Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Clove
I woke up the way you wake up from a bad dream. Confused, filled with dread, and already exhausted.
For a second, my brain tried to convince me I was safe. That I’d fallen asleep on the couch after girls’ night and my head only hurt because I’d had too much to drink and laughed too hard, and the world was punishing me for it.
Then I shifted.
Rope scraped against my wrists.
Reality snapped into place so fast it stole my breath.
My eyes flew open, and the ceiling of the pop-up camper swam above me, low and sagging and stained in places like it had absorbed every mistake anyone had ever made inside it. My head pounded in a steady, merciless rhythm—throb, throb, throb—like a drumline right behind my eyes.
I swallowed, and nausea rolled up my throat.
My body wanted nothing more than to curl back into the fog and disappear.
My eyes stung as I blinked at the dim light. It looked like morning outside. Thin, pale sunlight leaked in through the edges of boarded windows. The air in the camper was colder than it had been when I’d first come to, and the smell was worse.
I lay still and listened.
Silence.
Birds chirped in the distance. It was tranquil.
Which was a cruel, insane contrast considering I was tied up on the floor of a trashed camper with a skull full of pain.
I held my breath and listened harder.
No footsteps. No voices. No engines.
Just birds and wind and a faint rustle of something—leaves, maybe—moving outside.
Maybe they’d gone to get more supplies. Maybe they’d gone to take a piss. Maybe they’d gone to eat their own breakfast like this was a normal day for them.
Or maybe they were standing just far enough away that I couldn’t hear them, waiting to see what I did.
I didn’t know.
Not knowing was the worst part.
I shifted carefully, biting down on a groan when pain flashed through the side of my head. The rope around my wrists held firm. My hands were still tied in front of me, which was the only reason I could move at all.
My ankles were tied tight enough to keep me from standing fully upright, but not so tight that I couldn’t scoot or crawl if I had to.
They wanted me stuck.
Not dead.
Not yet.
The thought made my skin prickle.
I forced myself to breathe slowly before panic could take over. I lifted my head a fraction and looked toward the door. Something sat there that hadn’t been there last night.
A small bag of cheap, crinkled gas station chips. And next to it, still wrapped in plastic, a ham and cheese sandwich.
I stared at it. I didn’t remember them bringing it in. I must have really passed out to not even hear them coming in.
My stomach growled loud enough to make my face heat in embarrassment, even though I was alone.
Great.
Add hungry to the list.
I shifted again and carefully pushed myself up onto my elbows. I got my knees under me and sat back slowly, waiting for the room to stop tilting.
It didn’t.
It just tilted less.
My mouth was still dry, and I licked my lips. My bottom lip felt swollen, and when I ran my tongue over the inside of my cheek, I flinched at the tenderness.
Getting punched in the face was not something I wanted to do again.
I looked down at myself and somehow managed to laugh.
The raccoon costume was still on me. Or part of it was, at least. “Who kidnaps a cute raccoon?” I wondered out loud.
One of the arms was ripped open, the seam split, stuffing or whatever was inside spilling out in sad little tufts. The raccoon head was shoved halfway off, hanging behind my neck like a collapsed hood.
I hated that the last time anyone had seen me, I’d been laughing in that costume, thinking the world was safe enough to be silly.
I tugged at the suit awkwardly with my bound hands, cursing under my breath when the rope bit into my wrists. It took a few tries, and ripping to twist and wriggle like an idiot, but I finally managed to peel the deflated costume off.
I shoved it away from me, letting it crumple onto the floor in a heap of ruined fluff and nylon.
I stared at it for a second longer than necessary, breathing hard.
The birds chirped again. Like I hadn’t just fought to get out of that darn thing. “Again, who kidnaps a cute raccoon?” I asked the empty trailer.
My eyes drifted to the water bottle lying near where it had landed after being thrown at me last night. The plastic was dented on one side. A few drops still clung to the floor around it, dried into a sticky patch.
My throat tightened at the thought of drinking something I hadn’t opened myself. But my mouth was so dry it felt like it was cracking.
And honestly?
Things couldn’t really get much worse than being tied up in a pop-up camper with masked assholes who thought they’d kidnapped someone else.
I leaned forward and grabbed the bottle with my bound hands. The cap was barely on. That helped a little.
I twisted it open carefully, and the plastic crackled loudly in the silence. I was clumsy with my wrists tied together, but I managed to twist the cap off.
