Chapter 1 Annalise
Annalise
One Hour Earlier
“Phone. Now.”
I pivot away, holding the cell phone just out of reach. “No way.”
“Annalise, come on. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
Three Tequila Sunrises pump through my bloodstream as I turn my back to my brother and dance my thumbs across the keypad without a care in the world.
Me: I think we should book a trip! A vacation somewhere warm. Fiji? Thailand? The Zen life is calling. There are monkeys in Phuket. ??
Leaning back against the edge of a pool table, I chew on my lip, waiting for a response. Outside the window, snow buckets down in slanted white sheets, obscuring the Christmas lights twinkling from the shopping mall across the street.
I imagine a stress-free getaway, sans the twenty-plus hour flight both ways with multiple layovers and a likely abundance of screaming babies. Alex doesn’t like being confined for too long. He doesn’t like babies either.
Perhaps a quick flight to Florida would sway him more.
I start to pivot.
Me: You might already be looking into flights, but just letting you know I’m flexible! Miami is nice. We have a ton of vacation time saved up. I think we really need this. A break.
Panic ripples down my spine.
Me: A break from life. Not each other. Obviously. I love you!
Still nothing.
I stare at the screen, my anxiety climbing.
Me: You love me, right?
The messages are finally opened.
Three minutes tick by as I suck down another cocktail, my heels tip-tapping against the floor, but he leaves me on read.
My eyes narrow at the screen.
I’m pondering which collection of emojis I can ambush him with when Kenna materializes on my left, a scarlet vision. Bold cherry lips, ruby nails, and a shocking red cocktail dress.
I adore her.
“I adore you!” I announce, throwing my arms around her neck, momentarily distracted. “Your hair is so lovely. You smell like a symphony of citrus. I think we should dance.”
My best friend hugs me back, snickering into my loose waves of hair.
She knows I get like this every time I drink—touchy-feely and high on life, a cornucopia of eternal love bursting at the seams.
“It’s after eleven,” Kenna says, glancing at her Apple Watch. “We should probably head out.”
“What?” I straighten to full height, which is at least five inches taller than her. “We still have a couple hours until last call.”
“We both have an early shift tomorrow. Tag’s here to drive you home.”
My face sours. I glance over my shoulder at my brother, who is collapsed on a high-top table, looking miserable. “You texted him to pick me up, didn’t you?”
“Perchance.”
“Traitor.”
“Alex will rage if you get home too late. I’m just looking out for you.”
I’m instantly reminded of the text messages that went ignored. A wave of tension sweeps through me, triggering my thumbs again.
Me: Are you there? ?
Finally, his bubbles dance to life, and I hold my breath.
Alex: Where are you?
Me: We’re still at Sand Bar.
Alex: Unbelievable. You’re on the clock tomorrow at 6:30.
Me: Good thing that’s seven hours from now. You know I’m a night owl. Also, you didn’t answer my question…
A few seconds pass.
A ping.
Alex: Drink some water.
Before I can register the response, a hand flies out and snatches my phone away. “Hey!”
Tag stuffs the device into his back pocket, spearing me with a look of immense aggravation.
His dirty blond hair glimmers under the strobe lights, a stark contrast to mine, considering mine has been dyed every shade imaginable over the years.
Bubblegum pink, electric blue, even an unfortunate attempt at swamp green.
Currently, it’s what some people call “bronde,” striped with lively purple streaks.
“Drunk texting never ends well,” he says.
“I was in the middle of a conversation.”
“With the douche of the century. Unless you’re texting that you’re dumping him, I can’t stand by and watch you embarrass yourself.” He shrugs. “For the best.”
“But…monkeys.”
Wrinkling my nose, I glance around the busy bar, jam-packed with flannel-clad lumberjack types, ski bunnies in designer puffers laughing at their own jokes, and weathered locals who look like they’ve been sitting on the same barstools since the early ’90s.
The bartender, a brute with permanent scowl lines, slides a whiskey across the counter to a man who looks like he sharpens knives for a living.
Welcome to Vermont’s finest: where every guy owns at least one axe and every girl has a story about hiking in the rain with a pair of boots she swears were waterproof.
But I love it here in Rutland. Our small town is located on the western edge of the Green Mountains, near some of the best skiing and winter sports in New England.
It’s always been home.
My gaze shifts back to Kenna as she twirls a cocktail straw between her fingers. “Do you have a ride?” I ask. “Weather looks nasty.”
“Yep. Irving is on the way, and you know he drives like my granny’s great-grandmother.”
“She’s been dead for decades,” I note.
Irving. Kenna’s boyfriend of one month, who wears loafers with no socks, corrects people’s grammar mid-conversation, and describes himself as an “old soul” when he really just hates fun.
Yet, according to everyone I know, he’s still ten leagues above my boyfriend of seven years.
Sighing with defeat, I tuck my hair behind my ear as the room spins. But it’s only a marginal spin. I’m fine. “Okay. One last dance?”
Kenna shoots my brother an apologetic look. He grumbles, waving us off toward the crowded dance floor.
I snag her by the wrist with a glowing grin and drag her away, shimmying us between sweaty bodies and a cloud of B.O. that’s infused with traces of cheap perfume.
Ten minutes pass before Tag saunters toward us in his ratty blue jeans and a random band T-shirt.
“Are you good now?” he implores, stuffing his hands in his pockets as two girls bump into him after a miscalculated spin. “Weather is getting worse.”
