Chapter 3
Get to Work
At first Liv thought she simply had a massive, truly world-ending hangover.
Which wasn’t entirely out of the question after a bad date, but still, it…
bothered her a bit. She didn’t remember meeting the girls, or even getting home and putting out a Friday night drinking call.
God as her witness, she’d intended to stop only for a couple consolatory shots and a cup of coffee at Bostwick’s if one of her friends was there, before going home and diving into a carton of pistachio ice cream.
How had she been talked into anything else?
God knew Mika could rope her into just about anything, though, as the dates with douchebags met online proved beyond a reasonable doubt.
Liv’s eyes were almost crusted shut and her nose tickled, as if she was coming down with a cold. Great. Or, wait.
It was dust. She was smelling dust.
The second shock was rubbing at her eyes, opening them, and finding herself in a white cotton nightgown that wasn’t hers, not to mention tucked between threadbare but once very high-quality cotton sateen sheets that weren’t hers either.
To top it all off, the bed, while being of course a total stranger as well, had the gall to be a curlicued wrought-iron thing straight off a Hammer movie set.
It was a nice enough room, if your taste ran to not antique, just fucking old.
Misty winter sunlight poured through mullioned windows with panes of thick, wavy glass; there was a wardrobe big enough to hold a couple Narnias and an actual vanity, one Mae West would have called too restrained but secretly coveted, if only for the faded red velvet bench and beeswax-polished drawers.
Liv rubbed at her eyes again. What. The ever-loving. Fuck.
For the first time since college, she was just barely awake in a bedroom she didn’t recognize at all.
There was a bookshelf holding a bunch of dark, ancient spines frowning over a big leather easy chair, exactly the thing you’d want near a window on a rainy day.
You could curl up and listen to the rain while napping or pretending to read; you could actually absorb a romance novel or do a bit of studying, too, if you had some hot chocolate or a good cup of tea.
That was a nice thought, and ordinarily she would have liked it a lot.
But she ached all over, so badly she couldn’t tell just what had happened to her, and she not only didn’t recognize this place, it smelled like it hadn’t been used for a while.
Even the comforter was musty, though everything was painfully clean.
Even the rugs on the hardwood—Persian if she ever saw one, or really good fakes—were worn down in patches that shouted someone’s actually used me.
Two doors. Three if you counted the closet, pulled ajar so she could see a few desultory wooden hangers on a thick dark rod. The other slightly open door held a brighter gleam off tile and porcelain—a bathroom, probably.
That was good.
It was the third actual door which bothered her the most. The big, thick, heavy one that was probably the only way in or out unless you wanted to defenestrate. It was firmly closed, and she didn’t like it.
No, Liv didn’t like that at all.
First things first. She managed to get her legs free of the covers and shuffled barefoot for the bathroom, smoothing the sleeveless cotton nightgown with her palms. It wasn’t dirty, but it wasn’t hers, and it was way too long.
She had to bunch up a good portion of the skirt to keep from tripping, for God’s sake.
On the way there, she glanced out the wavering-glass windows, and that was bad news too.
It was a long way down to old, winter-naked trees edging what looked like a university quad.
Stone walls held ranks of other windows just like hers, and she stared for a few moments, trying to figure out how high up she was.
At least three stories. Great.
It could be fine. There could be a perfectly rational explanation for this. Pee first, then assess the rest of the situation sounded like an excellent plan.
The bathroom was relatively updated compared to the bedroom.
At least, the plumbing looked reliable, even if the cast-iron tub could hold two of her along with the scrubbed-dry rust stain dripping from the faucet—the handles were wheels, their spokes thick and polished satin-smooth.
The water ran clear in the sink; the toilet was one of those chain-flush numbers, also running clear.
The next step was to try the door that had to lead to a hall. Its knob was cut glass, gleaming and cool; she twisted it, was rewarded with a click. At first she tugged before noticing something unusual—it swung out; she shook her head and pushed.
Nothing. Maybe it was blocked? She pushed harder.
Of course, if it opened outward, the hinges would be in the hall so she couldn’t get to them, and she wouldn’t be able to hide behind its opening and brain someone when they brought her food.
If they brought her food.
Liv stood very still for a few moments. Think, goddammit. Think very carefully.
All she remembered was the alley, a hideous, overpowering smell, and then… something had hit her, right? It was definitely a kidnapping. Maybe they’d used chloroform? Maybe Neal had followed her?
It didn’t matter, she told the panic beginning to squirrel-scratch behind her breastbone.
Mika had probably already called the cops by now, since Liv definitely hadn’t been home.
All she had to do was survive long enough for someone to find her.
If Neal was behind this, he wasn’t very bright.
She’d forwarded his pic and profile link to at least two people besides Mika.
But if he wasn’t stupid, if he’d planned for as much, well…
Either way, she needed to get moving. There was no sign of her clothes or purse. It was idiotic, but her missing shoes irritated her almost past belief.
She’d loved those grey suede heels. Now she was probably never going to wear them again.
Liv put her back to the door and closed her eyes, listening.
Nothing. It was absolutely silent except for a faint, ghostly dripping from the bathroom faucet.
She couldn’t tell from the window if the rest of the place was in disrepair; a place this size had to need landscapers and cleaning staff, right? It looked almost like a school.
Great. I’m trapped in Suburbia College. They take all your blood and replace it with tofu.
A thin, pale laugh fell out of her mouth. It sounded good, like she was amused at the damn situation instead of fighting off steadily rising terror.
She didn’t want to, but she opened her eyes. The water worked, did the power? There was an old-fashioned toggle switch by the door; she pushed it and was rewarded with golden glow, faint in the daytime but still very welcome, from a curlicued, glass-dripping overhead fixture.
So somebody paid the electric bill here, which meant there was a paper trail. Great news, but it didn’t help her now.
This will be an amazing story to tell the girls once it’s over. Right?
“Right,” she muttered, and her gaze snagged on the half-open closet door again. No use—she couldn’t get the clothes rod down without something to unscrew the ancient, disc-shaped holder. “So there I was, trapped in the fucking suburbs.”
There was another rod in the empty, cedar-smelling wardrobe that could be lifted out, however. It was a good inch-plus dowel, nice and heavy since particle board wasn’t a thing when that furniture had been made.
It would probably make short work of the window. Then she’d have to figure out a way down to the ground. The tree branches looked sharp—and very far away.
“So there I was…” Nah, she couldn’t open like that. It would be too unbelievable. “Once upon a time, yours truly…” Oh, that was a good one. She’d start with that.
Liv prowled the room one more time, looking for more supplies, muttering bits of the story under her breath.
Then she got to work.