Page 63 of Backstroke

Little Fox:

I see game night isn’t the only time you don the mask. Game on, psycho. *winky face*

What the hell?

Remy:

What are you talking about? Where are you?

I wait to see that she reads it but it continues to say ‘delivered’.Why isn’t she checking her messages? I decide to call, needing to hear her voice so I know she’s okay. An icy chill runs through me as her phone goes straight to voicemail. I pace the room, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. Something’s definitely wrong. I can feel it.

I pull up the tracker app, trying to see where her phone last pinged. It shows the old library and that was thirty minutes ago. Her phone must be off. Panic seizes my chest as I reread the message.Someone wearing my mask?My heart pounds with the realization that Fallon might be in real danger. I can’t waste any more time.

I throw on some clothes as fast as humanly possible, grabbing my butterfly knife from my dresser, then I’m tearing out of my room, determined to find my little fox before someone hurts her.

I sprint through the hallway then down the stairs, my heart racing higher with every step.

“Whoa! Remy, what’s going on?” I hear Gray shout behind me. His face turns serious when he sees my expression.

“Someone has Fallon,” I seethe. Confusion mars his face, trying to take in what I’m telling him.

“What? How do you know?” I don’t have time for this shit. Every second that she’s not in my arms, means she’s in danger. I pull up my texts and show it to him. His eyebrows shoot up in concern.

“Fuck! You aren’t going alone. Who the hell knows what you’ll be walking into?” I’m about to turn away when he yells for Nix.

“Come on. We’ve got to help our boy find his girl.” They both follow me from the house as Gray gets Nix up to speed on everything.

“How do you know where she is?” Nix asks.

“I can track her phone,” I bark as we jump into the Jeep. The engine roars to life, and we speed off towards the old library, the tension thick in the air. My mind races with thoughts of Fallon, hoping we’re not too late.

“Are we going in there unarmed?” Gray’s question cuts through the silence.

“I brought my knife,” I shrug. “My hands are just as good as any weapon,” I reply, my voice steady despite the tension.

“Wait, is our baseball shit still in the back?” Gray asks, a spark of hope in his eyes. I’d been meaning to take that bag out ever since we went and played over the summer. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t.

“Fuck yes it is. Get the bats, Nix!” I shout, urgency in my voice. Nix scrambles to the back of the Jeep, pulling out the bag of baseball gear. He tosses a bat to Gray and hands one to me. The weight of the bat in my hands feels reassuring, a small comfort in the midst of the chaos.

“Alright, let’s do this,” I say, determination fueling my every step as we head towards the old library. Fallon needs me, and I’m not going to let anything stand in my way. Hold on, little fox, I’m coming.

Twenty Four

Fallon

Searing pain in theback of my head blinds me momentarily. I try to move, but I can’t. My eyes fly open, and I’m met with a dark and dingy room. The oppressive air clings to my skin like a wet blanket, suffocating and rancid.

I pull my arms, but wince when I feel metal biting into my wrists. My ankles are secured the same way, a jolt of panic racing through my veins.What happened? Where am I?

Suddenly, a voice slices through the silence, making me jump. “Oh, good. You’re awake.” The tall figure stands at the door, a silhouette against the stark glow from behind him. He steps intothe light, and recognition floods me. Emerson. Mr. Red Flags himself. The man I always sensed was hiding something sinister behind his charming façade. And here I am, strapped to a bed in an abandoned building.

“Fallon, you have no idea how long I’ve waited for this moment,” he says, a twisted grin spreading across his face. He approaches, gripping my chin tightly with his gloved hand, forcing me to look into his crazed eyes. I whimper as his fingers dig into my flesh.

“What are you talking about? Let me go, please!” I plead, my voice trembling, laced with desperation. His response is a menacing laugh, echoing off the moldy walls and sending ice shards of fear through me.

“Remy should have kept better watch over his toys,” he tsks, wiping my tears with an unsettling gentleness. A reminder that I’m vulnerable, exposed. “You’re mine now,” he sneers, relishing every word.

“You’re insane! You can’t do this to me!” A surge of defiance flies from my lips before his hand connects with my face. I feel the sting radiate through my skin and into my skull, making me feel nauseous.

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