Chapter 16
NOELLE
This can’t be happening.
It can’t.
This has to be a nightmare; the kind you wake up from half-convinced it’s real. The kind that lingers, the clinging memories keeping you awake until the sun rises, finally chasing the last of the fear away.
Except.
I’ve been awake for… crap. How long—half an hour? less? more?—and I’m still stuck in it.
Still feeling sick and dizzy, my head aching and nausea coming in waves.
Still so scared it’s hard to think clearly.
And the memories aren’t fading. It’s light out—I can tell from the sliver of light filtering between the blacked-out glass and the window frame around it—but this nightmare is still just as vivid as ever.
Swaying slightly, my head swimming as I move, I slowly circle the small room I’m in again.
This time, I drag my fingertips along the wall as I go, feeling the cool concrete against my skin.
I breathe deeply, hoping to clear the fog from my head.
A mildewy aroma hits my nose, tinged with a hint of copper and lemon and ammonia.
When I reach the narrow window, I go up on my toes, trying to reach it. But my balance is off, so I end up crashing into the wall instead, rapping my forehead hard enough to bring tears to my eyes.
More tears, that is. Because I’ve been crying on and off since I woke up—first briefly, when I came to in a dark space that seemed a lot like a trunk, and again in here, wherever here is.
And the longer I’m awake, the more sure I am that here isn’t a nightmare.
I want it to be.
Oh, I wish so badly this was just a nightmare.
Turning slowly, so I don’t lose my balance again, I lean my back against the wall as I survey the room.
There’s a cot in one corner, and in the opposite, a large bucket with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of what might be hand sanitizer beside it.
To my right, a foggy mirror is tacked to the wall.
To my left, a dressing gown hangs from a single hook.
The floor is bare, a dull gray with several dull spots of brown scattered across it.
What are the brown spots? Why is there a bucket? And what is the dressing gown for?
The stubborn part of me still insisting this is all just a nightmare ignores the questions. Nightmares don’t make sense, after all. They’re just a crazy combination of memories and things our brains tuck away without us realizing.
Maybe this is just an extra-realistic nightmare, the stubborn part reasons.
It would make sense, given that it’s been less than a month since Ken died and the extent of his depravity was discovered.
And it’s not like this would be the first nightmare I’ve had because of my old boss.
It’s just the first one I haven’t been able to drag myself out of.
If Webb were here, he would help. If he were lying in bed beside me, he’d hear me tossing and turning and he’d pull me into his arms, cuddling me and murmuring reassurances until the bad dreams drift away, just as he’s done before.
But he’s not here. Firstly, because I insisted on going back to my apartment in Williston. And second, he’s in Seattle, working his first out of town job since we started dating.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I dig my nails into my palms while muttering, “Wake up. It’s just a nightmare. Wake up.” Then I bite my tongue hard for good measure before opening my eyes again.
And shit.
Shit.
I’m still here. In the room. With the cot and the bucket and the stains on the floor.
I’m still dizzy. Nauseous. And now my hands and tongue hurt, along with my head.
And I don’t think I can deny the truth anymore.
It’s not a nightmare.
Oh, God.
This is real.
And I’m in trouble.
I sink to my knees as the memories I’ve been shoving down deep come surging to the surface, one image after another.
I remember parking around the corner from the diner because the small parking lot behind it had been paved yesterday.
As I drove down Main Street, past the entrance to the parking lot, I noticed the orange ribbon still blocking the entrance, the lone streetlamp nearby catching the reflective surface.
I remember getting out of my car, feeling a little uneasy about being alone on the street when the sun hadn’t yet risen.
It was peeking over the horizon, a watercolor of pinks and golds and ambers spreading from it.
But there were still more shadows than light, and at six thirty in the morning, there was no one else around.
But there’s nothing to worry about, I reassured myself. The diner was just down the street. I could see the awning from there, the light already on inside, with Doug no doubt inside prepping for breakfast.
And Ken couldn’t hurt me. That was the most important thing.
But only steps from my car, a man came out from seemingly nowhere.
Dressed in sweats and wearing a baseball cap and large headphones, he just looked like an ordinary jogger, but I still moved to the side to put distance between us.
