Chapter 2
Chloe
Cheer practice ends the way it always does—sweat dripping down my back, my throat dry, my legs aching but my heart still fluttering like I could do another hour if they asked.
I’m laughing with the girls as we tumble out of the gym, the faint squeak of sneakers against polished floor fading behind us, pom-poms tucked into our bags, hair falling loose from high ponytails.
North Pointe High gleams under the dying light, banners flapping along the front, proclaiming us champions of last year’s state finals.
We’re the golden girls of this place. Everyone knows it. Everyone watches when we walk out.
My boyfriend, Nate, leans against his black truck waiting for me.
His hair is damp from football practice, falling into his forehead, his jersey hanging loose, and that crooked smile of his makes my stomach flip.
He pushes off the truck as soon as he sees me, weaving through the crowd of cheerleaders and players like he has tunnel vision for me alone.
“Hey, baby,” he says, catching my waist in his hands, pulling me up against his chest. His lips taste faintly of Gatorade and sweat, warm and familiar, when he kisses me.
I sink into it, even though I can hear the girls giggling behind me.
Nate doesn’t care. He never does. He’s all confidence, all promise, his mouth against mine like he owns me.
“See you tonight?” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to brush his thumb along my jaw.
“Maybe,” I tease. “Depends if Carmichael works me too hard at ballet.”
He groans, dramatic, pressing another kiss against my lips like he can’t get enough. “You’ll come. I’ll be waiting.”
I roll my eyes but I’m smiling as I tug away, waving to him as I walk toward the parking lot.
My phone buzzes in my hand. I flip it open, snap a quick selfie—hair slightly messy, cheeks still pink from practice—and send it to Harper.
She’ll nag if I don’t keep our streak alive.
The little flame emoji sits at the top of our chat, day 157.
We’re not about to break that for anything.
The late sun bounces off my car as I approach.
Bright red. Sleek. My baby. A cherry-colored Audi convertible my parents surprised me with on my eighteenth birthday.
I swear I love this car more than most people in my life.
It gleams under the parking lot lights like it’s showing off for me, and I run my hand along the hood as I approach, smiling to myself.
But my screen flashes bright in my hand—battery icon red, 2% left. I curse under my breath. Of course. I meant to charge it during practice. Now it’s about to die when I need it most. I stuff it into my bag, annoyed, and climb into the driver’s seat, the leather warm against my thighs.
The first thing I do is turn on the radio, scrolling until Taylor Swift fills the car, the opening notes of 1989 pouring through the speakers.
Comfort. Home. I fluff my hair out, shaking the blonde strands until they fall around my shoulders, then pull out my cherry lip gloss from my purse.
It’s my favorite—shiny, sweet, the taste of something girly and light.
I reapply, smacking my lips together, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror.
My lashes look good, my lips look better. Perfect.
I put the car in gear, pulling out with a little more speed than necessary.
I’ve always liked driving fast, the wind catching my hair, the blur of the world outside the window making me feel like I’m flying.
The high school shrinks behind me as I head toward home, the looming silhouette of the bridge rising ahead.
The bridge. My least favorite part. Connecting West Pointe to East Pointe, like a scar across the city.
Everyone knows East Pointe is the wrong side of the tracks, the place where things go missing and people go quiet.
Dad always tells me to lock my doors, to never stop on this stretch, but it’s the only route home unless I want to add twenty minutes to my drive.
I bite down on my lip, crank the volume higher, and press harder on the accelerator. The faster I cross, the sooner I’ll be safe again, back on the route toward East Pointe where everything is clean and manicured and untouched.
Halfway across, my phone buzzes weakly again—its final gasp before dying. I glance down and groan. Dead. Great. No charger, no lifeline.
By the time I reach the end of the bridge, I spot a convenience store tucked against the edge of the road. Neon buzzing faintly, the kind of place that sells everything and nothing. I swing into the lot, kill the engine, and run inside, the bell chiming overhead.
The shelves are sparse, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly, the man at the counter staring at his phone like he’s forgotten customers exist. I dart to the electronics aisle, scanning frantically. No chargers. Not for my model, at least. Of course. My frustration bubbles hot in my chest.
