Guilty Minds (Little Hope #2)

Prologue

K AYLA

The last thing I remember when I wake up is getting whacked on the back of my head after hearing an ominous male whisper from behind— “Now she’ll understand what it feels like to lose everything”— while I was checking on the stove in the kitchen.

Marina, the owner, had texted to let me know she forgot to switch the stove off and asked me to check on it. I was surprised she did because she never forgets anything and lives closer to the diner than I do.

I got her text and tried calling back, but she didn’t pick up.

It didn’t strike me as odd, though, because, well…

Marina is odd. So, I drove to the diner, walked into the kitchen…

and everything afterward is a big fat nada.

I think I blacked out, considering I don’t remember being put in the pantry, where I’m lying on the floor with my hands tied be hind my back—the strong scent of bread and cinnamon invading my nostrils. Yeah, it had to be the pantry.

I try to pry my eyes open through the thunderous pounding in my head, but it freakin’ hurts . I wince at another internal boom of pain. Ouch.

As I manage to finally open my eyes and look around, I start to understand the full extent of the little pickle I seem to have gotten myself into.

At first, I don’t see a single shred of light, but as my eyes adjust, I notice a slight flickering under the door leading to the kitchen…

followed by the stench of smoke. Oh, fuck.

I try to yank on my restraints, but they must be formed from zip ties pulled tight, because some sort of plastic digs into my skin, worsening when I move my wrists. My attempts turn fruitless and painful mighty fast. More smoke creeps in, and my head begins pounding even more violently.

I feel like I’m on the verge of a stroke—my blood pressure must have skyrocketed after what was surely a pretty hard hit to the head, resulting in me falling into the abyss I’m slowly climbing out from, paired with the spiking anxiety from waking up in the darkness trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

I’ve been struck in the head before—where I grew up, getting a concussion was just another Wednesday—but that was nothing remotely close to this. Smoke inhalation along with head trauma… that doesn’t sound like a healthy combination.

Ceding to the ties, I peer around in hopes of finding something to cut them.

Thankfully, my eyes eventually adjust to the complete darkness, so I can faintly grasp the shapes of objects around me again, but I know well enough that the only arsenal this five-by-five pantry possesses is piles of canned foods, pasta boxes, and rolls.

There won’t be anything sharp in here unless you consider bread a weapon—which I do, but only for my love handles.

I try to stop panicking for a second. I can still walk with my hands tied behind my back. Lightbulb moment over here.

I’m dizzy but manage to stand up and wobble to the door.

With my back turned to it, I try to pull the handle down, but it’s locked.

Figures. If somebody went through all the trouble of shoving me in here, they’d make sure the dang door is locked.

A girl can still hope the bad guy hasn’t got a whole lotta brain cells floating around in his head, right?

How do I get myself out of this? I’ve never been abducted before, so all the knowledge I have is from movies and logic.

Well, logic is telling me that I can do much better if my hands aren’t tied behind my back.

Unfortunately, there are no sharp objects in close proximity.

I pull the restraints again, going as far as trying to pull them through my feet from behind my back—a feat that appears much easier in movies than in reality.

There’s more smoke now, and I start coughing, my vision blurring as heat rises to my face. I’m about to black out again. Fuck.

“Kayla!” A voice comes through the door, cutting through the haze of smoke and confusion of my fading-away consciousness.

“Kayla, where are you?” The voice is louder now, and I try to peel my eyes open.

I try to say something, but my tongue is swollen and refuses to cooperate, so only a pitiful moan comes out, barely audible.

“Kayla!” the voice keeps calling, and it sounds awfully like Justin Attleborough—the same Justin Attleborough who hates my guts.

“Kayla!” He sounds close, and I try to say something back, but only a barking cough comes out.

“She’s in there!” His voice is closer now, and the door comes flying open with a loud thud .

Justin Attleborough’s enormous frame barrels through the door, and he immediately drops to his knees in front of me.

“Fuck, what happened to you?” he says, touching my cheek with… a shaking hand?

What’s going on? Is the end of the world upon us?

I suddenly forget that I’m tied up in the pantry and the diner is ablaze because Justin fucking Attleborough, a man who only sneers and growls at me, calling me lovely names like ‘trailer trash’ and so on, is touching my cheek too gingerly for my comfort. His eyes are frantic with worry.