Habit, for sure. But maybe instinct, too?
My body somehow knowing he was dangerous before my brain realized?
As he came up beside me, I tensed. My hand dove into my purse, searching for the pepper spray Webb insisted I carry. Not that I thought I’d need it, but just in case.
Then he smiled at me. Just a polite smile, like you’d give to anyone on the street.
It’s fine, I told myself. Nothing to worry about.
But it wasn’t fine.
And oh—
A small, keening sound makes its way up my throat.
My arms come around my body instinctively, hugging myself.
I start shaking as the next part comes back into focus.
Not a nightmare.
I can see him, spinning around to face me, his courteous smile sliding into something more sinister.
Cast in shadow from the brim of the baseball cap, his eyes were black and menacing.
He seemed to grow at least a foot as he loomed in front of me, and I staggered back, adrenaline surging as I prepared to run.
Then he pulled out the gun.
It was small. Mostly black with bits of silver. And it made a snicking sound when he cocked the trigger, a noise I recognized immediately from the few times Webb brought me down to the shooting range to watch him practice.
“Don’t move,” the stranger hissed. Because he was a stranger. Even in the half-light, I was certain I’d never seen him before. “I’d rather not shoot you, but I will. And if you make a sound, I’ll kill anyone who comes out to investigate.”
I was already reaching for the small necklace Webb gave me—the one with a button I could press to let him know I’m in trouble. But the man grabbed me before I got the chance, spun me around, and pinned my wrists together while he marched me back to my car.
From there, it’s a blur of terror and confusion.
He shoved me in the back seat and zip-tied my wrists together before I had a chance to fight back. Then he flipped me over, pressed a damp cloth against my face, and soon after, everything went black.
Sometime later, I’m not sure how long, I woke up in the dark. My wrists and ankles were bound together, and there was a wad of fabric stuffed in my mouth.
I tried screaming. I pulled at my bindings. But I was still too weak and disoriented to do much. The last thing I remember before passing out again was trying to trigger the necklace.
Did I, though?
Does Webb know I’m in trouble?
Or is he going about his day, thinking everything is fine, that I’m fine, and he’ll show up at the diner—
A sob bubbles up.
The tears I’ve been sniffing back come bursting free.
I’m not stuck in a harmless nightmare. This one is real.
And Webb—
Oh, Webb.
I want him so badly.
My sobs come faster as I imagine him walking into the diner, his gaze searching for me. Wondering where I am. Eager to see me.
And Doug. What did he think when I didn’t show up? Did he think I flaked out on him? That I quit?
My sobs become more violent, wracking my body. I bury my face in my knees, rocking against the terror I can no longer escape.
Stop it, my inner voice of logic orders. This isn’t helping. Get up. Look around the room again. If nothing else, trigger the necklace, in case it didn’t work the first time.
The voice of logic makes sense. But it’s easier said than done.
What would Webb do? I ask myself. Would he sit here crying? Or would he do something useful?
Do something useful, is the obvious answer.
So I take a shuddering breath. Then another. And another. When I’ve finally got control over my body again, I press the back of the necklace hard, feeling thankful that at least the zip ties around my ankles and wrists are off now, so I know I’m triggering it properly this time.
Or maybe it worked before, and Webb’s already on his way to… wherever I am.
I trigger the alert a third time for good measure before pushing myself to my feet.
I have to brace myself as my balance comes back, swallowing hard against the bile rising in my throat.
Then I cautiously cross the room to the mirror, hoping against hope that I might be able to break it and use a piece of glass for a weapon.
Would he really, the annoying voice of logic asks, put you in a room with a mirror you could break? Honestly? That would be pretty stupid, wouldn’t it?
Probably. But it can’t hurt to try.
So I take a deep breath to ready myself, then slam my fist hard against the mirror.
I yelp as pain explodes in my hand. But to my dismay, the mirror doesn’t break.
Though I know, rationally, that it’s most likely plastic—it would be pretty stupid to use glass given the circumstances—I draw my fist back to hit the mirror again. But just as I’m bracing myself for the inevitable pain, a voice snaps, “Stop that!”
With a yip of surprise, I spin around.