Easton picks up another sheet, narrowing his scrutinizing gaze. “Do either of you know an Owen Doherty?”
“No,” Jae and I reply in unison as we transfer our attention to the paper he’s holding.
“Well, he’s listed as her only emergency contact. Do you think we should call the number?”
Staring down at the black letters, the name Owen Doherty runs through my mind over and over in rapid succession as I try to place it, but I continue to come up blank. It doesn’t ring a bell at all. She’s never mentioned anyone by his name before. I’m sure of it.
“I don’t know,” I admit my unease at calling some stranger and alerting him of Blake’s disappearance, still wanting to hear what Emerson says first. “That could be anyone. We have no idea of who he is to her. Maybe we should run a Google search on the name first.”
“I’m okay with running a search,” Jae announces, picking up another sheet to read for more clues, “but I think we have to call either way. If Blake listed this person as her emergency contact, and I know that’s her handwriting, then we need to contact him. He may be able to help us while we’re waiting around for whatever-the-fuck-the-bimbo’s-name-is to get back.”
Glancing over at Easton, he nods his concurrence as I type the name into the search engine on my phone. Dread takes root deep in my stomach as the screen updates within seconds, displaying thousands of hits that match up with Owen Doherty, Assistant Director of Witness Security, United States Marshals Service.
We all gape silently at the screen, each processing what this means. At first, my emotions override common sense, and I tell myself it’s probably another guy with the same name. Blake wouldn’t have any connection to the Witness Protection Program; after all, she’s not in hiding. But as I scroll through the results page, I remember how she’s always on high alert when we’re in public, her observant gaze always on guard. Then I think about the drastic change in hair color and style from the photo of her I found. All of her family is dead. She has no history before she showed up in California this spring. And of course, there’s the nightmares and the self-harm episodes.
That’s when it all clicks. I don’t know who has my Blake. I don’t know why they have my Blake. But I do know that my Blake isn’t really Blake at all.
“ON YOUR FEET! LET’S GO! Now! No time to waste.” Raze demands gruffly as he barges into the room, the door flying open with such force it slams into the wall with an echoing thud. His Russian accent is heavier when he’s irritated. Earlier this morning, when he brought me breakfast and a fresh t-shirt, I could understand him clearly, but now I have to work to make sense of his words.
His turbulent blue gaze cuts around the room until they land on where I’m curled up in a ball in the corner of the room, and when I don’t jump up right away, he begins to stalk in my direction.
“Did you hear me, girl? I said we have to leave. Right no—” He stops in his tracks once he takes notice of the spaghetti dinner the housekeeper, or at least that’s who I assume she was, delivered a short time ago, now splattered against the wall above where the plate it was served on lies in fragmented pieces on the floor. I tighten my grip on one of the porcelain shards entangled in my trembling fingers. The sharpest one I could find.
“What in the fuck did you do? Are you fucking crazy?” Boring a hole in me with an incredulous stare, he closes the distance between us and squats down to my level.
I keep my eyes trained on him, but say nothing. I’ve got a split-second to make the decision on whether to attempt an escape now with my makeshift weapon, or to wait until a better opportunity presents itself. All day, I’ve been trying to listen to the different muffled voices through the walls as I watched the cars come and go out the window, compiling as much information as possible about my whereabouts and the people in the house. I haven’t learned much except that Raze has been here with me the whole time.
After Anatoli informed me last night of my purpose here with the Russians, Raze escorted me back to the room—this room—where I was permitted to shower and given a bowl of chicken and rice to eat. The rest of the night I lay awake in the darkness, the sound of crickets in the trees, and my conflicting thoughts. Thoughts that ranged from planning my getaway, to wondering how sweet the revenge would be if I actually killed Vincent Ricci.
I’m still not sure where I fall, but I know being held in captivity, being forced to do someone else’s dirty work, isn’t where I want to be. I was Ish’s puppet for way too long, and I did what I had to do to get out of that situation, even though it meant murdering the man I was once in love with. I won’t ever be that naïve girl again. I hold my own strings; I won’t think twice about killing any of these people to regain my freedom. And I’m willing to risk my own life to keep it that way.
My decision is made for me when I’m jerked back to the present as Raze, who’s growling at me in Russian, scoops me up off the floor and hauls me over his shoulder before throwing me onto the bed. I don’t have time to put up a fight before he climbs on top of me, pinning me with the strength of his legs, and I feel a quick prick in the side of my neck.
Then everything goes black again.
The same hazy feeling I had the first time I was drugged blurs my vision when I awaken. Again, I have no idea where I am, nor how long I’ve been unconscious. The grogginess begins to fade slowly as I realize I’m lying on a brown suede couch, covered with a plaid, flannel blanket. Wood-paneled walls, exposed two-by-fours in the ceiling, and flames dancing in the corner fireplace all come into view, and my first thought is I’m in a cabin . . . but where? And why? Is this where I’m going to meet Vincent?
Even with the cover on top of me and the fire warming the close quarters, I feel a chill in the air. Though that may have something to do with the fact I’m only wearing the thin white t-shirt Raze gave me and my own panties, still with no clue of what happened to the dress I was wearing when I was taken. Either way, it’s cold enough outside I can feel the frigid temperatures settling in my bones, which makes no sense for late summer in southern California.
“You’re awake. I didn’t think you’d be up until morning,” Raze states with surprise as he appears from behind a half-wall carrying a glass of water and a plate piled high with food. His heavy boots eat up the shabby carpet in three long strides, and he takes a seat in the equally worn captain’s chair across from the sofa.
Glancing down at the meal as he leans forward and places it on the wooden coffee table, my stomach growls loudly at the sight of the sandwiches and fruit, reminding me I haven’t eaten in quite some time. His eyes flit from my face, over to the plate, then back over to me, before he furrows his brow with frustration.
“If you wouldn’t have acted like a brat earlier and thrown your dinner against the wall, you wouldn’t be so hungry,” he scolds, picking up half of the sandwich and offering it to me with an outstretched arm.
Without thinking twice, I sit up and accept it, taking a big bite, desperate to pacify the empty feeling inside my stomach. “I don’t like Italian food,” I mumble as I chew.
“Hmph,” he grunts as he takes a sip of the drink then thrusts it across the table toward me. “Let me guess. No Brazilian food either?”
I shake my head as I finish eating the cold cuts and rye bread then lift the glass to my lips, nearly choking as the clear liquid burns a path down my throat and into my chest. I’m not sure why I assumed it was water, but as I struggle not to breathe fire and keep my eyes from watering, I mentally add vodka to the list of things I don’t like. Not that it’ll matter if I never escape this situation alive.