Page 7 of Accidentally Kidnapping the Hitman

Four

Annie

Wyatt is acting weird tonight, but I guess pre-wedding jitters will do that to a guy. It must be so intense knowing that you’re about to bind yourself to someone forever and ever, and that all your friends and family will watch you say those precious words. I mean, I know divorce is a thing, but still.

So it’s no wonder that my bestie is having some kind of last minute identity crisis. There’s no need for the suspicion whispering at the back of my brain. No need to wonder…

The Wyatt I know and love would have blundered into every wall in that laser tag warehouse, then rolled his eyes at the escape room sign and trudged up the stairs like a doomed man. Even though he insisted he wanted a classic bachelor party experience, there’s no way my bestie could have contained his scorn.

This whole time, I’ve been fully expecting us to bail early on the night’s activities. Hell, I’ve got a plan B movie night locked and loaded back at my apartment, ready for us to change course.

But instead, Wyatt winks at me as we get locked inside the first room, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Excitement glitters in his brown eyes, even though this place looks like a sloppy community theater set.

It’s an Ancient Egypt theme, with a layer of sand covering the floor and hieroglyphics on the walls. Fake statues of animal-headed gods stand guard in all four corners, and a big digital clock on the wall counts down our time in glowing red numbers. Everything looks homemade and janky.

“Bet we can beat their record.” Wyatt jerks his chin at the clock—and okay,thatis the best friend I know. You don’t become a surgeon without a fiercely competitive core.

The whisper of suspicion is paranoia. Nothing more.

I mean, what are the chances of bumping into the wrong twin at that bar? And for Dean Kinnear, the guy who blew out of our town and never looked back, to go along with these activities for some mysterious reason? To let me put a bag over his head and drag him all over the city?

It’s unthinkable. Way more likely that I’m seeing a new side of Wyatt tonight.

“Annie?” Wyatt prompts, already scraping sand into heaps with the side of his boot. His scratched leather work boot, so unlike the fancy dress shoes my bestie normally wears… “You gonna help?”

Fragments of a message start to show on the floor between piles of sand. I squint at it, tilting my head to try to read it, but honestly, my brain is full ofothertheories. I keep stealing glances at the man locked inside this room with me, half wondering. Half hoping.

This guy has Wyatt’s firm jaw and sharp cheekbones; he’s got those brown eyes flecked with gold. Sure, he’s broader and more muscular than I remember, but when was the last time I saw Wyatt’s bare arms? Maybe he’s been ripped all along. Andmaybe he wears faded gray t-shirts and jeans all the time, and I’ve just never seen it.

My companion glances over, grinning, and waves at the room around us. “Whenever you feel like helping, Lowell.”

Okay, that is Wyatt. Definitely. Zero doubt about it.

Because even when we lived next door to each other and saw each other most days at school, the other Kinnear twin never looked at me likethat. Dean never smiled at me softly, his eyes crinkling at the edges. He never looked fond. And believe me—I would have noticed if he did, because whenever Dean was near, I couldn’t look away. He drew me in like a magnet.

And it’s insane to think this could possibly be him. It’s just tragic wishful thinking on my part—the last gasps of a crush that never seems to freaking die.

So embarrassing. Shaking out my arms, I step forward and start scraping sand with my own ankle boots. Thank god I didn’t wear sandals tonight.

We find a riddle beneath the sand which leads us to the statue with a crocodile head. A tiny arrow scratched into his scales points to a set of three hieroglyphs on the wall—hieroglyphs that, when you look closer, are just weirdly decorated numbers.

“Piece of cake,” Wyatt says, entering the code and tugging the first door open. “No wonder the pyramids got raided.”

The next room is themed like a dusty old antique shop, with tangled piles of furniture and shelves full of weird china dolls. Fake cobwebs adorn every corner, and there’s a table full of Jack-in-the-boxes.

“Nope,” I say when I see the arrow painted on the table, pointing at the biggest unpopped Jack-in-the-box. “That’s a hard pass from me.”

“Scaredy cat.” Wyatt strides to the table and starts winding the handle on the box. A creepy song plays, tinny and echoing,and I squeak and press up against Wyatt’s back, peeking around his shoulder.

I hate stuff like this. Can’t watch horror movies or even creepy kids’ shows. Seriously, why do toys like this even exist? What kind of freaky-minded maniac invented them? Did kids everlikethem?

“Oh god,” I moan as the song plays on and on, the handle cranking in Wyatt’s hand. Every muscle in my body is tensed, and I seal closer to his back.Safety.Yes.

For a split second, the heat of Wyatt’s body and the scent of soap on his skin muddle my senses. I’m on edge for a different reason, my breaths shallow, my cheeks hot. Why am I…? What is…?

“Gah!”

I leap out of my skin as the Jack lunges out of his box, painted with an awful clown’s face. Wyatt’s laugh is husky, and the smile he throws over his shoulder is so freaking fond. Like there’s no bug-eyed demon swaying in its box only inches away.

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