I lifted it and took a cautious sip. The water was lukewarm, stale in that way bottled water got when it sat in a hot car too long.
It tasted like nothing.
No bitterness. No chemical aftertaste. No immediate burning in my throat.
I took another sip, longer this time, and then another.
The relief was immediate, and my throat unclenched as the water slid down. I drank more, ignoring the voice in my head whispering that it could be drugged.
If it was, I’d deal with it.
Right now, dehydration was going to make my concussion symptoms worse, and I couldn’t afford that.
I finished the bottle.
The plastic crumpled slightly in my hands when I squeezed it, and the sound made me jump.
God, I was jumpy.
I set it down and waited for anything to happen. Dizziness worsening, my limbs going numb, or my thoughts fogging more than they already were.
Nothing.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t drugged.
Or maybe whatever they put in it would hit later.
I wasn’t going to spiral over maybes. I needed facts.
Fact: I was alive.
Fact: They thought I was Star.
Fact: I was tied up in a camper and needed to figure out how to get out.
I forced myself to focus on the third fact—getting out.
I crawled toward the door and moved slowly in case there was someone outside. My knees protested against the hard floor. My wrists ached where the rope rubbed every time I shifted.
The door was one of those flimsy camper doors with a cheap lock and thin frame.
I reached it and pressed my shoulder against it, testing it carefully.
It didn’t budge.
I leaned harder.
Still nothing.
Not even a creak.
My heart sank.
Something was pressed against it from the outside, like someone had shoved a heavy object right up against it.
Something.
I slid my bound hands up the doorframe, searching for a gap. Nothing. The lock was on the inside, but it didn’t matter. Even if I managed to unlock it, the door wasn’t going anywhere.
I pressed my forehead against the door, and pain shot through my skull so fast I saw stars.
I hissed and pulled back, breathing hard.
Okay.
“Don’t do that,” I whispered.
I turned my attention to the windows.
There were two on this side. One near the little kitchenette area, another near the bed.
Both were boarded up.
Not like someone had nailed plywood neatly over them. More like someone had slapped boards over the outside. Rough, uneven pieces of wood that covered the glass completely, leaving only thin slits of light at the edges.
I crawled to the window closest to me and ran my fingers along the frame.
No give.
No way to pry it open from the inside unless I became superhuman.
Even if I could, the boards would still block it.
I tried the other window, my movements growing more frantic despite my effort to stay calm. Same story.
Boarded. Sealed. Trapped.
My breath came faster.
I sat back on my heels and clenched my fists.
Okay.
So I wasn’t getting out through the door or windows. Not right now. That didn’t mean I was stuck forever. It meant I needed another plan. I glanced back at the food by the door.
The sandwich and chips felt like bait, but they were also fuel. If I wanted to survive long enough to get out, I needed energy. My body was already burning through reserves trying to heal whatever damage they’d done.
And I needed my mind clear. As clear as it could be with a concussion…
I crawled back to the door and grabbed the sandwich and chips, bringing them with me as I moved toward the bed.
The bed was shoved against the back wall, the thin mattress covered in a stained sheet that smelled like old sweat and mildew. There was a small table beside it, overturned, one leg snapped. A pile of clothes sat in the corner, half of them damp.
Everything about this camper screamed temporary.
Like they’d stolen it. Or found it. Or used it before.
It didn’t feel like someone’s home.
It felt like a place you didn’t care if you had to torch later.
The thought made my stomach twist again.
I climbed awkwardly onto the bed, using my tied hands and knees to hoist myself up. My shoulder ached, and I bit down on a groan, refusing to let the pain steal my focus.
Sitting on the bed was better than lying on the floor.
That alone felt like a victory.
I sat with my back against the wall, legs bent awkwardly because of the rope around my ankles. The sandwich rested on my lap, still wrapped in plastic, condensation fogging the inside slightly.
I stared at it.
Ham and cheese.
Gas station quality.
It would probably taste like salt and disappointment.
I peeled the wrapper open, the plastic again crinkling loudly in the quiet. My hands shook slightly as I did it, not from fear exactly, but from adrenaline fatigue. My body was running on fumes and stubbornness.
I took a bite.
It tasted exactly like I expected. Bland, salty ham. Processed cheese. Bread that was too soft and slightly damp. Warm.
But it was food.
And my stomach clenched with hunger, so I kept eating.