Chapter 46
National Crime Agency statistic
Grace
My head was pounding when I woke up. A dull pain pulsed at the back of my skull.
My tongue felt like sandpaper, and my throat was dry, as if I’d been sleeping with my mouth wide open for hours.
I felt like I’d been partying all night—only worse.
Had I been at the pub with Rose and Kate?
If so, how much had I had to drink? Too much, that was obvious.
I blinked my eyes open, but I was surrounded by darkness.
It took me a few seconds to realise I wasn’t in a pitch-black room; I was wearing a blindfold.
This one realisation set off a rush of others.
I wasn’t in my bed—I was sitting on a chair and couldn’t move.
My wrists were tied behind my back, my skin stinging with the friction of the restraints. And I had a gag in my mouth.
My pain and confusion quickly spiralled into fear and panic.
I let out a scream, though the gag muffled it into a stifled, barely audible sound.
How had I ended up here? Thinking back on the past few hours was like looking through a shroud of dense fog, and it was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before.
It wasn’t alcohol, but something else entirely.
My mind was sluggish, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was happening.
I had been kidnapped. And I knew exactly who was behind it: Claude Asterdam.
I thought of his threatening letters, warning me to stop my investigations, and of the illegal transfers Ethan and I had found in his study yesterday.
Oh my God. Ethan!
Worry surged through me. Even though I was in a shitty situation myself, suddenly he was all I could think about.
Where was he? Was he OK? Had Mr. Asterdam kidnapped him too?
Was he locked up here with me? I yelled into the gag again.
The sound was muffled, but if Ethan was here somewhere, he might still hear me.
But there was only silence. Perhaps he was still unconscious?
Tears of despair climbed my throat. I swallowed hard, telling myself to stay calm. Panicking blindly wouldn’t help. I had to keep a cool head. I drew a deep breath to collect myself. The air around me was heavy, damp, and smelled of wood. Was I in a cellar?
I desperately tried to remember something, anything. I’d been at Ethan’s penthouse and had said goodbye. I’d been about to head home. On cloud nine after our night together, I’d walked to the Tube. Had I actually made it?
I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t really matter.
The most important thing now was getting out of here.
I took it as a good sign that I was still alive and that I’d been blindfolded.
If Mr. Asterdam had intended to kill me, he would have done it by now, and there would have been no point in hiding this place from me. That’s what I was telling myself.
I tugged at my restraints and realised I hadn’t been tied to the chair.
Planting my feet firmly on the floor, I heaved myself upright.
It was a small victory, but I still couldn’t see a thing.
Complete darkness swallowed me. Inch by inch, I edged forward, feeling my way through the gloom until I stumbled against something.
I turned to examine it with my hands. Cold stone.
My hunch that I was in a cellar was confirmed.
I edged along the wall until the rough stone gave way to smooth wood. A shelf. I felt along it with my hands, which were still tied behind my back, until I felt something. A bottle. Was I in the Asterdams’ wine cellar?
I grabbed the bottle and pulled it from the shelf, letting it shatter on the floor with a sharp smash.
Slowly, I crouched down and groped for shards.
I found one—though not without cutting myself.
Pain shot through my hand, but I ignored it.
I turned the broken bottleneck in my fingers so the jagged edge was facing upward.
Carefully, determined not to injure myself a second time, I began to saw the makeshift blade back and forth, trying to cut through the restraint millimetre by millimetre.
My nerves were frayed, and I felt something warm trickle over my hand and fingers. Blood.
Suddenly, I heard the metallic click of a lock and the scrape of a door being pushed open. I froze, catching the faintest flicker of light behind the blindfold, as though someone had switched on a lamp in the room.
A deep voice cut through the silence. “What exactly do you think you’re doing, Miss Claymore?”