Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Teresa
I wake slowly, unwillingly, like my body is rising through something thick and heavy. Like tar or molasses.
For a few seconds, I don’t open my eyes.
I just lie there, aware first of softness beneath me.
A bed. A very big one, if the stretch of mattress under me is anything to go by.
My head feels wrong—thick, cloudy, weighted in a way sleep alone never causes—and there’s a dull, sour ache behind my eyes that makes me keep them shut a second longer.
Then memory hits.
Not all at once.
My bedroom. My phone in one hand, my gun in the other. A force from behind. Panic. A cloth over my nose and mouth. Bare feet sliding on the hardwood as my vision went black.
My eyes fly open.
I sit up too fast and instantly regret it. The room tilts hard enough that I brace both hands against the mattress, breathing through a wave of dizziness and nausea. My heart is already pounding, too fast, too hard, every beat kicking fear wider through my chest.
This is not my bedroom.
That thought hits me first. Immediate and absolute.
I’m still wearing the same clothes I had on last night. The black dress. One strap in place, the other snapped. But my strapless bra is still in place, the few pieces of jewelry I had as well. I look down at myself as if the dress might explain something. It doesn’t.
I force myself to look around.
The room is large and beautiful in a way that feels almost surreal against the panic creeping through me. High ceilings. Pale walls. Dark wood furniture polished to a soft sheen.
The bed is massive, draped in crisp white linens and a light coverlet in a muted sand color. At the far end of the room, tall windows stretch nearly from floor to ceiling, framed by gauzy white curtains that stir faintly in a breeze I can’t feel from here.
There’s a long upholstered bench beneath them, cream-colored and elegant. A woven rug in natural tones lies beneath the bed, and in one corner sits a chair with a curved wooden frame and cushions the color of sea glass.
Nothing about it looks cheap. Nothing about it looks improvised.
It looks like a room in an expensive vacation house.
That thought sends a colder kind of fear through me.
I throw back the covers and stand carefully, one hand on the mattress until the dizziness steadies enough for me to move. Then I go straight to the windows.
It’s dim out, but I can see enough to stop me cold.
Beach.
Ocean.
Water stretching wide beneath the darkening sky. Sand. Palm trees moving in the breeze. The view is so openly tropical, so obviously luxurious, that for one disoriented second, my mind rejects it completely.
Am I even awake?
What am I doing here?
Who brought me here?
I remember being attacked from behind. I remember the cloth over my face. I remember blackness rushing up too fast.
That’s it.
That’s all.
Absently, I rub the inside of my elbow.
I turn away from the window and make myself keep moving, keep looking, keep thinking. There’s an attached bathroom just off the bedroom, and I head there next.
It’s as beautiful as the room itself—larger than all two and a half of my bathrooms at home, with pale stone floors, a deep soaking tub, a wide glass shower with polished metal fixtures, and a long vanity topped in white marble.
Thick folded towels sit on an open shelf beneath the counter.
The whole space smells faintly of citrus and something clean and expensive.
I stare at it, breathing hard, feeling more unreal by the second.
Then I go back into the bedroom and start opening drawers.
I stop cold again.
Clothes.
Mine.
I know they’re mine before I even touch them. A soft knit top I’ve had for years. Jeans. Underthings. Another drawer has more of my clothes. Familiar fabrics, familiar colors, things from my own closet.
My confusion spikes so sharply it almost feels like pain.
Why are my clothes here?
Who did this?
I grip the edge of the drawer and try to steady my breathing, but my thoughts are tripping over each other now, fast and useless.
I was taken from my house. Brought here somehow. Woke up in the same clothes I was wearing last night. Was it last night? How long have I been out? In a beautiful bedroom in some tropical house by the ocean. With my own clothes already put away in the drawers, as if I belong here.
I don’t know where I am.
I don’t know who brought me here.
I don’t know why.
I stand there for another few seconds with my hand wrapped around the edge of the dresser drawer, staring down at my own clothes as if they might suddenly explain themselves.
They don’t.
Nothing in this room explains itself.
Nothing about any of this makes sense.
I open more drawers and find myself even more confused. Not all my own clothes. I see tops and bottoms of all kinds. Tank tops, T-shirts, sweaters. Jeans, shorts. A drawer of bathing suits?
