Page 85 of Undercover Desires

The back door opens again. “Drive. Reader’s back, and you shouldn’t have been allowed bail yet,” Caleb calls as he hops back in, handing me her phone. “He’s ripping the station apart, looking for someone to blame.”

I look back at him as Jett screams up the road. “Fuck, man, what did you do?” I ask, worried Caleb has just overstepped the mark for me.

“This is all above my head. They’re closing in on Reader. We just don’t want him to know it yet.”

I press her code into her phone and realize it’s my name. Her pin code is me. I knew she was falling for me. How could I have been so stupid to believe the whole charade she was selling us this afternoon? I search her phone for surveillance videos and find the app. She has only one of them saved. I press play. “It’s a video of Reader letting himself into her place and stealing her computer,” I tell the others. “He waltzes into her place with a key like he’s supposed to be there. How on earth did he get access to those? Then he messes the place up after helping himself to what he wants.”

Jett growls out a string of curses, and Caleb shakes his head, like he’s not surprised.

“What’s the voice recording?” Caleb asks.

I find it and hit play. A heated conversation between Reader and Arabella plays through the car. The hairs stand on the back of my neck when he threatens to expose the videos of her if she doesn’t help him arrest us. She tells him to do it, knowing it will destroy her career. She did it for me. I want to take him out, but it’s the last part of their conversation that haunts me themost. He’s going to kill her and make it look like I did it. Even though she helped him.

“There’s nothing else, no sign of where he’s taking her. What the fuck do we do now?” I ask, panic taking over. I feel so out of control. I can’t let him do this to her.

Caleb's eyes lock in on me. “I know where they could be holding her. Take a left up here, Jett. Then get on the highway.”

CHAPTER 35

ARABELLA

I awaken in asmall, desolate room, my head heavy and thoughts muddled. The last memory I can grasp is being in Reader’s office, attempting to flee, only to be overpowered and knocked unconscious. I gingerly touch my cheek, a searing pain flaring up. My surroundings are cold and shrouded in darkness, sending a chill coursing down my spine. I rub my arms, a feeble attempt to stave off the cold. The single window is boarded up, allowing only a thin sliver of daylight to pierce through.

I muster the strength to sit upright, though my head throbs relentlessly. Every muscle in my body aches from a night spent on the unforgiving wooden floor. The room is eerily empty, bare walls and a cold, unyielding floor. The constant drip of a tap and the sound of an engine in the distance is all I can make out. Where on earth is he keeping me?

I shuffle to the door, grasping the handle and giving it an unyielding tug. It’s locked. In frustration, I pound on the door, my voice charged with desperation. “Let me out,” I demand, my words echoing through the silence. No response.

Is he truly planning to let me rot in this wretched place? I summon all my strength and pound on the door again, this time with a fierce determination. “Reader, for God’s sake, let me out of here!” I cry out.

Nothing.

I slide back down to the floor, my burst of energy fading. It’s hopeless. He’s going to kill me and make it look like Kobe did it. And the worst part is, I will die with Kobe thinking I didn’t love him, that I wanted to arrest him, when it couldn’t be further from the truth. A tear slips down my cheek, and I swipe it away.

You're stronger than this, Arabella. All might seem hopeless at the moment, but it’s not over. You have to fight.

I force myself to stand and go over to the window. It’s the only way out of this room. The plywood is nailed in tight. I try to wedge my fingers in one of the gaps and ease the wood away from the frame, but it’s no use. I need something harder to force it off. I pull off my belt and inspect the metal buckle. It could work. Wedging it between the frame and the board, I try again to ease the nail out. This time it works, and I pull it free. Quickly, I do the next one, and it comes off more easily. I pull the plywood far enough away from the window that I can see outside. It looks like early morning, a haze over the fields. I’m on some kind of farm.

The sound of the engine, maybe a tractor, stops, followed by a door slamming in the distance and heavy footsteps. I put the nails in my jeans pockets and leave the window looking like it was.

I bang on the door again. “Let me out, Reader,” I call, frantic.

A gruff voice from behind the door replies, “Keep your pants on, I’m coming.” It’s not Reader, and that realization sends a shiver down my spine. Who else is here with me?

The door swings open, and I slip beneath the man’s arm, racing toward the beckoning light, my heart pounding with eachstep as I search frantically for an escape route. I flee down a seemingly endless corridor, his presence so close behind me I can practically feel his breath on my neck.

“Get back here, you little bitch!” he shouts.

But I’m not sticking around to find out who my captor is. I’m acutely aware of the danger faced by girls in situations like these. My frantic flight leads me to a rustic kitchen, where I rapidly survey my surroundings. Double sliding doors stand to my left, a glimpse of hope. I rush toward them, sliding the lock open and flinging the door ajar. Just as I step onto the front porch, I’m yanked from my feet and hoisted over the burly man’s shoulder, the impact knocking the air from my lungs.No!I silently cry.

He drags me back inside and deposits me onto a hard wooden dining chair, retrieving a length of rope from his pocket. He binds my wrists together in front of me, followed by my feet, then ties the rope around my waist so I’m attached to the chair. My heart aches with despair. I’m truly fucked. I struggle against the restraints, not making it easy for him, but it doesn’t stop him. If anything, he pulls the rope tighter. It bites into my wrists, and they burn in pain.

“That should stop you from running again,” he says, his voice tinged with a twisted sense of satisfaction as he observes his handiwork. I shoot him a withering glare, my heart racing within my chest. He’s clad in a tattered red flannel shirt and grubby jeans, a shaggy beard obscuring much of his face, but as his eyes lock onto mine, a wave of recognition crashes over me.

“Uncle Duncan?” I squeak, my voice trembling with a mixture of astonishment and disbelief. There’s no denying it; it’s him. This man looks just like my father, just more weathered and hairy, with a full beard.

He meets my revelation with a cold, unrelenting glare, a guttural, resentful sound escaping his lips.

“Everyone thinks you died in that factory fire,” I stutter out, not sure what else to say. I can’t believe it’s him.

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