Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Red
Silence presses in from every direction, thick enough to register in my ears. I fight the urge to pace, waiting to know the next move after Demi's instructions, "Don't go anywhere. Stay tuned."
So I sit at the small dining table, my jacket still on, forearms resting on the surface, hands crushed together, wondering the same thing I can't escape.
Is Blue safe?
The answer never comes, only waves of thoughts about Blue hurting herself or doing something drastic that might get her into trouble.
I finally can't take it anymore. I stand and cross to the window, pushing the blinds aside just enough to look down at the street.
Several cars pass. Someone walks their little black dog. A woman jogs past in headphones, unaware that my life has narrowed down to a handful of variables I can no longer influence.
I drop the blinds back into place and turn away, staring at my phone that sits on the table where I left it after Demi's call.
Ten minutes pass before I return to the table and sit again. The chair creaks softly beneath my weight, the sound loud in the quiet. I flatten my palms against the wood until the urge to move passes. Time stretches, thin and deliberate.
One firm rap, followed by another, evenly spaced, hits the door, and I jump. The hairs on my neck rise, and I grab a knife out of the block, then move quietly toward the door. I peep out the eyehole.
A young kid in a baseball cap has an envelope in his hand.
I carefully open the door, hiding the knife behind it.
He holds out the envelope. "Dr. Red Mercer?"
"Yes."
"This is for you."
I grab it. Before I can say "thank you," he turns and hurries toward the elevator.
I close the door and lock it, then put the knife on the side table. The envelope is thick and rigid, the kind meant to hold its shape. My name is printed across the front in clean black type.
I carry it back to the table and stare at it with my heart pounding.
Stop being a pussy.
It's just a note.
Cautiously, I open it and pull out a single sheet. It's typed and has only four sentences.
Exit via the stairwell in five minutes.
Do not bring your phone.
Get into the SUV.
Shred this.
My pulse ticks higher. I glance at the clock, then read it again before psychoanalyzing Demi.
Five minutes is generous enough to signal confidence.
She knows I'm not scrambling.
She knows I'll be ready.
A quiet exhale leaves my chest. I glance at the clock on the wall.
Four minutes and change.
I pick up my phone and stare at my reflection on the screen, then put it down. I slide my wallet into my pocket and take the paper to my office. I stick it in the shredder and watch it get eaten into tiny pieces.
This is insane.
What have I gotten myself into?
I shouldn't go.
Demi's my only link to Blue right now.
I return to the kitchen, grip my keys, and wait another two minutes. Then I lock my front door and head toward the stairwell. I descend two steps at a time until I get to the bottom.
My heart thumps hard against my chest cavity. I push my shoulder into the door, and the lock releases.
Sunlight, and a black SUV that's parked so close to the exit I can barely open the door, fills my vision. I hesitate for a second.
The passenger window slides down. A man’s gruff voice orders, "Get in the back." He rolls the window up.
My throat turns dry. I ease my grip from the rail and step down, shoulders brushing brick as I squeeze between the building and the SUV, opening the door. Leather and recycled air rush out at me. I duck inside and pull the door shut.
The lock snaps into place, and the SUV surges forward before I've fully settled.
Momentum presses me into the cold, plush leather.
My hands brace against the cushion, then curl into my thighs when the street blurs past the tinted glass.
I draw in a breath through my nose, then another, slower this time.
Words scrape their way out. "Where are we going? "
"Sit back and relax," the driver states before the divider window slides up, sealing off the front. The engine roars, speed increases, and tires hum louder against the pavement.
I sit upright, spine rigid, eyes tracking every turn through the darkened glass. My jaw locks until the tension burns along the hinge. I push the window button, but it's locked, too.
The city thins into buildings that give way to warehouses stretching down blocks. The SUV keeps a steady pace, speeding through traffic until the last of the skyline disappears behind us, replaced by low buildings and sparse lights.
Where is he taking me?
More time passes. I shift my attention to details I can measure, like the time on my watch, the direction of the sun through the tinted glass, and the changes in road texture.
I count exits until the counting turns useless, because the numbers mean nothing when you don't know the destination and you don't have a map.
