Page 72 of The Voicemail

I bite his hand. He yells and jerks back. I use the second to shove myself upright, lunging for the window button even though I already know it won’t work. The lock clicks uselessly under my thumb.

Someone grabs the back of my hoodie and yanks me away from the door. The fabric cuts into my throat. I claw at it, choking, and manage to drag in one thin breath before a black bag drops over my head. Everything goes dark.

The second I stop fighting, they move fast. My hands are dragged behind me, and plastic bites into my wrists. My shoulder screams when they cinch what must be zip ties, but I don’t give them the satisfaction of making a sound.

The bag smells like dust and old cigarettes. My breath bounces hot against my own face. I do everything I can to keep it slow and steady and try not to panic.

Panic won’t help Maya or me. It probably isn’t great for the very tiny person inside me either.

I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. The SUV turns right, then right again. Then straight for a while, though I have no way to know how far we’ve come. Traffic is louder on my side, which means we’re near a bigger avenue. Someone’s phone vibrates. One man smells like mint gum. The other smells like leather and sweat. There are at least three of them in the back with me, plus the driver.

The SUV slows. We take another right, then dip down a ramp or driveway. The air changes. Less exhaust. More wet concrete. The tires hum over a smoother surface, and the vehicle stops.

The engine cuts off and I hear the doors open. Cold air slips under the bag. Someone grabs my arm and drags me out. My feet hit concrete wrong, and my knee nearly buckles, but I catch myself before I fall.

“Move,” one of the men orders.

“I can’t see, genius.”

He shoves me forward.

My shoulder clips the SUV door, and pain shoots down my arm. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek.

We move through what sounds like a metal door. It slams behind us. The air shifts again, warmer now, carrying old fryer grease, bleach, and stale wine.

A chair scrapes somewhere ahead.

“Take that off her.”

I know the voice.

Every part of me goes cold.

The bag is pulled from my head, and light stabs my eyes. I blink hard, trying to force the room into focus.

Red leather booths. Stacked chairs. A long bar with half-empty shelves. Butcher paper covers the front windows from the inside, blocking the street. The place looks closed but not abandoned.

Then I see Tomaso. He’s standing near the bar with his hands at his sides, watching me like I’ve wounded him.

“Elena,” he says softly.

My skin crawls. “Where’s Maya?”

His expression tightens. “She’s safe.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

One of the men behind me jerks my arm.

Tomaso’s gaze snaps to him. “Don’t touch her like that.”

The man lets go. Interesting.

Tomaso steps closer. I force myself not to back up, partly because my hands are tied and partly because I refuse to give him the pleasure.

“You shouldn’t have run from me,” he says.