He draws his hand away, and a red stain is smeared on his palm. Oh crap, is that my blood? Am I bleeding? I hadn’t felt it. I try to touch my head, forgetting my hands are still bound.

“My hands,” I croak.

“Jus, it’s getting fucking bad in here—hurry the fuck up!” A voice shouts—it sounds like Alex. Alex is here too?

“Are you hurt somewhere else?” Justin ignores the call, inspecting my head.

“I don’t think so,” I say with a slight headshake, causing another wave of nausea to roll through my body. If I throw up on Justin Attleborough right now, I will voluntarily die in this fire.

“Justin!” Alex shouts again, just as more smoke barrels inside the small space.

“We need to go,” Justin says, poking his head through the pantry doorway. Whatever he sees makes him wince.

I try to move forward, but my knees meet the tiled floor with a painful thump. “Fuck,” I hiss. Justin’s next to me in a second. He sweeps one arm under my knees and another under my back, lifting me up as if I’m no heavier than a stuffed animal.

The restraints pull tighter, but I don’t complain because smoke is everywhere, and it’s getting difficult to breathe; the only thing I want right now is to get out of here and suck in a lungful of pure air.

The moment we come out of the pantry, I see the damage: flames are licking at the counters, the tables, and the walls. Alex Crawley, Justin’s best friend and Freya’s boyfriend, is trying to stop the spread with what appears to be wet kitchen towels.

Don’t we own a fire extinguisher? I glance to where it’s supposed to be, and the spot is empty. Huh. Whoever decided to make my day friggin’ suck was damn thorough about it.

Outside, Justin sets me on the ground and pulls a pocketknife from his…

well, pocket. He not-so-gently spins me around and cuts the ties.

Blood instantly rushes to my hands, followed by a painful tingling—I must have been bound for longer than I thought.

I bring my hands to my chest and begin rubbing my wrists, chafed red and raw from the tight ties.

“You okay?” Alex asks me, his words slurring a little.

Is he close to a PTSD episode? Did the fire trigger something?

I meet his gaze. There’s no panic in his eyes.

I relax a little. At least he’s all right.

Seeing my nod, he turns to Justin, who’s sitting next to me on the asphalt and surveying the side of my head, wet with blood. “I have to go, Jus.”

Justin nods. “Yeah, go. Make sure she’s okay.”

“Who?” Unease settles in the pit of my stomach.

“Freya got attacked by her ex.”

“What?” I whip my head around, which causes another ripple of nausea to rise up my throat—not like the previous time when it was just a slight possibility, but a real close-to-vomiting wave. I choke it down, wincing at the acidic burn. “Is she alright?”

“She will be,” he says confidently, but I know better. He cares about Freya deeply, and not in a ‘want-her-between-the-sheets’ way, which is new for him. He cares for her because she’s his friend. The one woman who somehow managed to draw him, the resident hermit of Little Hope, out of his shell.

It can’t be a coincidence, the attack on me and the one on Freya. My attack must be connected to Erik, Freya’s abusive ex too.

That hissed sentence comes to mind: “She’ll know what it feels like to lose everything.” It was him for sure, thinking that I mean a lot to her. I know she means a lot to me.

“Is she hurt?” I whisper.

“No, I don’t think so. Just shaken up.” After a pause, he adds, “The piece of shit is dead.” He squats next to me and begins timidly sifting through the hair covering the cut on my head. “Hold still, I need to check the wound.”

“Oh” is all I say. I know I shouldn’t feel relief hearing that somebody’s dead, but I still do. For Freya. She’s free now. It’s the first time I truly take a deep breath since I woke up bound and alone inside the pantry.

Despite all the shock I have experienced in the past hour, I’m also going through another one: Justin’s doing something with my head.

Physically and mentally. Screwing hard (I wish), I would say.

He is… too gentle. Too caring. Just this morning, he threw me the usual ‘get the fuck out of the way’ look when we passed each other on the sidewalk. And now he’s… doing what, exactly?

The sound of sirens knocks me out of my haze.

I glance up and see Justin watching me in silence, but I can’t read his face.

The ever-permanent scowl he wears whenever he’s around me is present, but there’s no malice in his baby-blue eyes this time.

Instead, they’re hooded and filled with concern, a shade darker than usual.