My pulse doesn't slow. I draw in air through my nose and hold it for a beat before releasing slowly.
The driver veers toward a sign that reads "Wisconsin."
I press the button for the divider window again, but it's still locked. So I shout, "I asked where we're going."
There's no response, not even the faint movement that the driver might have heard me.
I lean slightly toward the glass that separates us and knock, then raise my voice. "Tell me!"
He still doesn't flinch.
The hairs on my arms rise again. I sit back, turning back toward the window, cataloging more buildings until we cross a bridge and houses appear, then rows of trees, and patches of neighborhoods.
The light changes from bright to dull, not quite dusk yet but no longer midday. My sense of time shifts, and my throat dries. I swallow and close my eyes.
All I see is Blue in her apartment, holding her breath how she does when she's bracing for impact. Then the marks on her skin appear, and I close my fists tight.
My fingers tighten against my thighs so hard that my nails press through my pants.
She better be safe.
The SUV veers off the exit, and the tires change pitch as the surface beneath us shifts. It moves onto a road that narrows and curves, with less traffic, fewer signs, and fewer lights.
The driver's hands stay steady on the wheel. He doesn't glance back. He doesn't slow except when the road forces him.
I don't know whether that steadiness is training or boredom. Either way, it's worse than nerves. Nerves suggest uncertainty. This suggests routine, and that freaks me out further.
We drive for another stretch that could be ten minutes or thirty. My mind tries to assign numbers and keeps failing.
Then the world outside opens up. A wide expanse of water stretches to the horizon and comes into view.
The SUV turns onto a narrow drive. Gravel crunches under the tires, loud after the long hum of pavement. There's only one house at the end of the driveway, facing Lake Michigan. It's clean-lined, modern, and expensive.
The driver parks, slides the divider window down halfway, and deadpans, "You've got twenty-four hours. Go inside. Don't leave until I come back to get you."
I stare at the back of his head. My jaw tightens. "What happens after twenty-four hours?"
The divider window rises again, and the lock clicks.
I push my door open and step out. Cold air hits my face, sharp and clean. The sound of the lake is faint but constant, the water moving against the shore in a steady rhythm.
I straighten, scanning the perimeter. There's no visible security, other vehicles, or people. There are only trees, a luxury house, and Lake Michigan.
The driver pulls away as soon as the door shuts. Gravel spits, and the SUV disappears down the driveway.
I survey the property another time, and a gust of wind almost knocks me over. I move toward the house, and the handle turns easily. I step into the entry and shut the door behind me.
The interior is quiet. Furniture is positioned for symmetry and comfort. A fake bowl of decorative fruit sits on the island. A throw blanket lies strewn over the sofa. The gas fireplace roars, spitting out heat.
I move through the space carefully. Each room is stocked like a rental, with enough to function but not enough to leave fingerprints. The closets are empty. The drawers hold spare linens and basic toiletries.
I check the windows and the back door. They unlock easily. There's nothing physically stopping me from walking out and heading toward the road.
Which means the restriction isn't physical. It's social and strategic. It's the knowledge that leaving would be interpreted as defiance, and defiance would not be handled here, in this clean rental with no witnesses.
Defiance would be handled somewhere else.
A shudder runs through me, wondering what Adrian will do once he finds out about Blue and me. There's no question in my mind he eventually will.
I scrub my hand over my face and return to the living room. I stand in front of the wall of windows facing the lake.
The sky has begun to dim, the colors flattening as the light drops. Wind moves the water in rough waves, but the shore sits quiet. There are no boats or nearby houses visible from this angle.
The front door opens. A woman steps inside as if she belongs here, chirping, "So you're the famous Dr. Red Mercer."
She carries herself with confidence, her shoulders loose, spine straight, and gaze direct.
Her hair falls in long waves, a deep brown that lightens where the strands catch the window light, threaded with warmer tones that look natural rather than styled.
It's the kind of hair that suggests she spends money on it, but not in a way that advertises effort.
Her skin has a smooth, even tone that screams sun and genetics, olive with a subtle glow that makes her look awake even in low light. Her brown-green eyes have an excited familiarity and cut straight to mine.
They look like Blue's adrenaline-filled gaze, but a different color.