Page 184 of Deliverance

“Really?” I frown, my annoyance bulldozing into my exhaustion. “That’s all you wanted?”

Ridiculous. I’m talking to my car now.

You’re just tired and overwhelmed and projecting your emotions on things that can’t argue back. It’s a normal coping mechanism.

That’s exactly how Reagan would approach this oddity.

Shaking off my unease, I slam the door shut and wait a second to ensure the alarm doesn’t explode again.

Nothing happens. Not at first. Then something slaps against my mouth. I feel the outline of fingers through the fabric as my body is jerked back against another one. Big and solid and horribly familiar.

“Hey, baby,” he whispers in my ear. “Why don’t we go for a ride in your new car?”

My stomach bottoms out.

I thrash in his grip, but the edges of my vision are already swimming. There’s no fight left in me. He snuffed it out with whatever substance I’m breathing in.

A substance that tastes a lot like the end, and part of me is relieved.

Because I’m tired of fighting.

I wake up in complete darkness, surrounded by a rumble. My body is stiff, my tongue heavy, my mind clouded.

Everything about this feels wrong.

Rhys.

Releasing a slow, careful breath, I attempt to move, but my limbs aren’t cooperating; my muscles are soggy and weak, almost as if they’re made of liquid.

Think, Drew. Think.

Easier said than done when your wrists and ankles are tied.

It takes me a good minute to piece everything together. I force myself to dig as deep into my memories preceding the blackout as possible. I’m transported back to the studio, then downstairs, then outside where the devious Lexus is making noise. And then a whole lot of nothing.

Until now.

For a while, I just lie there on my side tucked into a fetal position, in this darkness that screams at me with a promise of more horror. My cheek is flat against the rough threads of some kind of carpet that smells like motor oil.

And finally, it hits me.

I’m in the trunk of a running vehicle. The moment that thought settles and solidifies in my throbbing brain, I begin to thrash, but there’s hardly space. All around me is hard metal and I’m shaking, partially because I’m terrified and partially because it’s freezing.

Every jostle of the car reverberates through my aching body with such force that I’m convinced there’s not a single bruise-free spot on my skin. The smells and the pain are nauseating, and I’m seconds away from puking, but the idea of lying in my own vomit for an unknown number of hours, or maybe even days, enables me to keep it down.

So I force myself to hold on to reason just a little longer, thinking about Roque’s words, distant and soft, as they drift through my head.

You’re in charge. You can rise, even from the ashes.

I cling to this mantra and breathe past my panic, past the thundering thrum of my pulse, past the bundle of various emotions.

In and out. In and out.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

I listen to the hum of the engine and the sounds behind it, trying to determine if we’re on a freeway or the city streets. My ears are ringing from constant straining and my shoulder begins to spasm from being in an uncomfortable position for so long, but I’m grasping at the invisible thread of sanity with everything I’ve got.

I’m stronger now.

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