CHAPTER NINE
HAZEL
THE SOUND OF the door opening snaps me out of my thoughts. My heart leaps, a chaotic mix of fear and hope. It could be anyone—or anything—but when Charlie bounds through, tail wagging like mad, relief floods my chest. Then, he steps in after him, cool and composed as ever.
Charlie hesitates and walks back to my captor, rubbing against his leg like they’ve been lifelong pals. My chest tightens. Traitor. I sink back against the wall, clutching my knees, as my captor glances my way. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes linger on me just long enough to sting.
He knows. He knew I was about to leave Charlie behind to save myself. I had called Charlie, but he wouldn’t come. Slamming that car door was one of the hardest things I had ever done, but in my head, I had promised I would come back for him.
The guilt churns in my stomach, but I push it down as I reach out to Charlie. “Hey, boy,” I say softly. He ambles over and lets me hug him, but his attention keeps drifting back to our captor, like I’m some sort of consolation prize.
The air feels heavy, suffocating. My captor disappears through the doorway without a word, and I watch him go, his broad shoulders disappearing into the gloom, but not before I catch the red stains on his hands. As soon as he’s gone, I try to shake the tension from my body. I can’t sit here and stew in this guilt—not when I can do something, anything, to get us out of this place. I can’t think about what he’s doing upstairs or about the man who is dead on the floor. My mind feels like a blur, like I’m sure I heard him talk cheerfully on the phone after killing someone, but I must have heard wrong. People don’t behave like that. Unless they are psychopaths. I shiver and move toward the piles of discarded junk in the corner. I need to distract myself, or I’m going to lose my mind.
I rummage through the piles, coming up with a few battered books, their spines cracked, and covers faded from neglect. One is an old paperback romance, the kind with a shirtless man gripping a swooning woman in a billowing dress. The second is a water-stained thriller, its once-vivid title barely legible beneath the grime of countless hands. The last is a dusty hardcover with no jacket, just the faint imprint of golden letters too worn to decipher. I flip through their pages, the musty scent of old paper rising around me. The words blur together in a jumble of black and white, slipping through my grasp like sand through fingers. My focus is shot.
Frustration builds in my chest, hot and sharp, clawing its way up my throat. I toss the book aside, its fragile spine cracking further as it lands in a heap. My gaze snaps to a nearby table cluttered with mismatched plastic cutlery. I grab a handful, the brittle knives biting into my palm, and jam one into the crack of the door. The cheap plastic flexes and groans as I wiggle and pry, throwing all my strength into it.
It doesn’t work. Nothing works. The knife snaps with a hollow crack, the jagged edge biting into my hand. I hurl it across the room with a strangled scream, the sound ricocheting off the walls like a slap; Charlie startles me when he joins my scream with one of his howls. My hands tremble as I grab another piece, then another, each attempt ending in futility. My breath comes in ragged gasps, the taste of desperation thick in my mouth.
It’s pointless. I’m trapped.
I let out a guttural sob and lash out, sweeping a stack of books off the table. They hit the ground with a dull thud, and it’s not enough, not nearly enough. I rip a cushion apart, hurl a chair against the wall, my breath heaving, my vision tunneling. A scream tears from my throat, and I wonder if anyone is looking for me. Sobs tear through me. My father and mother aren’t bad people, but the truth is, they will just assume I’m busy. My brother, John, might wonder why I’m not answering his messages; that is… when he finally lifts his head out of his grief, and Mary…well, she abandoned me, didn’t she? Maybe she is the cause of all of this.
When I finally collapse onto the floor, the room is a wreck, and so am I. Charlie is there, nudging my arm, trying to lick my face, washing my tears and my pain away. I don’t know how long I’ve been down here, days, hours; time moves in shadows across the wall, and as I lie on the floor, drawing my knees to my chest, I watch day turn into night, the light fades and darkness crawls closer toward me.
The door creaks open, and I freeze. A dark figure steps inside before light floods the space. I sit up, but I don’t stand. His eyebrows raise as he takes in the chaos. For a moment, I think he’s going to explode, but instead, he just shakes his head. I’m considering getting up when I really look around at what I have done. My cheeks heat, and I grip the wall to stand.
“Sit,” he orders, his voice low and firm.
I don’t argue. I slump into the corner, pulling my knees to my chest. My cheeks still burn.
