Page 25 of Girl, Reborn

Ella's fingers went numb. ‘Track her? Whatthe hell for?’

Another pause. Heavier this time, loadedwith something Ella couldn't parse. Didn't want to parse.

‘She’s not answering her calls. Her phoneis off, so we can’t get a trace. And she’s not at home.’

The words hit her like a block of wood tothe skull. Ella’s brain rattled, jumping from one imagined scenario to another.Ella actually staggered, one hand shooting out to steady herself against thewall.

‘Mia’s… missing?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I thought you might have-‘

‘No,’ Ella cut her off. She thought of thelast time they’d spoken, the last words they'd hurled at each other in the heatof anger and betrayal. ‘I saw her this morning. About five hours ago.’

This wasn't happening. Couldn't behappening. The universe wasn't that cruel to snatch her best friend out fromunder her. There had to be some mistake. A crossed wire, a miscommunication.Mia was probably holed up in some fleabag motel, drowning her sorrows in abottle of Johnnie Walker. Licking her wounds and cursing Ella's name.

She couldn't fall apart. Not here, notnow. Not with Ricky Toledo's killer still on the loose and Luca waiting for herto take point. She had a job to do.

And she had to believe – had to trust –that wherever Mia was, she could take care of herself. That she was safe, andwhole, and would come swanning back into the office with a cocky grin and afresh stack of paperwork before retiring for good in a few months.

She had to, because if she didn’t.

Ella shook her head. Rejecting the thoughtbefore it could take root, sink poisonous claws into her psyche. She pulled thephone back to her ear, dragged the ragged pieces of herself into somethingresembling a functioning human.

‘Keep me posted,’ she gritted out. ‘Bothon the handwriting and...and Mia. The second you hear anything.’

Amelia's voice was gentle, almost pitying.‘You know I will. Speak soon.’

She ended the call and let her hand fallto her side. The phone dangled from her limp fingers, suddenly ten timesheavier. A millstone around her neck, dragging her into an abyss with nobottom.

Mia was missing.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Marcus Ayers' eyes snapped open and all hesaw was black. Pitch goddamn black, like he was trapped inside a coffin. Firstcame the cold, like he was rising to the surface of a frozen lake. Then the shiveringbegan. Barely perceptible tremors rippling through abused muscles. Then grew inintensity until his teeth clacked together like a crazed windup toy.

Next the pain. It emanated from his skullin sickening waves, and any attempt at movement lanced a spike of agony throughhis temples.

What the hell had he done last night? Thiswas the mother of all hangovers. The kind that made a man swear off the saucefor good and take up the cloth. Except he didn't remember drinking. Didn'tremember much of anything really. Just vague impressions. Blurred images seenthrough fogged glass.

He tried to lift a hand to his poundinghead, to ease the jackhammer doing its level best to split his skull, but hisarm wouldn't cooperate, wouldn't budge an inch no matter how he strained. Withrising panic he realized he couldn't move his legs either, or any part ofhimself; he was chained up and immobile in the oppressive dark, bindings bitinginto the tender skin of his wrists, ankles, everywhere.

His engineer's mind spun uselessly, tryingto make sense of the senseless. This had to be a dream, a nightmare, somesadistic trick of the subconscious, because there was no way this could bereality.

He'd drifted off at his desk, that was it,fallen asleep hunched over blueprints and geologic surveys; the pressure, thelate nights, they'd taken their toll, his overworked brain conjuring terrors topunish him for his dedication.

That's all this was, all it could be; anyminute now Marjorie would come clicking in on her Manolo Blahniks to rouse him,cluck her tongue and remind him he had a perfectly serviceable bed at home, ifhe remembered how to find it.

But – the dripping. That slow, maddening plunkplunk plunk boring into his skull, strange, out of place. Marjorie wasmilitant about leaks, ran a tight ship in their sleek LEED-certified offices,eco-friendly down to the bone. No way she'd let a drippy faucet get past herradar.

And he was wet, wasn't he? Damp andshivering in clinging clothes. The cold, the pervasive seep of it, all wrong.Desk naps were known to be hell on the spine, but not like this.

No, much as he railed against it, thetruth was unavoidable; this was no dream, no catnap gone wrong, the pain toosharp, the details too vivid, mind-numbing terror obliterating any lingeringdrowsiness. Marcus was in trouble, real honest-to-Christ trouble, and he had toget a grip, focus past the screaming in his head long enough to figure a wayout of this.

Was he underground? Stuck in a cave or amine shaft, lost in the labyrinth of tunnels that honeycombed the bedrock? He'dseen enough of them, poking through blueprints and surveys. The forgottenplaces, left to rot while the world went on spinning overhead.

But that didn't explain why he was boundin this hole. This wasn't an accident or a drunken wrong turn. This wasplanned, purposeful. Someone's design, as intricate and merciless as the innerworkings of a watch.

A cold finger of dread worked its way upMarcus’s spine, but the rational part of his brain screamed that there was away out of this.

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