Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
She was being half carried down a familiar hall. Holly’s head lolled—her arm was over someone’s shoulders, and her legs worked slowly, as if running in a dream.
“That’s a good girl.” Unfamiliar male voice, hushed and amused. “We’ll just get you home and you can play Sleeping Beauty.”
“Yeah, for the rest of her life.” Second man. “I hate these jobs.”
What the hell was happening?
A familiar door reared up. Someone was carrying her home. The jumbled, confused pieces of recent memory refused to fit together. Everything blurred, as if she’d had too much to drink, or...
The familiar squeak of her front door, creak of the hallway just inside. She let out a sobbing sigh of relief as a gush of sweat broke out all over her. Her legs firmed up, and she tried to raise her head.
“I think she’s waking up.”
“Hurry, then. Find the bed.” Sounds of movement. She blinked, caught a glimpse of her kitchen, moving shadows. “Oh, for God’s sake, she’s a hippie. Look for a pillow, anyth—ulp!”
The world turned over, and her entire body met hardwood—she’d taken this place because of the floor and the light—with stunning force.
Her head bounced a bit and she let out a hurt little cry, her body curling around itself just like a snail’s.
More confusion, shuffling and a snap, like breaking a branch.
Holly just closed her eyes. Why was she on the floor? Food poisoning? It couldn’t be alcohol, she didn’t drink.
Was her time up? She’d planned, but it was still a surprise.
“Holly.” This voice was half-familiar. “Christ. What did they give you?” He sniffed, deeply. “Ah. Lucky your heart didn’t shut down. Come on, open your eyes again, honey. Let me have a look at you.”
She did her best to obey.
There, silhouetted with sunlight, was a familiar face. Dark eyes, a baseball cap’s bill shielding them. Nose slightly too long, cheekbones just a little too high, the charcoal shading on his cheeks from stubble answering one question—he did get a shadow well before five o’clock.
Wait, what time is it? “Reese?” she croaked, her throat too dry and a metallic taste filling her from teeth all the way down to stomach.
He examined her critically, staring into her eyes for what seemed like forever. Nodded, as if he’d found what he expected. “Come on, let’s stand up. How do you feel?”
“Drunk. Did I drink? I never drink.” Not enough to get blasted, at least.
“How did they get you? Where were you when you were taken?”
Taken? Her arms were heavy, but she managed to rub at her eyes.
He pulled her up, wiry strength evident in his grip.
Despite that, he was gentle, and she was glad because she ached all over.
“I... there was a van. I was... I was going for coffee. With you.” The fog in her head was breaking up, but not nearly quickly enough. “Why are you in my house?”
“I’m rescuing you.” He eased her down onto the futon. “We don’t have a lot of time. Do you have a bag, a backpack, a suitcase? Backpack’s best.”
“In… in the closet. Why?” She peered past him, and her heart gave a strange thump, filling up her throat. “What are... oh, God.”
Two slumped shapes on the floor, both in dark charcoal suits. Heavyset men, a pair of matching crewcuts, and under one’s jacket a wooden gun-butt peeped out. The sight made her woozy, because it was obvious they weren’t sleeping.
They were definitely, indisputably dead. And it smelled awful in here, like a plugged-up toilet. Now that her nose was clearing, the reek was almost too much to handle.
Her heart tried to pound, but could only manage a fast walk. She stared. “What’s going on?”
He ripped aside the curtain over her closet; she’d found the cloth cheap at the fabric store and sewn it herself.
“You were picked up, drugged, and questioned. They brought you back, probably to arrange you on your bed and put a pillow over your face. It would be ruled suicide or overdose, because of whatever they doped you with.” He grabbed the navy-blue Eastpak she used for shopping or laundry trips and started going through her dresser.
“What are you doing?” She hopped to her feet—or tried to, sat down hard as her recalcitrant body informed her that she wasn’t going to be standing up unassisted anytime soon.
“Getting you out of here. Unless you want to stick around for them to send someone to finish the job of killing you.”
“Why would...” The world had gone mad. That wasn’t a dream, it really happened. Someone... but why? “Why would anyone want to—”
“I told you, I’m in security. These guys are the other side.” He closed the bottom dresser drawer, firmly. “Stay there. I’m going to get your bathroom stuff. If you want a book, now’s the time to get it. Think about that.”
“A... a book? Why are you... Hey. Hey. That’s my backpack!”
“With your clothes in it, yes. Pick a book, Holly. I’d hate to choose the wrong one.”
“What are you even doing?” Everything was now happening way too fast; Holly struggled to think through thick, congealed mental soup.
“Weren’t you listening? Getting us out of here. We have five minutes, probably less.”
She tried to push herself upright again. “Wait. They were carrying me up the stairs. You... you killed them?”
“It’s them or you. I don’t want it to be you.” A rattling sound from the bathroom, then Reese came out, zipping her blue backpack closed. He’d turned the baseball cap around, too, and his dark gaze was level and intent.
He was suddenly looming over her, blocking her view of the bodies. “Come on, Holly. We’ve got to move.”
“I... but where?” She couldn’t even begin to sort this out. Was I in the hospital? Is this something to do with Phillip?
“First step’s getting out of here.” Reese held out a hand. His jacket was dewed with the leftover dark circles of raindrops, slowly drying. “Come with me.”
“The... the police.” Holly’s mouth didn’t want to work quite properly either, maybe because he was staring at her so intently. “We have to... we have to call the police.”
“No. In any case, we can’t do it from here.” A little beckoning motion. His fingers were blunter than hers, and his hand much bigger. Calluses across the fingertips, tendons standing out on the back, and those quick-healing scrapes across his knuckles, much paler now.
She reached up, tentatively. “How are you even here? I was supposed to meet you.”
“And when you didn’t show up I got to thinking maybe I should find you.” He shook his head. “We have to move. Which book are you going to take?”
It didn’t occur to her to protest further.
Her fingers touched his, and all of a sudden he had her hand and she was up off the futon, the backpack over her shoulder, swaying a little as he walked her over to the bookcase.
She blindly grabbed at a volume, then he had her arm.
A few seconds later he lifted her over the bodies on the floor by simply grabbing her waist and picking her up, setting her down where he wanted her.
Outside her door—which he swept closed, without bothering to lock it—he turned the wrong way, toward the end of the hall instead of the stairs.
She managed to dig her heels in. “Wait, my wallet.” It was still in her hoodie pocket, despite everything. “My keys, where are my keys?”
“You don’t need them.” Now Reese was all but carrying her, instead of two strangers. “Time to go. I can hear them.”
“Hear what?”
Reese slid the chain free of the emergency exit, popped the door open and glanced out. “Footsteps that don’t belong, baby. This way.”