Chapter 15 Three days prior
Chapter fifteen
Three days prior
The night of the kidnapping
Diane
Fingers snap in my face, sharp and impatient, pulling me back to reality.
At least, I think that’s what that is.
“Wakey wakey.” A voice cuts through the snapping.
My chin drops as pain drums through my skull, each throb sharp and merciless. When I lift my head and force my eyes open, the world swims. Blurry angles, cookie-cutter pictures hang on the surrounding walls, with a single lamp burning too brightly. A round table sits to my right.
Is this a … a hotel room? Am I still at the Black Onyx?
I try to raise my hands, but they won’t move. A zip tie bites into my wrists behind me, rough and unyielding, tethering me to the chair. My ankles are bound, too. I look at my injured foot, and the memory of the incident brings a searing pain that shoots up my leg. Panic spikes sharp and fast.
“What …” I swallow what feels like nails. “Where am I?”
“You’re finally awake.”
The voice comes from the corner. Almost gentle. But it doesn’t soothe me.
It chills me.
The ringing in my ears makes it hard to hear clearly.
I squint through the haze. A figure stands across the room, shadowed, half-hidden by the dim light. Watching.
I look around the room again, and the decor becomes sharper, taking shape. All roaring 20s but still out of focus. “Is this a room at the Black Onyx?”
“You were always so smart.” The sarcasm cuts through the biting reply.
“You hit me,” I remember, my memory appearing in fragments.
The parking garage.
Footsteps behind me.
Pain exploding behind my skull.
Then nothing.
“You were making things … difficult. Running and then hiding in the garage.” The figure steps closer, but not enough for me to see clearly. A mask of shadows, which I’m sure is deliberate.
Fear claws through me, but anger sparks beneath it. “If it’s money you want—”
A soft laugh cuts me off. Not cruel. Not kind. If anything, I hear confidence. “Maybe it’s about the money, maybe not. But more importantly, it’s about what people know. What they dig into when they shouldn’t. And what they find out.”
My pulse thunders as I squint my eyes shut, trying to soothe the pounding building in, coupled with confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“You always wanted answers, Diane. You always asked too many questions.”
Hearing my name strikes me harder than the blow to my head.
Whoever this is—they know me.
And the voice. It’s familiar, yet not.
All the grogginess is now gone as I straighten against the plastic ties, my breath catching. I study the figure more closely. “Who are you?”
They tilt their head, stepping close enough now that I can make out the faintest outline. The shape is so … familiar.
But they stay barely out of the light.
“Someone who should have been your family,” they say, low and steady. “And the daughter of someone you should have left alone.”
My blood runs cold.
“Maggie…” The name trembles on my tongue, but I don’t speak it. I can’t. It’s not possible. Because if I’m right, if it’s really her, then everything I thought I knew about the girl I raised, about the girl my daughter loves like a sister, was a lie.
No. It can't be.
Whoever this is, creeps closer, and though their face is still partially hidden, the heat of their breath hits me when they speak. “You’ve made this harder.”
The zip ties dig into my skin as I shift, trying to find some give. There’s none. Though my throat feels like sandpaper, I keep my words from trembling. “Why are you doing this?”
The figure doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. “Because you couldn’t stop digging. You had to know the truth. You couldn’t leave us alone.”
Ignoring the ache in my skull, I continue. “If this is about your …” I stop myself, not wanting to give away that I might know who this is. “Do you think hurting me helps anything?”
She stays silent.
I clench my fists, fighting to keep my thoughts straight and temper in check. If this is truly Maggie, then I need to probe deeper.
The silence presses in on me as sweat beads on my hairline. Finally, the figure steps closer, their face still cloaked by the lamp’s shadow. “You already knew too much. You asked the wrong questions, Diane.”
What are they even saying? It’s like they're speaking in riddles as we talk in circles.
“I don’t understand a single word coming out of your mouth,” I say, completely bewildered.
Clearly, it’s important that I get some answers here, since they're offering none. This is an obvious mind game to them. But not to me. I want to know what happened, so I’m going to ask some questions.
Which means I can’t lead on that I’ve put two and two together, and that this could be Maggie.
And gosh, I pray that my suspicions are wrong.
My pulse spikes. I think back to the garage, the echo of footsteps chasing me, the blur of motion before everything went dark. “Did you hit me?” I hiss out. Then louder: “Or was it someone else? Who took me from the garage?!”
