“It’s me. Please don’t talk. I’m in a hangar.” I croak each word out as I let my hair fall across my face, busying myself with undressing. “I am going on a plane somewhere.” I talk as loudly as I dare. I glance up, looking through the curtain of my hair, afraid I will be caught. My eyes scan the private jet while I pick up the new pants and make a show of putting them on, ducking my head again. “There is a private jet here. It has no markings on it that I can make out. I…” I don’t want to tell her about the executions; it will only scare her. “Is Boxer coming for me?” I want to ask her how Edge is, but he doesn’t deserve my concern.
I check the window again. The masked man is now prowling toward me. He looks so angry. My skin begins to crawl like ten thousand ants are climbing on me. I feel like I am about to become his prey. I duck my head quickly.
“I’ve got to go. He’s coming for me. I’m so sorry. I love you, Miss Catherine. Please let Boxer and Lincoln know I love them.” My words are rushed and full of emotion, and then I disconnect.
I zip my pants up and hurriedly put each boot back on. I’m about to grab the phone and slip it inside my right boot, but the door to the office flies open with such force it’s hinges creak in anger. I have a split second to react, kicking the phone backward through the small gap under the desk I’m leaning against.
I pray it is hidden.
I straighten slowly as he stalks over, glaring at me. His large hands are fisted at his hips. He looks like he wants to punch something hard. He positions himself in front of me.
I keep eye contact so I don’t give away my guilt. “I’m nearly finished,” I rasp out. My words are pointless, but I needed to say something.
I’m standing here in a stained bra, as blood from my wound is trickling down my chest and my back. The shakes have really taken a hold of me, and I’m finding it hard to pick up the clean shirt to put on. I start to sway with it in my hand, trying to hold my own ground. I don’t know how long I can stay upright. My body needs to shut down, but I won’t let it just yet. Pure adrenalin and fear has kept me going since the girl fled.
“I need water, please. It’s been so long.” I need to distract him.
He’s still watching me, assessing me.
I grip the office desk, trying my damnedest to stay strong in front of this killer. My head is pounding to its own beat as I fight to stay upright.
I don’t want to be here. I want my reality to become a dream.
This is not my life; this is somebody else’s. It has to be, and I’m having a very bad, conscious dream. It’s the only explanation for the twist my life has taken.
He stalks over to the cooler I hadn’t noticed was in the room, and fills a plastic cup with water and hands it to me.
I don’t hesitate to gulp it down.
It wasn’t enough.
“Please.” I hold the cup out to him again. “My head is pounding, and I’m so dehydrated.”
He puts his hand inside his jacket pocket and I shudder in fear. Is he going to shoot me too?
He pulls a bottle of Ibuprofen out and hands me a couple pills. I take them without a thank you, and he refills the cup and returns it to me. I gulp the pills and the water down.
I wanted more water. It still wasn’t enough. “I need the bathroom. It’s been a long time. Please,” I whisper.
He searches the room. There’s a mop and bucket resting in the corner of the office. He grabs the bucket and dumps the mop on the ground.
“Here,” he growls at me, like I’m wasting his time, and shoves the bucket into my hand and ignores me, walking the few steps to the office window, one hand balled on his hip, his back to me while he radios the pilot, requesting the time of departure.
I use the plastic bucket. I think I sigh in relief then pull up my pants as quickly as my waning strength will allow. “Where are you taking me?” He ignores my question. “Please. Where am I being taken? Why me?”
He turns around, eyeing me up. “Finish dressing and take the boots off.”
I hesitate, and that is all it takes. He comes at me, slamming me face first onto the hard desk. I can no longer keep up appearances, and cry out like a crazy person who has had fucking enough.
“Shut the fuck up, because your life is about to get worse unless you listen to me!” His voice is low and menacing in my ear.
I heed his warning.
He stands up and doesn’t move. His body has gone rigid. I try to turn my head to see what has made him respond this way. And that’s when I remember the old, raised, ugly jagged scars. The word ‘PET’ has been carved into my lower back among all the other scars. He can also see the mess the bullet has made of my back, and I know I’m covered in bruises.
Miss Catherine has never asked me about my back. I had placed what William had done to me when I turned sixteen in a box and sealed it down tight. I never looked at myself in a mirror if I could help it.
A reflection never lies.
Words slip from his lips in a language I can’t comprehend as he vents his anger at me, verbally abusing me. Then he’s unzipping each boot, yanking them off one at a time, pulling my socks off so my feet are now bare to the cold cement floor while my chest is being forced into the top of the desk, held down by one strong hand.
He kicks it all to the side as my head is wrenched up by a handful of my hair. My head is turned toward the door and Scar Face, the armed man with the evil eyes, is standing there. He’s watching me with a deeply satisfied smile on his face, casually propped up against the doorjamb and cradling his gun.
How long has he been standing there witnessing my humiliation?
“I can see you don’t need my help.” He looks at Masked Man. “Do what you need to do and then get her on the plane.” He turns his back on us, leaving me alone with this killer.
What is he going to do to me?
And that’s when I really panic, and my mind chooses to crack and I lose what little sanity I had left. My legs turn to dust as I pass out in an undignified position.
MISS CATHERINE
My hand grips my chest and I fall back into my chair, tryin’ to make sense of what I be hearin’. Whisper be needin’ my strength to help her through. I need to be calmin’ my beatin’ heart for her.
I take a few slow, deep, shaky breaths. They not gonna kill her; she be needed on that plane. I have to be believin’ we still have time.
I sit, watchin’ the blue circle. It be all I have left to hold onto. My fear be a black hole in my chest and nothin’ can fill it.
Evelyn has done her part and operated on Dallas. I be sittin’ here waitin’ on the dangerous man who looks to be my only advocate until he awakens. Infections and a concussion have kept him under, his body needin’ to recuperate.
And then it happens.
My phone beeps and there’s a text from Boxer waiting for me to read. My heart skips a beat in excitement. Boxer wasn’t lost to Whisper. I read the text, understandin’ now he was out of cell range, and they both be comin’ back soon to help.
Boxer knows what to do.
He will save Whisper.
He has contacts.
I reread his message several times, and then I respond to it, waitin’… hopin’ on another message in reply, but nothin’ comes through. He’s comin’ and that’s what matters.
And then it happens.
My worst fear be starin’ me smack-bang in the face.
Whisper’s blue heartbeat be missin’ from the screen.
I frantically stare at the screen, willin’ that blue circle to come back and be there for me.
I tap the screen with my finger, tryin’ to startle it back into view.
Please come back.
I pray. I shake the computer, hopin’ to knock the blue circle back up on the screen, but I know my prayers won’t be answered because the devil be runnin’ this show.