Fine. Whatever. I grab a popsicle from the freezer, toss a crumpled bill onto the counter, and head back out, ripping the wrapper open with my teeth as I slide back behind the wheel. At least sugar will help.
The first few minutes are easy, the road stretching dark and familiar. I lean back, licking at the cherry ice, tapping the wheel in rhythm with the music.
In the rearview mirror, I notice a black, sleek car. A shadow behind me in the mirror. It’s been there for the last few turns. Close enough to notice. Close enough to alarm.
My throat tightens. I grip the wheel harder, glance again. Still there. Same distance. Same rhythm.
I force a laugh at how paranoid I’m being. Harper and I have been bingeing Criminal Minds every weekend, and now every shadow looks like a serial killer, every car like a stalker. It’s nothing. Just a coincidence.
I force my shoulders down, turn the music louder, take another lick of the popsicle. I’m fine.
At the next intersection, as I slow to a stop, the car behind me nudges forward, hard, bumping into my bumper. The jolt makes me gasp, my hand flying up, the last of the popsicle slipping from my fingers, hitting the floor.
“What the hell?” I shout, twisting in my seat. The black car gleams in the streetlight, its windows dark, faceless.
I roll my window down halfway, my pulse racing. Maybe it’s an accident. Maybe they’ll apologize. Maybe—
No. My gut screams at me. Instinct, cold and sharp, slicing through the denial. Drive.
I slam the car back into gear, foot pressing hard against the pedal. The engine roars, the tires squeal, and I’m flying forward, heart in my throat.
But it follows.
The headlights flare in my mirror, blinding, the car closing in like a predator. Another bump. Harder this time. My teeth clack together, my hands shaking on the wheel.
Panic claws at my chest. This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t random. Someone is trying to run me off the road.
I reach for my phone automatically, then remember. Dead. Useless. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The road curves, and I fight the wheel, but another hit sends me swerving, tires screeching against the asphalt. My head slams against the side window, white light exploding across my vision.
The smell hits me next—burnt rubber, sharp and acrid. My breath comes ragged, my chest heaving.
I fumble with the seatbelt, my fingers trembling too hard to press the button. Finally, it snaps free, the strap falling away. I look down and see dark drops staining my cheer uniform, spreading slowly. Blood. My blood.
The car door groans as I shove it open, stumbling out into the night. My legs barely hold me, my sneakers sliding against gravel. The world tilts, spins. I try to scream, my throat raw, but it feels like the sound gets trapped somewhere inside me.
The black car is there, idling, its doors swinging open. Two figures step out. Tall. Broad. Dressed head to toe in black. Their faces are hidden, their movements purposeful, slow, terrifying.
“No,” I whisper, stumbling backward, my hands outstretched like that will stop them. My head throbs, my vision blurs, but I force my body to move, to fight, to run.
My legs won’t work. My sneakers slip. I fall to my knees, gravel biting into my skin. I claw at the ground, forcing myself up, but they’re already too close.
I open my mouth, and this time the scream rips free, ragged and broken, tearing out of me.
It’s the last thing I manage before darkness swallows me. A heavy hand shoves fabric over my head, the world vanishing in suffocating black.
And then—nothing.
The first thing I register is the sting.
A sharp, shocking slap that cuts through the fog in my head and forces my eyes to snap open.
Pain ricochets through my skull, everything throbbing, my temples pounding as if my brain itself is bruised.
My eyelids flutter, the harsh fluorescent glare above burning my retinas.
I squint, groaning, but the sound dies in my throat when I realize I can’t move.
I’m not just sitting—I’m bound. My wrists are raw against rope, tied tight to the arms of the wooden chair. My ankles secured. My back pressed straight as a rod because there’s no room to slump. Panic shoots through me, slicing through the haze.
What the hell.
My breath stutters out in shallow bursts, chest heaving. I look around but there’s nothing except the cracked concrete floor, the shadowed corners, and that blinding, single bulb swinging slightly above. A basement maybe. A warehouse. I don’t know.
Then I see a man.
He’s standing so close I can smell the stale cigarette smoke clinging to his skin. A white vest stretched over a broad chest, tattoos crawling up both arms, wrapping his veins in black ink. He’s watching me like I’m not a person but a thing. A thing he owns.