That gets a reaction. A slight tilt as they folds their arms. But no answer.
“Tell me!” I push, anger burning through the fear. “Who are you?!”
A low chuckle. “No. Some things you don’t get to know.”
Frustration coils through my body, hot and tight. I force myself to breathe, to focus. “You don’t have to do this. Whatever this is, whatever you think is going on. Kidnapping me. Holding me hostage.”
The figure shifts, leaning against the wall now. Calm. Too calm.
Completely silent.
I press some more. “Look, just let me go. I won’t say a word. Nothing has happened.”
“It already has,” they hiss. What does that mean?
As I listen and try to process, I search the tone, the cadence, the almost-familiar rhythm of the voice, and terror grips me. Deep down, I already know.
I can’t say her name. Not yet. If I’m wrong, I tip my hand. But if I’m right…
Then I’ve been betrayed by someone I let into my home. Someone I trusted with my daughter.
And I don’t know which possibility is worse.
My back heaves against the chair, each breath harder to pull in than the last. I press. “If you’re angry with me, fine. If you hate me, fine. But hurting me? That won’t fix what you lost.”
They shift unsteadily, as if the words land somewhere beneath their skin. A dart of movement—arms tightening around themselves, chin dipping.
It’s time to find out if my suspicions are right because this is pure torture.
“Is this about the fire?”
Suddenly, Maggie’s back goes ramrod straight.
I can't believe it.
“I’ve been curious about that night. For a while now,” she starts.
The sudden hardness is gone, and it’s almost as if the Maggie of old has returned.
“So I guess you could say that curiosity killed the cat because I decided to research that night on my own. And my, my, my … wasn’t I blown backward.
To find out that dear ole Aunt Diane was there. ”
Vivid memories that I’ll never escape flood back as I choke on the words. “I tried. You have to believe me. I tried so hard to get them out.”
She saunters toward me tauntingly. “I got the police report with a little help from a friend of mine in tech. I read your sob story in the report. If you had just left them alone, everything would have been fine. We were happier. Richer. I had a massive birthday party, for crying out loud! But because of you … poof. Gone.” She stops briefly to compose herself.
But she can’t. “You were there, Diane. Why? Why didn’t you save them?
” Her accusations begin to thin and waver.
She’s trembling. “You should have left us alone!! Why did you have to meddle? My parents are dead because of you!”
She swipes away a tear, and the tough-girl act vanishes. Replaced now by someone who’s full of grief and anger. Grief at her loss, and anger at me because she thinks I’m responsible. “Maggie—”
“Don’t say my name!” she screams as she charges forward, finally stepping into the light. And confirming what I already know.
Maggie has kidnapped me.
And I barely recognize the ghost facing me.
Disheveled clothes hang off her body with a wildness in her eyes.
My God … what happened to you? This isn’t the bright, laughing girl who used to hug me every morning or fall asleep on my couch while watching TV.
This is someone hardened who’s twisted into something unthinkable.
A cold, bitter laugh catches. Maybe it’s shock. Maybe it’s anger. Maybe it’s the only way to keep myself from breaking. “So,” I say, letting the sarcasm drip because I refuse to show her fear, “I take it you didn’t go to Italy.”
No sooner has the question left my mouth, Maggie’s open palm slaps my cheek. My head whips to the side.
She raises her chin, proud of herself. “I wasn’t about to go on your pity trip. Poor Maggie. Let’s send her to Italy as a replacement for her loss. No, thank you. Besides”—she waves her hand over the room—“I have more important things to attend to.”
Nothing I’m saying or doing is working. God, this is such a mess.
“I know losing your parents was hard. But you weren’t there that night.
You don’t know everything. The fire started, and I tried to get them to leave.
I did. But all they cared about was grabbing …
stuff. Meaningless possessions.” She stares at me, and my heart breaks open, all my memories taking me back to that night.
“I escaped,” I choke out, “but part of me never left that house.” A silence settles.
“Do you really think your parents would be happy to see what you are doing right now?”
She hinges forward, her hands bracing on the arms of the chair. Her face inches from mine. “If you want someone to blame, look in the mirror,” she growls out completely ignoring my question.
Pushing off, she sits down on the bed, casually examining her nails. “Now it’s Rose’s turn. To see what it’s like to live without both of your parents,” she snaps, sharper now, yet trembling at the edges.
Those words hang heavy, rawer than anything else she has said.
She.