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“I don’t know. I didn’t even know he was going to take her at all. I thought—I didn’t know.”
“Call him. Find out.”
She lifts her phone and uses a trembling hand to punch in a number before she listens a moment. Her lips press together, and she lowers the phone, shaking her head. “No answer. I’m sure she’s okay. Maybe she’s in my house. The code to get in is 1225. Just go in and see.” She grabs her purse. “I’m coming, too.”
She’s going nowhere but to hell.
I step away from the table and start walking, only to find Savage waiting for me at the door. I exit the shop first, and he follows. “Well?”
“She knew my father was going to scare Alana. She says she didn’t know he was going to take her. She’s full of shit.” We reach the vehicle, and I climb inside with Savage on my heels to find Blake sitting across from us.
“Tell me you found her,” I demand.
“Still looking,” Blake says tightly. “She has to be in the building.”
I feel this announcement with a punch in the gut. “Her mother gave me the code to her apartment. I need whoever is closest to that apartment to go in and see if Alana is there now, right now.”
“Already done,” Blake replies. “I hacked it. She’s not there.”
My chin lowers to my chest with the impact of the words, and Blake speaks over his shoulder. “Back to the building,” he instructs the driver.
“How the hell did they get past you?” I demand.
“They were already in the building,” he says. “It’s the only way. In one of the apartments where Alana has to be now. We’re going to have to go door-to-door to find her. I’m pulling up the floor plans now to dig into who lives where.”
My mind processes the implications of what he’s just said to me. Blake believes she’s still in the building, that we still have a chance to find her, to save her. And I want to believe him. With every part of me, I want to believe him.
I tell myself Walker is too good for her to be anywhere else. But there’s a clawing sensation inside me, scraping away at the dread and fear, consuming every pore of my existence. What if Blake is wrong? What if Alana’s gone and I never get her back?
Chapter Thirteen
Alana
I wake with a gasp and sit up ramrod straight, disoriented by thick shadows and cool air, with a low hum in my ears. I blink twice before I realize that I’m not only queasy, but on top of a strange twin-sized bed in a room I don’t recognize. Adrenaline surges through me, and I throw my legs off the side of the bed to stare at a shut door. Spots float in front of me for a moment, but I somehow manage to check my body and ensure I’m not naked. I’m not, thank God, and somehow, I’m clear-minded enough to know I’m still wearing the jeans I’d changed into at the Jersey safe house.
I twist around to the window behind the bed, only to suck in air from the dizziness created by the rapid action, and with nothing good to show for it. The window is not a window at all. It’s framed concrete, bizarre, and purposeless, which brings my gaze to the nightstand and the low burn of a basic lamp with a white shade. “What is this?” I whisper, terrified, but also thankful I’m still alive. I search for my phone, both on my person and around the bed and then the floor, but it’s not with me. Of course, it’s not with me. My captors would never allow me a form of communication.
My captors.
I let that horrid statement sink in a moment.
I’ve been kidnapped, and there is no doubt in my mind Damion’s father did this to me. No, to him. He’s punishing Damion for daring to love me. For boldly choosing me over him and his agenda for Damion’s life. Anger knots in my belly like a thick rope. I tried to protect Damion by going public, and I know he’s losing his mind right now. I don’t even want to think about what he will do to his father.
I try to stand, only to sway and sit back down, holding my head, a flashback of the man crowding me in the elevator and a needle in my neck, telling me I’ve been drugged. Memories of the things Damion has shared with me break through the fog and land with grotesque clarity. His father has killed before he killed my father. I’d foolishly believed my television persona would allow me to publicly accuse him of killing my father, and remain safe, but I’ve poked a vicious bear.
What was I thinking?
He’ll ensure my disappearance looks random—maybe rape and murder—and the idea crawls through me, insidious, a snake with a venomous bite.
I’m not a weak person, but I start to tremble all over. There’s no way out of this.
I’m going to die.
And Damion will never forgive himself. He’ll kill his father, and he’ll end up in jail.
This is the end of us both.
No. No. No! I scream in my head. No!
