Page 30 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

I survey the area again. Still no one. My attention shifts back to Stryker just in time to see him screwing a silencer onto the same pistol I shot him with yesterday.

Wow. He’s really getting into this assassin thing.

He gets the silencer screwed on, then pushes his duffel behind him. Focusing intently on the door of the laundromat, he holds his gun at the ready but pointed down. I look at the door too. Nothing happens.

Nothing happens for so long that I start to wish Stryker really was an assassin, if only for a speck of entertainment. There’s not even a book in here for me to read while I waitfor his delusion to play out. I know – I checked. Twice

I’m debating the merits of rolling down my window to yell at him when the door to the laundromat suddenly opens.

I’m surprised enough that I forget my promise to Stryker, so when a middle-aged man’s head flies back and his body hits the pavement, I see every detail of it. I see it on repeat in my mind, an instant replay I can’t make stop.

I wish, I wish, I wish it would end.

A strangled, terrified sound escapes me when I feel Stryker’s strong hands on my arms.

“I told you to look away!” He swears. “You were only supposed to see the body.” He curses again and moves his hands to my face. A high, wailing noise comes out of me. His hands leave my skin. The noise stops, replaced by more of Stryker’s swears.

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay,” he promises. “I’m going tomake itokay.”

I see the man’s head fall again and the red splatter of blood. I see his body on the ground, limp.

Stryker just killed a man.

Hekilledhim.

I vomit into the space between our seats, right into his duffel bag and on the gun he just used to end a man’s life.

I vomit again and again, until all that’s left are dry heaves.

Chapter Eleven

Two days later, Stryker takes me to Rosie’s house. It’s a charming little place straight out of a fairytale. The yard is full of flowers and greenery and bird baths. A small fountain covered in butterfly carvings sits in the middle of a ring of tall flowers, and homemade mosaic stepping stones create a path to the front door, which is painted a beautiful soft shade of purple. It’s the most enchanting place I’ve ever seen.

I don’t feel a thing looking at it.

I can’t even see it.

All I see is red. A man’s face, frozen forever in surprise. A door propped open by a body on the ground.

Red. Face. Frozen. Door. Red. Face. Frozen. D–

“Millie, sweetheart, come on,” Stryker says – gentle, gentle, gentle. Always gentle now.

I flinch.

He guides me to the door almost, but not quite – never quite – touching his hand to my back. We learned quickly that even the slightest of touches earns him that awful wailing noise. He’s only touched me once since– since the murder– and that was to pull me out of bed twenty minutes ago to bring me here.

He withstood the wail long enough to get me out of the house, then coaxed me into walking the rest of the way on my own. It took a while. I couldn’t see where I was going, my vision clouded by red. A man’s face. A door–

“Just a little bit further, honey. A few more steps.Straight ahead. You’ve got this. Yes, perfect. Just like that. Step up. And another one. You’re doing great, Millie. So great.” Gentle, gentle, gentle. Red, red, red. Door, door, door. Rosie, Rosie, Rosie.

“Oh, dear,” Rosie says.

“I need help, Rose,” Stryker says, pleading.

He does. He needs so much help. He killed a man – a man. Red. Frozen.

A door propped open.

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