10

The door swung open, and the night wrapped around her like a cruel contradiction. The humid air pressed against her skin, thick with the heady scent of crepe myrtles—a soft, almost intoxicating fragrance that had no business existing in a moment like this. A floodlight bathed the parking lot in a harsh glow. Her eyes darted left. Behind an eight-foot chain-link fence, her car sat locked beside a rusted-out truck.

Tosin dragged her toward the double gates. She tried everything she could to slow him down. She dug in her heels and then bit his arm, but to no avail. His heavy arm around her neck was strong and suffocating.

They reached the gate and without hesitation, Tosin yanked the gun from his waistband and fired. The blast shattered the night. Charlotte’s heart slammed against her ribs, the ringing in her ears nearly drowning out the roar of her own panic. But she held it together. Barely. Someone had to have heard that. Someone would come.

She held onto that thought.

Tosin kicked open the gate and jogged toward the truck, still lugging her along. She realized this was her last chance and she gave full rein to the screams.

He clamped a filthy hand over her mouth while opening a door and lifted her onto the seat as if she weighed no more than a rag doll.

"Let me go, you maniac!" she spat, her voice muffled against his grimy palm.

He leveled the gun at her chest. "Stop it," he warned, his tone dark and final. "Or I'll shoot ya."

Her breath hitched, fear tightening around her throat like a noose.

"Now get over," he growled.

In a moment of clarity she realised this really was her last chance. She quickly scooted over torn upholstery to the passenger's side, intending to open the door and run like hell. The truck was strewn with trash and stank of rotted food and urine. Paper cups, newspapers, dirty clothes littered the floor and the seat.

She held her breath against the stench as she searched for the door handle. There wasn't one- just a hole where one used to be. No! No! Frantic, she ran her hand over the inside of the door one more time. Nothing.

"Gimme ya hands."

She twisted, her pulse thundering as she saw him climb in, slamming the driver’s side door shut. A length of rope dangled from his massive hands.

"Gimme ya hands," he said again.

"No." She pressed herself against the door, as if sheer willpower could make it open.

But he was on her in an instant.

He seized her wrists and lashed the rope around them with terrifying speed. The coarse fibers bit into her skin as he yanked it tight, binding her hands together in one brutal motion.

She sucked in deep, ragged breaths, trying to control the rising panic clawing at her chest.

Tosin, oblivious to her terror, ducked under the dashboard and started messing with the wires. Sparks flew. The truck sputtered once—then roared to life.

Tosin let out a chilling victory laugh and slammed the stick shift into gear. The truck was backed into a parking spot, so when he hit the gas pedal, they shot through the gate and out into the night.

Panic surged within her once again. She had no idea where he intended to take her. She kept reassuring herself that the sheriff would come.

But she’d done the same earlier—hoping Henry would show up. He hadn’t.

All her life her father had made sure she never wanted for anything. All she had to do was be his little princess, the light of his life. He took care of all her problems, all her worries. She was loved, pampered, safe and secure.

But now.

For once in her life she was on her own.

John couldn’t sleep. Leaving Ms. Lily at the jail didn’t sit right with him. Tosin was about as obnoxious as a man could get, and he’d no doubt spend the night harassing her. And where was Ms. Lily’s supposedly important mother?

John always trusted his instincts, and it told him he needed to go back. Maybe it was his conscience, but one last check of the jail might finally let him sleep. He threw on jeans, boots, and a short-sleeved shirt.

In the living room, his mother, Haetel—known to everyone as Hae—was watching an old Elvis movie. She was a huge fan, and their home was filled with Elvis memorabilia. John had complained so much that she moved most of it to her room. His mother was eccentric, to say the least. Growing up with her had been colorful, and John knew every Elvis song by heart. He hated discussing his middle name.

“Mom, why are you still up?”

At sixty-eight, his mother was healthy, though prone to silent spells when her depression hit. Those silences unsettled him, so he’d turn up the Elvis music until she came out of it and returned to her usual self.