Chapter 56
fifty-six
It is pure luck that I don’t open my eyes right away.
I wake up because of the noise. A scraping sound, distant and scratchy.
Oh my God.
I’m not dead.
Not yet, anyway. Consciousness filters in slowly as I do my best to remain utterly still. Marco once told me that his brain does sweeps of his surroundings before he even opens his eyes in the morning. Without moving, I cast my mental net out as best I can, cataloging anything and everything.
First, I am in pain. Horrible, gut-clenching, visceral pain that originates from the same place in my chest where the bullet pierced my skin.
It hurts, but it also feels… empty? As if the bullet isn’t lodged there anymore.
Am I in a hospital? Did they do surgery and save me?
My heart wants to hope, but my senses tell me no. This is decidedly not a hospital.
For one, I am slumped on my side, lying on a surface that feels much too hard to be a cot or even a gurney.
The floor, probably. Not a stone one, because it isn’t that cold, but it also isn’t a cozy, carpeted room. Probably some sort of industrial laminate or tile.
The smell in the air hints at the first option. There are a few layers to it. I recognize the must of age, the peppery bite of dust, all underscored by a chemical fragrance I know but can’t place. Gasoline? Alcohol?
No, something in the middle. But it definitely isn’t the sterile, medicinal scent of antiseptic.
Oh God. Okay. I try not to panic, but it gets harder by the minute. Pierce shot me and then, somehow, took the bullet out? Did he do it without drugging me? Is that why it hurts so badly?
And… who is whimpering?
Is it me?
I don’t know whether I should feel reassured or even more terrified when I do another check-in and discover that I am, in fact, the one making that sound.
My mind races as I smother the noise in my throat. Trying to determine if I’ll have an opportunity to get out of here. Wherever here is.
The odds of escaping whatever situation I am in seem devastatingly low… maybe even impossible, given the searing pain that roils through me when I so much as flinch.
Okay, what would Marco do?
It hurts to think of him, but it’s my best chance. He’s only told me little bits and pieces about his job—clearly—but it will have to be enough to help me.
What would Marco do?
I need to open my eyes. That’s the only way to really see what I am dealing with. I do my best to mentally brace myself… then I blink.
It’s… dark. Nighttime?
No. But the room is vast, without any windows. So who knows what time it is?
The floor looks like some sort of covered metal, the top layer a kind of rubbery coating intended for heavy tread. Or maybe it’s just to make it easier to clean up after he murders me. The walls are difficult to make out in the darkness, but I think they are comprised of enormous metal sheets.
The shifting behind me abruptly stops. In its place, a shaking voice whispers, “He’s gone. You can stop pretending to sleep.”
The sound is so unexpected, I have to turn toward it. When I do, a fresh bolt of pain rips through my chest. I bite down on a shriek, slamming my eyes shut.
“Shhh,” the voice soothes. Someone shuffles toward me on their knees. Two small hands land on my shoulders and guide me onto my back. “Do not move so fast. I had to take the dart out with my hands and pack the wound. It was not the cleanest removal, but you needed to stop bleeding.”
“A-a d-d-dart?” Bile rises up my throat while I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the piercing pain to subside.
“Yes. The coward shot you with a tranquilizer gun. One intended for shooting animals from a distance, by the looks of it. The needle on the dart was much too large for a human. He must have been standing close when he hit you because it left quite a hole.”
I wait until I’m sure I won’t vomit—from the pain or the idea of having a hole in my body—and then open my eyes. A slender, feminine face looms over mine, her fine features drawn tight. There is a smear of blood on her cheek—hers or mine, or maybe both. Her eyes are panicked and dark brown.
Familiar.
“A-are y-you—” I search my brain for her name, knowing Marco has mentioned her many times. “E-Esme? Marco’s mom?”
“Yes,” she whispers, her gaze wide, but shrewd as it flits over mine. “You know my son? Who are you?”
Everything Pierce said swirls through my muddled mind. None of this makes sense.
“I—I’m no one,” I whimper.
Esme frowns deeply. “You would not be here if you were no one.” Her brows crease, understanding settling in the lines of her visage. “You must be Alice.”
I don’t have time to process how she knows my name. If Marco never really cared about me, why would he tell her?
Esme suddenly hears a noise outside, her focus flying to the corner of the warehouse. That must be where the door is. “Try to be quiet. I wasn’t when he put me in here, and…” She holds up her limp arm, showing me where a bone nearly protrudes through her skin.
Holy shit. Oh my God. Oh my fuck.
I try to think, but a rising tide of panic works against me. “I—I d-don’t understand. Why would h-he d-do this?”
Esme’s dark eyes, so like her son’s, narrow slightly, the same way Marco’s would. “The blond one with the boy’s face? You know him?”
I need to cough, but I’m scared it might make the pain worse. Instead, I rasp, “P-Pierce. He w-works for M-Marco.”
I guess he does have a boyish face. Somehow, that only makes what he’s done more unsettling. Esme looks shocked, too. “He works for my son?” she murmurs, soft but urgent. “You are sure?”
I try to nod but wince when shooting pain claws up my neck. “Yes. I’m s-sure.”
Her expression is grim. As if my confirmation hammers the nail into our coffin. “W-what?” I whisper. “What is it?”
She drops to her backside and wraps her good arm around her knees, staring straight ahead. “His face. I would remember it anywhere.”
A bolt of surprise joins the stabbing ache between my breasts. “You know him?”
How does she? If she knows his face, why doesn’t Marco? He never forgets anything.
“That boy,” his mother says, her voice as morose as her expression. “He’s the one from the police station. The son of the man who shot my husband.”
The thought pings around my brain for a full minute before it sinks in. “S-so that means…”
Esme’s despair-filled eyes drift shut. “Marco killed Pierce’s father.”
And now, he’s going to return the favor.