Page 122 of Shattered Promise

I slam him again. My forearm presses across his collarbone. He’s shaking now.

“You expect me to believe that?” My jaw is locked so tight I can feel the pressure in my ears. “You’re gonna tell me where she is. Right now.”

Beau’s right behind me, voice low and deadly. “Start talking, Lansing. Fast.”

Jake’s breath hitches. His hands flutter up like he’s surrendering to gravity. “They said she needed help—Lisaand Beth—they’re my mom’s cousin’s kids. We grew up together, kind of. And they didn’t say it was Abby. I thought it was just a friend, someone trying to get away?—”

“Where.” I shove him back again, tighter this time. I’m seconds from snapping. “Where thefuckis she?”

Jake’s gaze skitters to the side. “Apartment seven,” he whispers. “Top floor.”

I release him.

He slumps against the wall, chest heaving. I don’t wait to see if he stands.

I’m already running.

The stairs blur under my boots, wet soles slipping on the edges, Beau right behind me. We take the steps two at a time, hearts thundering like a war drum.

“Abby? I’m coming,” I yell. I don’t give a shit how silly it seems, but the incessant need to let her know I’m here, that I didn’t leave and I’m coming for her, is undeniable.

46

ABBY

My hands are numb.

The plastic zipties bite into the delicate skin above my wrists, a steady pulse of pain that’s gone from sharp to throbbing to something worse—familiar. A signal that I’m still here. Still stuck.

My back aches from the chair. My mouth is dry. Every breath tastes like rosehip and vanilla from the candle Lisa lit hours ago. It smells like my bedroom.

She’s humming again, low and tuneless. Like she’s waiting for her cue.

She changed into the yellow sundress I used to love. She touched up her curls, she’s been playing with my makeup for the last twenty minutes. She tilts her chin and practices my laugh in the mirror.

“Iced shaken espresso, please,” she says softly. Then tries again, modulating the pitch. “You didn’t have to do that, Mason. But thank you.”

My stomach rolls.

Across the room, Beth sits stiffly in an armchair next to me, knees pressed together like a nervous schoolgirl. She’s holding amug—my mug. The speckled ceramic one from Seattle, the one I always reach for first. Steam is rising off the top.

“Tea,” she says for the third time. Her voice is too soft. Too careful. “I made it with that blend you like. The chamomile and fennel one.”

I don’t answer.

Because I can’t decide which is worse—being drugged, or being watched.

Beth’s eyes flick to Lisa, then back to me. She looks like she’s going to start crying. Which is ten different ways of ironic. Her hands tremble as she lifts the mug slightly, like offering peace. “I just want you to feel safe, Abby.”

“You ziptied me to a chair,” I whisper. My voice cracks around the edges. “I don’t think tea is gonna fix that.”

Beth flinches. Lisa doesn’t stop practicing what she thinks I sound like.

She’s focused on her reflection. “Do you think he’ll notice if I change the perfume?” she murmurs. “I ran out of the rose one. But I think the vanilla one’s better anyway. Sweeter.”

I close my eyes and force myself to regulate my breathing. I practice my techniques, praying it works to hold off the panic rising up my throat like a tidal wave.

The inhale, the hold, the slow exhale. The numbers in my head anchor me to the floor, to my body, to the here. But thehereis a funhouse, and the mirrors are all cracked. And I want to leave.

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