I glance straight ahead, fuming inside but mostly hurting. He assumes he knows me; he assumes he knows how it all went down. He has no idea. But, hey, let the asshole think what he wants.
I don’t need him to like me.
I just need to get Kaitlyn back.
* * *
A thick lump forms in my throat as I take in my sister’s apartment. It’s sectioned off with yellow police tape, but Kenai has clearance to go in. He explained that the police allow him access to some evidence after they’ve done a full sweep, especially if he has been hired to work on a case. The moment we step in, my heart lurches and pain shoots to my very core. The entire place is trashed. Things are strewn about everywhere, lamps and photos are smashed, drawers are completely emptied.
Forgetting Kenai, I start rummaging through her things. I come across an old photo in a frame. It’s a picture of us, before I was taken. I think I was about eighteen. It’s when we spent a week on the lake for spring break. We’re both smiling in our bright-yellow bikinis, looking like we don’t have a care in the world. The frame is smashed, and it looks like someone has crumpled the picture with their hands.
Strange.
I smooth out the picture and tuck it into my pocket, swallowing my emotion and walk through the apartment, looking for Kenai. I find him in her bedroom, going through her drawers. He’s tossing things aside, moving rapidly, like he knows what he’s looking for. He must sense me behind him, because he starts speaking.
“Found drugs under her mattress, sewn in. Pills. Not sure what as yet, but I’m guessing Ecstasy. A good amount. Police must have missed it. Whoever was looking for her was looking for that. My guess is that she and her boyfriend are on the run because they got themselves into some shit.”
“I don’t…”
I stare at the drugs he’s tossed onto the bed, and I don’t want to believe it. I don’t want to believe Kaitlyn would do something like that. But I wouldn’t know, because I haven’t been there for her the way I should have.
“Face the facts, woman. Burying your head in the sand isn’t going to help.”
I say nothing.
“It seems her drawers aren’t stirred up, which makes me think she left in a hurry, without clothes. Her toothbrush, hairbrushes, those kinds of things are all still in the bathroom. Go into the kitchen, her office, anywhere that paper can be stored, and see if you can find any notes, numbers, letters, things like that. The cops have already searched her laptop. I’m getting it on my way out of town.”
I nod and rush out, starting in the kitchen. I find a few notes there, but nothing that seems to provide information. Still, I take them for Kenai anyway. I move into the office, and everything is in disarray. But in the center of the room there’s a desk with a note. It seems almost perfectly placed, which is odd in the upturned room. I pick it up and read the typed words.
Los Angeles. Friday. Trade deal. Last warning.
Why wouldn’t the police have taken this? It seems off. My skin prickles as I turn and rush it back to Kenai. He studies the note, narrowing his eyes, flipping it over in his hands a few times. “Where was this, you say?”
“Just sitting on the desk. Almost too perfectly.”
“Odd. Cops should have taken it. Makes me think someone came in after them. Either way, it’s a start. I’ll report it to them and we’ll head towards Los Angeles. I’ve found a few names and numbers we can look into on the way. I interviewed a couple of people before I collected you—the cops have given me as much as they can, but there isn’t much here for us. We need to get on the road. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going first?”
He waves a hand. “This name and number connect to Santa Fe. That’s our first stop.”
I sigh.
Here we go.
SEVEN
The first few hours of the trip are awful. I sit in awkward silence, wondering if I’ve made a massive mistake. Can I truly trust this man? And what if I can’t? What if I’m going in the wrong direction, wasting precious time? My nerves get the better of me and I tap my fingers on my knees until Kenai barks at me to stop fidgeting. I close my eyes and focus on how I feel inside. I know Kenai’s a jerk, but my gut tells me he’s the right jerk for the job. I’ve learned to trust my gut.
Besides, this is for Kaity. It isn’t about me. I’d go to the ends of the earth and hire anyone needed to make sure she came home safe. Thinking about her has my chest tightening and an all too familiar anxiety clutching at my heart. What will I do if something happens to her? The thought of her suffering, of her life being cut short … No. I can’t think like that. I take a deep breath and try to distract myself.