Whose are these?
I pull something out and check the tag out of habit. My size.
I check something else. My size.
They’re all my size.
I go to the closet and open it. Full. Again, a mix of my clothes and new clothes. Here, there are things suited to a tropical setting as well. Sundresses, wraps, strappy sandals, beach hats.
What the actual fuck is going on?
Where am I?
The worst thoughts imaginable run through my head.
Is this someone’s idea of a joke?
My pulse is still too fast, my thoughts still trying to outrun each other, but beneath the panic, there’s something else taking center stage. A thin, stubborn thread of focus.
The part of me that has spent years walking into bad situations and forcing my mind to stay clear enough to observe.
Start with the basics, I tell myself.
Find out where you are.
Find out whether you’re trapped.
Find out whether whoever brought you here is close.
The bedroom door is closed. I’d noticed that the second I woke up, but I haven’t tried it yet. Maybe I’ll be able to jimmy it with something. I don’t know how to pick a lock, but if I can find some pins, I’ll try.
I cross the room quietly, every sound suddenly too loud in my own ears. My bare feet sink slightly into the woven rug, then meet smooth flooring near the door. I lean down to study the doorknob. I don’t know anything about this, but I’ll learn.
Out of habit, I grab the doorknob and turn.
It rotates smoothly, and the door opens.
For a second, I just stand there, staring at the narrow gap.
Unlocked.
Shock moves through me so sharply it almost wipes everything else away.
I pull the door open a little farther and listen.
Nothing.
No voices. No footsteps. No movement. Just the faint, distant hush of air moving through a large house and something else beneath that—something rhythmic and soft that takes me a second to identify.
Water. Waves.
Very carefully, I step out into the hallway.
The first thing I notice is that the house is just as beautiful outside the bedroom as it is inside. The hallway is wide and bright, even in the fading evening light, with pale walls, dark wood trim, and framed art that looks expensive without being gaudy.
The floor is smooth stone, cool under my feet. On one side of the hall are more closed doors. On the other, the space opens slightly in intervals where tall windows let in strips of the outside light, now dim with evening.
Have I been kidnapped and sold to someone really, really rich? Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
What the fuck is going on here? I think again.
I move slowly. Quietly.
Every step feels like a chance I shouldn’t have. Every second, I expect someone to appear—to speak, to grab me, to stop me from going farther.
No one does.
I keep one hand lightly against the wall as I make my way down the hall, more to steady myself than anything else. My head still feels a little thick, a little off, but better than when I first woke up. Better enough to keep going.
The hallway opens into a large living area, and I stop dead at the threshold.
The room is stunning.
It should be the kind of room that makes someone exhale in relief and pleasure when they see it. Instead, it leaves me more unnerved than ever.
The entire space opens toward the water through huge windows that stretch across the back wall, the glass catching the last of the evening light.
Everything beyond them glows in soft gold and blue.
The living area itself is spacious and immaculate, all pale neutrals and rich natural textures—linen sofas, low polished wood tables, woven accents, thick rugs in sandy tones.
The ceiling is high here too, with exposed beams dark against the lighter expanse above.
A long console table sits behind one of the sofas, styled with bowls and books and candles so carefully it looks like a magazine spread.
Beyond the seating area is a pair of glass double doors.
Outside, I can see a table with several chairs around it, all arranged for outdoor dining. Off to one side is a sunken area ringed with built-in seating and a place for a bonfire, clean and elegant and clearly meant for long evenings outside.
Past the patio, the sand begins almost immediately, pale and smooth as it slopes down toward the beach.
And beyond that, the ocean.
Even from here, even through the glass and distance, I can tell it is breathtaking.
It doesn’t matter.
I feel cold all over despite the warmth in the room.
Who brings someone here?
Who takes a person from her house, from New Jersey, and leaves her in a place like this with no one standing guard at the door?
I move farther into the living area, turning slowly, taking in every angle, every doorway, every possible route. Still no sign of anyone. No voice calling out. No footsteps approaching. No indication that I’m being watched at all.
That should make me feel better.
It doesn’t.
It makes everything stranger.
I continue through the house, drawn toward another open space off the living room that turns out to be the kitchen.
That stops me, too.
It’s enormous.