I can’t move for a second. It’s like my soul is ripped from my body for a minute, and then everything whooshes back to me. I scramble onto my hands and knees as I try to crawl away. I can’t see shit—it’s too dark—but there’s a pressure on my back, and I’m forced to the floor, face down. One of them is on top of me, grappling with me until they have my hands bound in theirs behind my back. I scream out again, and someone pushes my face harder into the carpeted floor to smother the sound.
I suck in a breath, but my mouth’s covered again as I’m lifted.
I hear the door open before they start walking with me, but we don’t go far before I’m thrown. I smash against a wall. A door slams closed, and what little light there was completely disappears. I move to stand and get stuck.
That’s when I realize where I am.
The half closet in the hall.
No, no, no.
This can’t be happening. I can’t even stand up in here, it’s so small.
I bang on the door, screaming at the top of my lungs when I can’t get it open.
Please, God, no.
“Please! Please let me out,” I beg, my voice breaking as fear grips me round the throat. “Please.”
I feel a pressure against the door, and I know someone’s out there, leaning against it.
“You don’t have to do this. Please. You can take whatever you want, but please don’t keep me in here.”
I push against the door with everything I have and scream until my throat is hoarse.
I can’t be trapped in here.
Not again.
Panic swells in my throat, and it feels like I can’t breathe.
I need to get out.
So I bang, kick, and push against the door until my hands bleed. I scream until no more sound comes from my ravaged throat. Tears stream hotly down my face.
I hear movement outside the door as someone walks away from the cupboard. I push against the door in hope, but I’m crushed, realizing that the door is locked. I’m trapped.
I fall to the floor, spent, curling in a ball and rocking.
I can get through this.
Someone will come for me.
Someone will find me in here.
Right?
Chapter Eighteen
East
I’ve messaged Octavia five times since she was due home, and she hasn’t responded to one of them. Usually I wouldn’t worry, but Smithy isn’t at the house, and he asked me to check in on her. That’s hard to do when she won’t answer the goddamn phone. I’ve paced around my room for the last half hour trying to convince myself not to go over there.
She could still be sleeping. She had a big weekend. But it’s nearly lunchtime, and she’s usually an early riser.
I could be worrying about nothing. Considering the threats that hang over us all—especially her, though she doesn’t know it yet—I’m feeling overly paranoid.
I know Lincoln has a plan to get her to leave, but it doesn’t seem to be working. I don’t want her to leave, which is why I’ve kept myself removed from it all. Do I want her to be safe? Yes. But I’m the only one who seems to think I can keep her safe by keeping her close.