I reach over to turn the radio up, but before my fingers can even reach the dial they’re being slapped away. Kenai likes to drive in pure silence, but he had allowed me to turn the radio on. However, he made it so quiet I can’t hear the damned thing, just a slight noise. The sun has just set and we have over three hours to go before we stop for the night. I’m not allowed to turn the interior light on to read, so I’m stuck sitting here, in the dark, in silence.
Fine. I’ll distract myself by annoying the hell out of him.
“How old are you, Chief?”
He doesn’t answer.
“I’ll guess. Fifty-two?”
I chuckle at my own joke, but he says nothing. God, he has zero personality.
“I’ll keep talking until you answer me. Believe me, I’m not easily silenced.”
“Thirty-three,” he grunts.
“So young to be so broody.”
He snorts.
“Are you married? No wait, I take that back—you’re too mean. You might be good-looking, but honestly, that just isn’t enough to cover your attitude.”
“Are you finished?”
I grin. Surely he knows I’m teasing him, right? Perhaps he’s never had a woman take his moods without getting upset. “Are you going to let me turn the radio up?”
He sighs angrily. “Fine.”
He turns it up just enough, and I instantly start singing along happily. I throw my feet up on the dash, and he quickly reaches over, jerking them down. I keep singing, a little loudly, and after a few minutes he slams his hand over the volume button, turning it off.
“Hey!” I protest. “I was listening to that!”
“You were singing and it sounded like a cat drowning.”
I cross my arms. “How am I supposed to improve without any practice?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Are you going to throw me out of the car next?”
“Keep flapping your mouth at me, I will. Ask the last girl how that worked out for her.”
“I’d like to see you even try to throw me out of this car. I might be small, but I will give a good damned fight.”
He sighs. I’m frustrating him. Good.
“Fine, I’ll sit here in silence, wallowing in self-pity, feeling like no one cares…”
“God, woman!” he barks as I secretly smile at my dramatics. “Will you just stop fucking talking.”
I huff and turn, staring out the window. My knees are already starting to ache and we’re barely three hours in. By the time we stop, I’ll be in pain, I know I will. If I don’t move enough, the pain will get worse and worse until I’m forced to take strong painkillers. In my rush to pack, I didn’t think to bring painkillers. I’m sure G.I. Joe next to me has some, at least I hope he does.
I shift uncomfortably.
“Stop squirming. Can’t you sleep or something?” Kenai grumbles.
“Do you have any painkillers?”
“Why?”
“I need some.”
“What for?” he demands.
I shift again. “They take away pain, do they not?”
“That depends on the kind of pain, certain things work for different areas and problems.”
“You know what,” I grunt, shifting so I can press my cheek to the window. “Forget about it.”
He doesn’t say
anything.
Neither do I.
It’s going to be a long trip.
* * *
I’m in agony.
By the time we arrive at a motel, I want to curl up and die. Pain is radiating from my knees, right down to my toes and it hurts. God, does it hurt. Kenai checks us in. There was only one room left, but thankfully it has two beds. Kenai didn’t argue—he said he wants to keep an eye on me. Whatever, he’s just a control freak. I really wanted my own room and my own scorching-hot shower, but I’m in too much pain to argue.
The nerves grow worse as I watch him carry in our bags while I try not to hobble towards the entrance. What if I have a nightmare? I don’t want him to hear that. Maybe I should go back and request adjoining rooms. Surely they have one spare … I reach the front door and step through the open space to see Kenai digging through the bag he’s thrown on a nice enough double bed. One of two.
I move as quickly as I can to my bed and sit down. My knees scream at me and I start to shake a little. Hot water is what I need, and hopefully I can steal some painkillers from Kenai’s bag when he showers. I stand and keep my eye on him as I grab a towel and walk towards the bathroom. I feel his burning gaze on my back, but I don’t turn. I just step in and shut the door.
