Page 86 of Hidden Truths

“On it,” Willa says.

The woman is a drill sergeant, and I’ve never been more thankful for it.

“We’re going to find her. This will not happen again,” Mav says through clenched teeth.

I don’t know how Maverick lives every day without Ezra, because I know I won’t be able to do it without Harlow.

I’d give up almost anything to find her.

thirty-four

HARLOW

“Stop,”I mumble, trying to swat away whoever is tickling my face. My hand connects with something with too many legs. Screaming, I jump up, arms flailing. I try to run, but slam face first into a metal wall.

“What the hell?”

It’s pitch black as I wipe my face and fling whatever was crawling on it. Once I check the rest of my body with my hands to assure nothing else is touching me, I put my hands out to feel around the room. My head and face are pounding, but I can’t sit still in the dark.

“Cal?” I say, softly. No response.

“Where am I?” Still nothing.

Everything comes rushing back to me. The strange man trying to get me into his car and then . . . nothing. I inhaled chloroform or something similar. Fuck.

I keep my hand on the wall and walk around, figuring out the size of the room I’m in. I almost fall into an opening. Walking forward, I keep my hands out, but my toe immediately hits something. Feeling around with my hands, I realize what it is.

“Stairs!” I hurry up them on my hands and feet, hoping I don’t fall back down them.

“Seven,” I say to myself, counting the number of stairs. They’re very narrow and there’s a scratchy material covering them. “Ouch!” I yell as I hit my head on something before I can take the last step. Raising my hands over my head, I feel around.

Shit.

“Is that a door?” I keep feeling around gently until I find a curved metal handle. I try to turn it in both directions, pull it towards me, push it away. Nothing. It won’t budge.

“Fuck me,” I mutter.

Kidnapping 101: Don’t let them take you to a second location.

Well, too fucking late for that.

Putting my hands on the walls, I slowly make my way back down the stairs. My hand hits something halfway down. It feels like a switch. I flip it on and am momentarily blinded by the light.

Blinking slowly, my eyes eventually adjust. I look around, taking in where I am.

“Storm shelter,” I guess. I’ve never seen one in person, but the space is small with a bench along the walls and nothing else. White walls, white bench, white stairs with black grips.

Looking down at myself, I don’t see anything alarming. My jean shorts are on and still clean. My yellow tank is wrinkled, but that’s probably from the ball I was in on the floor. I’m barefoot. My flip-flops didn’t make the trip.

I’m trying to look at the situation like I wasn’t the one in it. What would I be telling myself to do if I was just watching? I walk around the small room. Then I walk around again. And again. And again. It’s so small I wouldn’t be able to lay down fully.

Sitting on the bench, I prop my elbows on my thighs and rest my face in my hands. I can’t cry because if I cry, I won’t be able to figure out how to get myself out of this situation.

“Think, Harlow,” I tell myself. “What do I know?”

There’s no way for me to get out of here until someone lets me out.

Someone put me here, but they didn’t hurt me.

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