My captor sets to work, silently tidying up the mess I’ve made. The scrape of furniture against the floor and the soft rustle of papers are the only sounds in the room. His movements are deliberate, each step smooth and controlled. I can’t help but watch him, my eyes following the way his muscles shift beneath his shirt as he bends to pick up a chair, the precision in his hands as he gathers scattered papers, and the most interesting part is there isn’t a grain of anger in him as he fixes my mess.
There’s a certain grace to him, a quiet strength that commands attention even in something as mundane as cleaning up. The lines of his jaw are sharp, his posture unyielding yet somehow effortless. Despite myself, I feel a strange pull, a reluctant admiration for the poise he carries, as if nothing in the world could rattle him.
When he’s done, he lowers himself into a seat across from me, his back resting against the wall. His piercing gaze locks onto mine, pinning me in place. “Do you feel better?” he asks.
I think about it. I do feel better, but I’d feel pretty great if he let me go. I don’t say what I really think because I’ve been here for days, and being so caught up in my own head is driving me to a very dark place.
“I keep calling you ‘my captor’ in my mind. I’d prefer to give you a name,” I say, ignoring his question.
His lip tilts slightly. “Then give me a name.”
Dickhead, asshole, bastard. I can think of so many. “What is your name?” I ask.
“Kieran.”
“Kieran,” I repeat. I’m not sure if it suits him. Kieran is normal, maybe even kind; he doesn’t shoot people in the head or kidnap girls and their dog.
“Did Mary hurt you when she left?” he asks, his tone softer than I expect.
The question slices through my defenses like a knife, catching me completely off guard. My throat tightens as I try to form an answer. “She didn’t hurt me,” I whisper, my voice shaky. “Not... not like that.” I’m wondering why the change in topic.
He doesn’t push, doesn’t interrupt. He just waits, still and patient, his presence pressing against me like a weight I can’t ignore. The silence is unbearable, and yet, somehow, it pulls the words out of me. “She left without telling me. Just...disappeared. I found out later she was in France. Mary was all I had.” My voice cracks, betraying me, and I hate the way I sound—fragile, exposed.
His expression remains unreadable as he tilts his head, his voice steady and calm. “Mary isn’t who you think she is,” he says after a pause. “She’s tied to the Walshes. She’s not innocent in any of this.”
The air in the room feels colder, heavier. My chest tightens, and I shake my head, desperate to hold onto something—anything—that feels solid. “I don’t want to know,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I don’t want to hear it.”
But his silence is unyielding, stretching between us until it’s unbearable. Curiosity claws at me, relentless and insistent, and finally, I lift my eyes to his. “How did you get involved with them?” I ask, the question barely audible.
A shadow passes over his face, darkening his gaze. “My childhood,” he says simply, the words carrying a weight that makes my chest ache.
“I was only a kid when my mother disappeared, and I had to take care of my sister, so I did what I needed to do.” His voice is even but tinged with a sadness that’s impossible to ignore.
“What about your dad?” I ask. Charlie has decided to lie beside me, and I take comfort in the warm body pressed against my thigh.
“He died when I was a kid,” he answers.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “My dad is a farmer.” I offer up.
He leans forward, his brows dragging down. “I don’t want to know about your family.”
Asshole. “Here I thought we were bonding.”
He gets off the chair. “No bonding here, Hazel.”
My cheeks blaze. I want to beg him not to leave, but I know he will find that pathetic. Yet, I don’t want to be alone.
I rise to my feet. “I recorded the killing. I have evidence.”
I’m expecting him to turn and be even a little bit shocked, but he continues to push the chair back against the wall where it was.
“Did you hear me?” I’m walking toward him.
He looks up at me. “I found the footage on your phone and destroyed it.”
I stop mid-step. “What? I might have backed it up.” My heart pounds.
I swear I see laughter in his ice-blue eyes. “Did you back it up?” He folds his arms across his chest.
“No,” I answer honestly.
He shrugs.
“I need you to get this clear in your head.” He drops his arms and takes a step toward me. I lock my knees to stop myself from bolting. He towers over me. “You saw a murder, and now they want you dead. I have the order to kill you, Hazel.”
“Then why am I here?” I’m exhausted, and I need to know.
“You are what is going to get me out of this mess.” He turns to leave.
I can’t stop the cry that claws its way up my throat. “Am I going to die?” I ask.
For the first time, I see a real reaction in him; his shoulders tense, his fingers tighten around the door handle; it’s the first time I’ve seen a sign of humanity.
“Most likely, yes,” the raw honesty of his words shakes me to the core.
No. No, this can’t be my fate .