The moment I’m alone, I place my hands on the basin and lean over, taking some deep breaths. It’ll be fine. I’m so tired I won’t dream and if I do I’m sure he won’t notice. I don’t usually scream. Usually. My knees will feel better after a hot shower. Everything is going to be just fine. I’m doing this for Kaity. She needs me and I have to keep reminding myself of that.
I push back and hobble over to turn on the shower. I strip out of my clothes and step under the water. I make it as hot as I can take it, lean against the cool tiled wall, and let the water run over my slightly outstretched knees. They hurt, God, do they hurt. The damage that was done to them can never be undone: ligaments, muscles, bones—all destroyed. I stare down at the ugly scars surrounding them and their odd shape.
Horrible. Ugly. Disgusting.
My eyes flicker to my wrists, where faded scars are still visible. Most people think they are from self-inficted wounds, but in reality they are from when I was bound. I tried so hard to get out that I tore apart my own skin. Most people don’t notice the scars because I wear a watch and bracelets, but they’re there. A constant reminder of the horror I endured. Then there’s my hair and the way it looks because of all the hair he ripped out of my head. I fix my hair to cover it now, but there are still patches where no hair has grown back.
Wincing in pain, I manage to wash myself before getting out and drying off. It’s then I realize I didn’t bring in a change of clothes, and the ones I was wearing are now damp from the non-existent shower curtain in the shower. Great. Just great. I tuck the faded-green towel around myself and open the door, peering out. Kenai is standing by the window on his phone, shirtless.
I suck in a breath.
Mother of God.
He’s huge. A big wall of muscled man. His skin pulls and stretches over muscles that are so bulky, I can see every curve and fine line. His skin is smooth and covered in tattoos. Intricate designs that don’t really seem to represent anything but are beautiful all the same. His jeans hang low on his narrow hips and his long, thick legs seem to go on forever. Dark hair curls around his neck and, I can’t deny it, the back of him is an amazing sight.
I sneak out towards my bag, but my knees are killing me and each step gets harder and harder. A good night’s sleep should help. The floorboards squeak and Kenai spins around. I’m taken off guard by his ripped body and the tattoos covering his chest, and he’s taken off guard because I’m half naked trying to creep towards my bag. His eyes drop to my towel, then lower to my knees.
I know I’m standing funny but I can’t help it. I’m in pain.
I shift uncomfortably, because I know he’s looking at my scars. I turn my back to him and take some clothes from my bag, then hobble back to the bathroom. I dress as quickly as I can and then step back out. By the time I reappear, Kenai is off the phone and has a towel thrown over his shoulder. The moment I step out, he stops and glances at me again.
“You’re in pain.”
“I told you that already,” I mutter, throwing my covers back. “But you wanted twenty questions instead of just giving me what I need.”
He nods at my knees. “Those give you trouble often?”
“Considering they were smashed, yes.”
His eyes flick up to mine. “Smashed?”
“Come off it. Don’t pretend you don’t know. You seem to assume you know everything about me, but you don’t know that—” My voice changes. I swallow. “—he broke my knees and smashed them up?”
“I didn’t know that.”
He doesn’t say any more, but he walks to his bag, leans down, ruffles about, and pops back up with a strip of white pills in his hands. He thrusts them at me and I catch them, meeting his eyes. “Those will help. I’m having a shower.”
“Thanks,” I mutter as he disappears.
It’s early and somehow I have to try and distract myself in a room with him until it’s time for bed. I grab my phone, climb onto my bed, and plug in my earphones.
It’s going to be a long few hours.
EIGHT
My vision is blurred. I glance around, trying to figure out where I am, but I’m bound. I blink a few times, but the room is so dark I can’t see a single thing. I can’t hear anything. I don’t know where I am. My mind works back to the hours leading up to this point. I helped a man who dropped his briefcase, then … hazy memories of waking up bound in the back of a van, then … nothing.
