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Finn’s already got his phone in hand, dialing 911. “Call your PI,” he orders. “I need a copy of that footage,” he tells the security guys. Then he’s connected to emergency services and reporting a kidnapping.
“His back is to the camera the whole time, but I can tell you what he’s wearing,” says Finn.
“Finn.”
He holds up a finger. I shake my head. He tells the operator to hold on.
“It’s him,” I say. “It’s Barry.”
31
NATALIE
Agray SUV. Of course.
The man in the driver’s seat mutters under his breath, a jumble of swearing and some nonsense I don’t understand, getting more and more tense with every red light.
“Shit.” He fumbles in the console, finds what he’s after, and throws it back at me. The cloth lands in my lap, a blue bandana. It still has tags on it. “Put that on.”
“On?”
“Cover your eyes. Now.”
A blindfold. I hadn’t been paying close attention to the drive, because we were in the middle of the city and he didn’t head straight for a highway, but now all I see is big industrial buildings and construction equipment.
“Now, bitch.” His hand goes to his pocket, the one he used to show me his pistol.
I tie the blue cloth over my eyes, feeling sick.
Some interminable amount of time later, we stop. The engine cuts off. I hear those plastic bags I’d seen in the front seat rustling, and then I’m alone in the car. I have just enough time to break into a cold sweat, thinking he’s going to leave me locked in here when the door opens, and I’m yanked out of my seat by my arm. Stumbling over the rough ground—gravel, I think—in my heels.
Round-toe kitten heels. Nic loves these shoes.
A wave of homesickness and fear hits me hard. Nic and Finn have to have noticed my absence by now.
The man puts his sweaty hand under my arm, forcing me forward, and we’re walking. I’m manhandled through a door which clangs loudly, echoing in a huge space.
We could be in one of those warehouses we passed. Maybe. I try to make a mental note of anything that stands out, anything I can think of, anything to keep the panic at bay. My heart is pounding out of my chest.
“What do you want from me?”
“Shut your mouth,” mutters the man. A moment later, we’re through another door, this one smaller—no metal clanging this time, just the firm closure. A smaller space. A room or office, maybe. I’m shoved down into a chair and told to stay. Not hard to comply when my whole body is shaking so hard.
Rustling plastic bags again. He sounds close. I can hear a heavy whomping, like enormous fans turning somewhere in the building, but far away. Otherwise, there’s nothing. Nobody.
Oh, God.
My breath hitches, the panic rising faster than I can tamp it down.
We can’t have gone far, surely. The city just isn’t that big. We were only in the car a little while. I should have kept an eye on the clock. I should have paid better attention to which direction we were going. But nobody saw me with him, and I left the building voluntarily and?—
A hand grabs my ankle, and I kick hard, crying out. My foot connects, and I hear the man grunt.
“Fucking bitch.” I brace for a hit, but he goes for my ankle again, squeezing hard enough to hurt. “Sit fucking still.”
He’s tying me to the chair.
I start to struggle, kicking and shoving at anything I can get my hands on, scratching and pushing for all I’m worth. Before I can get my hands up enough to remove the blindfold, he’s there, pulling my hands behind me, some sticky tape going around and around my wrists. My fingertips are wet. I must have drawn blood.
