Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Nysa
This ended up being a good idea. The festival is alive with sound and color.
Music plays from the town square’s bandstand, children run past me, their faces painted with butterflies and tigers.
Everything feels loud, overwhelming, chaotic. But despite the crowds, the noise, the lights, I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. Like that the same guy I saw and disappeared is still watching. The sensation has been crawling up my spine since I saw him, but I’ve been trying to disregard it.
Though, now?
Now it feels closer.
Too close.
Maddie is clutching my hand, sticky fingers squeezing mine as she hums happily, swinging her arm back and forth.
Hopper is just ahead of us, talking to one of the security guys, his broad frame tense—always scanning, always watching, always ready for something to happen.
And something does. A shout rings out from the far side of the square. Then another. Then chaos.
It happens fast.
Too fast.
The crowd surges forward, people pushing, shoving, voices rising in confusion. Someone yells about a fight near the Ferris wheel. Another voice shouts about a medical emergency.
Panic spreads like wildfire, people moving in every direction.
I tighten my grip on Maddie’s hand, pulling her close.
“Maddie, hold onto me,” I say, my voice urgent.
She nods, clutching me tighter.
Hopper turns toward us, his eyes scanning the crowd, his hand already reaching for me?—
But then, something slams into me from behind.
The air is knocked from my lungs, my vision blurs as an arm wraps around my waist, yanking me backward.
Maddie screams.
I try to hold onto her, my fingers grasping at nothing as she’s pulled from my reach.
“Hopper,” I scream, panic tearing through my throat as I thrash against the grip holding me.
I kick, claw, fight, but the person is too strong, dragging me back, back, back through the crowd.
People are rushing past us, not seeing me, not noticing, too distracted by whatever is happening near the Ferris wheel.
It was planned. A distraction to take me. I barely get another scream out before a rough hand clamps over my mouth. The smell of leather and sweat fills my nose as I’m shoved backward, my heels scraping the pavement as I’m dragged toward the alley behind the cider stand.
I twist violently, trying to break free, but a voice—low, rasping, familiar—growls in my ear.
“Don’t fight, Nysa.” Ice pours through my veins as I hear his voice. It’s that guy, the same from three years ago.
I freeze, my breath shattering, my stomach dropping into a freefall.
He shoves me forward, through the alley, toward the back parking lot behind the festival booths. I thrash again, twisting my head, biting down on his gloved hand.
He curses, yanking his hand back, but before I can scream, he grabs my hair and slams me against the side of a truck. Pain explodes through my skull, my vision blurring, my knees nearly buckling. The world tilts, spinning, going dark at the edges. I hear the truck door yank open. Feel the hard shove against my back.
And then I’m inside. The door slams shut. I lurch forward, trying to grab for the handle, but a fist collides with my stomach. It’s hard. Brutal. I choke on air, doubling over, the pain like a shockwave tearing through my ribs.
“Stay down,” he growls.
And then the engine roars to life, the tires screech, and we’re moving. The pain lingers, my stomach throbbing, my head still spinning from the impact against the truck.
But my fear?
That’s what’s overpowering everything else.
I jerk upright, hands shaking as I reach for the door handle again, but the child lock is on.
I slam my fist against the window.
“Let me go,” I gasp, my voice hoarse, broken, frantic.
He doesn’t answer or even look at me. He just keeps driving. I suck in a ragged breath, my chest tight, burning.
I can barely think, barely process anything but the fact that I’m trapped. No one knows where I am. I force myself to look around, my brain sluggish from adrenaline and panic.
The truck is old, dirty, the seats cracked and stained. There’s a knife tucked between the driver’s seat and the center console. The dashboard is littered with trash, cigarette butts, torn-up receipts.
I swallow hard, my pulse pounding, my vision still slightly blurred from the hit to my head. But I have to focus. I have to think. Because if I don’t . . . well, I won’t make it out of this.
The truck turns onto an empty road, heading out of town, away from the lights, the festival, the people who could have helped me.
Away from Hopper, from Maddie.
From anyone who could find me.
Terror claws its way up my throat.
I know what happens to women who disappear into the night like this. I saw the body when they were burying it—the ones that follow after.
But I refuse to let that be me. This isn’t how my story ends, I just don’t know how I’ll get out of this. I won’t let him win. I shift slightly, my fingers searching, trying to find something—anything—to use as a weapon.
A pen?
A nail file?
A fucking seatbelt buckle?
Anything.
But the moment I move, his voice cuts through the air. “Don’t,” he warns me. “You try to escape and this will end worse for you. I’ll get that little girl and I’ll have you watch while I kill her before I kill you.”
Not Maddie. My breath catches. For the first time since throwing me into the truck, he looks at me. And the satisfaction in his eyes is enough to make my blood run cold. Like he’s been waiting for this moment. Like he’s been planning it for years—three long years. I glare at him, my hands clenching into fists.
“What do you want?” I whisper.
His lips curve into a slow, chilling smile.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
I suck in a sharp breath, my pulse hammering, my mind screaming at me to do something.
To fight.
To run.
To find a way out before it’s too late.
But right now?
Right now, I can only do one thing.
Survive.