I jerk on my restraints, but my hands are firmly fastened behind my back and my ankles are bound together. I wiggle and shuffle until I’m sitting up. I’m on the ground, concrete from the feel of it. I don’t risk calling out, not wanting to alert whoever has taken me that I’m awake. Fear clogs my chest and I try to steady my breathing.
Have I been kidnapped? Am I going to get sold? Raped? Worse?
I groan at the sharp pain that radiates through my stomach, letting me know my fear is very real and very present. A sound clicks to my left and some light enters the room. A man walks in. He’s holding something in his hand, but I don’t know what. He looks completely normal—dark hair, blue eyes, average height.
Who is he?
“I see you’re awake,” he murmurs, pushing the door open even further, then flicking on a light.
It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust. When they do, I glance at him again then drop my gaze to the item in his hand. It looks … like hair. My stomach coils tightly as he laughs loudly, stepping closer.
“Don’t you like my trinket?”
He holds the hair up. It’s the same color as mine. There are bloodstains in it. I’m going to be sick. Oh God. I’m going to be sick. Who is this guy and what does he want from me? God. Help.
“Let me go,” I plead, brokenly.
He chuckles. “Not even a scream? The other girls screamed when they realized who I was.”
Who is he?
I don’t understand.
“Ah,” he smirks, running his finger through the hair. “You don’t know who I am.”
Say nothing.
Try and find a way out.
There has to be a way.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of me. What was that name they gave me in the media? Oh yes. The Watcher.”
The Watcher.
Fear slams into my chest and my world starts spinning as everything I heard about that name comes rushing back to me. The man who takes girls and skins them alive. Serial killer. I remember hearing it on the news and knowing they were not even close to figuring out who he is.
No.
God. Please. No.
I scream and try to break free of my binds. They’re so tight, my wrists burn. I don’t stop.
“Ah, now we’re really getting somewhere. Here.” He tosses the hair and
it lands on my lap. My screams become frantic as I stare at the tattered mess. Is that … is that skin? “This is from the last girl. Weak one she was. No fun at all. You on the other hand.” He steps in closer, grinning. “You look like you’re going to be so much fun.”
I jerk upright with a gasp, hands automatically going to my lap where they flick a nonexistent object away. Sweat trickles down my brow and it takes me a moment or two to gather my bearings. I glance around the dark room, rubbing my chest to try and ease my pounding heart, then remember where I am and who I’m with.
Kenai.
Looking for Kaitlyn.
It’s all just fine.
I swallow down the burning sensation in my throat, and slowly flick my covers back and glance over at Kenai’s bed. He’s facing the wall on his side, arm tucked up under his head. His back practically glistens under the moonlight streaming in from the crack in the curtains. I carefully tiptoe to the tiny fridge in the corner and open it, grabbing a bottle of water.
I take it back to my bed, and stretch my knees as I move. They’re feeling better—whatever Kenai gave me was good. I sit back down on the side of the bed and sip the water, enjoying the soothing effect it has on my throat. I close my eyes and sigh quietly. It was just a dream. He’s gone. He’s dead. I survived. I repeat this mantra in my head until a husky, sleepy voice croaks, “How bad was it?”
I jerk and look over at Kenai’s bed. He’s still facing the wall, but he’s obviously awake. My heart starts pounding. So he did hear me? Was I screaming? God, what did I say?
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” I whisper into the darkness.
“The dream. How bad?”
“Ah, it’s fine.”
“Wasn’t fine,” he grunts, rolling over and glancing at me. I try very hard to keep my eyes off his chest, but it’s hard. I haven’t been with a man since I was taken—five years ago. Before that, I was somewhat of a wild child and quite popular. I had a couple of boyfriends, but nothing serious. I enjoyed being young and free. “You were screaming for ten solid minutes.”
And he just laid there?
“Sorry.”
“Wasn’t going to wake you up. They say that isn’t a good thing. You stopped only a minute or two ago.”