.”
“You will follow my instructions exactly. No deviations.”
I bite back the urge to threaten him. I can’t. My priority is her. “Of course,” I say quickly.
A low chuckle, warped by the software, fills my ears. “Keep your cell phone on. My instructions will follow.”
Then the line goes dead.