I glance toward the small stage that occasionally hosts open mic nights. “You should play here!” I blurt over the new-age pop music.
“Pass. I hate this bar.”
“It’s great exposure.”
“She’s right,” Kenna adds. “This place is packed on weeknights.”
I see the reluctant acquiesce brighten his face as opportunity sweeps through him.
He’s been working so hard.
Five nights a week, he plays. Coffee shops, wine bars, the occasional pub. It’s hard to recall a time when Tag didn’t have a guitar strapped across his chest and a euphonic dream in his eyes. Music is a part of him. An invisible limb.
He rubs his fingers along his lightly stubbled jaw, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I guess. I’ll think about it.”
“Yay! Let me close out my tab.” Scurrying over to the bar counter, I collect my bill and smile my thanks to a woman when she compliments the colorful highlights in my hair.
Warmed by the flattery, I tell the bartender to add her drinks to my tab.
Moments later, I’m this close to tears when I wrap Kenna up in a bone-crushing hug, as if I won’t see her ever again, even though we share a shift in less than seven hours.
“Text me later, so I know you got home safe.” She squeezes my hand, her mocha-brown eyes shimmering with affection.
Everyone knows that’s code for I love you.
“You too. See you in the morning.” I fetch my purse—minus a cell phone thanks to my meddling big brother—and make a tipsy trek out the main doors, trying not to do the splits in the newly fallen snow.
Tag tosses his keys in the air, catching them with his opposite hand as he stomps through several inches. “This blizzard is shit.”
“I think it’s pretty.” A smile crests as my tequila-glazed eyes take in the wintery wonderland around us. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without snow.”
I think about that vacation again and how nice it would be to park myself on a secluded beach while drinking in the turquoise water and sea-salt air, a canopy of palm trees billowing on all sides.
Someday.
We pile into the red sedan, and I immediately collapse into a sleeping position in the back seat.
“Seat belt,” Tag chides.
“Mm-hmm.” Sluggishly, I reach to click the belt into place, my body still draped across the interior. “Can you turn on some music? You know what I like.”
The engine hums to life. “Really? You’re going to subject me to doo-wop after I’ve already been coerced into picking you up in a blizzard?”
He says it with love, then promptly turns on an oldies station, confirming that love.
I grin, my hands tucked underneath my cheek. “Runaround Sue” by Dion infiltrates the vehicle as the scent of hour-old fast food wafts under my nose.
“You’re going to be famous one day, Tag,” I murmur, already half asleep as we veer onto the main road, tires struggling against the ice-packed pavement. “I feel it. I know it.”
Silence settles in for a few beats. “You sound so confident.”
“I am. You deserve to have your dreams come true.”
“Not sure how much longer I can keep doing this alone. I need a band. A group of other guys just as desperate and thirsty as I am.”
I curl my knees up as far as they’ll go. “It’ll happen. Keep pushing, keep playing. You just have to outlast all the other people who think they won’t make it either.”
Tag doesn’t answer right away. All I hear is the crackle of the song playing and the drone of rubber against the slick road. Just as I’m about to drift off completely, he says, “Thanks, sis. Means a lot, having you in my corner.”
My eyes flutter closed. “It’s the truth, dumbass. Don’t forget it.”
Some kind of wrapper is thrown over his shoulder, landing on my face. Smells like grease and chicken.
“Great. Now I’m hungry,” I mumble, tossing the paper bag to the floor.
Tag curves onto a new road, and I nearly slide off the seat. “I’ll make a stop at the gas station. Gotta take a piss anyway. What do you want?”
“Lobster bisque.”
“Try again. We’ve got stale chips and expired beef jerky.”
“Stale chips, please. Thanks, Tag.”
I doze in and out of sleep as we pull into the nearest gas station. One eye flicks open, and I unlatch my seat belt, moving into a sitting position to glance around. I catch sight of a man covered in snow as he winds through the gas pumps and beelines for the main door.
Tag leaves the car running with the heat blasting as he parks in front of the building. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
“You’re the best,” I say groggily, watching as he hops out, closes the door, and jogs over to the entrance. The other man, wearing nothing but a hoodie, holds the door open for my brother, and they exchange a friendly nod.
I plop back down to the seat.
The alcohol fog steals me away.
Vivid dreams flicker through my mind. I’m a kid again, chasing Tag with a water balloon. Laughter bounces off wet pavement as fireworks paint the sky on the Fourth of July. A balloon bursts in my hand with a muted pop as the sky flashes red and blue.
The sound jerks me awake for half a second before fading into black.
It feels like I’ve been asleep for hours when the car finally revs back to life, jostling me.
We accelerate. A new song plays, a retro lullaby that triggers another wave of sleepiness.
My eyes remain closed as we careen out onto the main drag, going faster than I’d expect given the weather conditions.
The brakes tap. A sharp jolt forward causes us to fishtail. I spill across the seat, confusion racing through me.
Someone growls, “Fuck.”
Eyes flying open, I lift up on my elbow, my vision glazed and unfocused.
Tires squeal. A hand smacks the steering wheel.
Another round of fucks.
I snap my head up as I launch into a sitting position, now fully alert.
My gaze flicks to the rearview mirror.
Two startled eyes stare back at me. Wide, panicked, and decidedly unfamiliar.
I blink.
Blink again.
And then I scream.
“What the—” The stranger loses control of the wheel, veering off the road and careening toward a ditch.
Holy shit.
I think I’ve just been kidnapped.