Russell Nash seemed like a nice enough man, but he’d obviously seen a few too many action movies.
“We could,” Nick said, not wanting to burst the man’s bubble. “And in the meantime, my company has a few resources.”
The truth minus a few details.
“Resources?”
“We’ll do some digging, see if we can get a line on where they might be keeping her,” Nick said.
“If we figure that out, maybe the police will get involved,” Russell said.
Don’t count on it.
Nick kept it to himself. Russell was obviously feeling hopeful for the first time since he’d found Alexa’s car.
“It’s possible.” Not a technical lie. Anything was possible. “Let’s just take it one step at a time.”
Nick couldn’t tell the whole truth: that he didn’t want the police involved. Because he was going to kill Matis Juska and anyone else responsible for taking Alexa. That when it was all over, he was going to kill Frederick Walker too.
15
Alexa came to consciousness staring at a sea of tiny holes: a slide viewed through a microscope, yeast bubbling when she made bread with her mother, the air bubbles from crawfish that appeared in the sand when the tide receded.
She blinked, then winced as pain shot through the back of her head.
She tested her arms, found that she could move them, and reached behind her head to see if she’d been injured. Her hand didn’t come away bloody, not that the knowledge eased the throbbing pain in her skull.
She blinked again and the vision in front of her came into focus. Not a slide or a bowl of breaddough or the beach but a drop ceiling, the acoustic panels decorated with a random pattern of holes.
She felt around her body, her hands coming into contact with something smooth and cold, then lifted her head.
A bathtub. She was in a bathtub.
She sat up, gasping at the pain in her head, the room swimming around her.
She grabbed the edge of the bathtub and gave herself a minute to catch her breath. The pain receded the tiniest bit, her vision clearing.
The bathroom was tiny, eight feet by ten feet of cracked white tile and chipped porcelain, the bathtub, a toilet, a small cabinet with a sink. There was no mirror. Just a light switch near a wood-paneled door that she guessed was probably locked.
She forced herself to stand, holding onto the tile wall for support while the room spun again. When it righted itself, she stepped carefully from the tub and onto the bathroom floor.
She looked down at her body, checking herself for other injuries, but she seemed to be okay. Her knees felt bruised, and she had a vague recollection of hitting them as she was shoved into a car — or… a van? —but other than that, the pain in her head, and aseriously bad case of dry mouth, she seemed to be okay.
She was wearing the same blouse and black pants she’d put on to go to brunch with her parents. The thought caused a swell of panic to rise in her chest: her parents. They would be worried sick.
She looked for a window, hoping for a clue about time of day, about how long she’d been missing, but there was only a tiny pane of glass up near the high ceilings, frosted and designed with a decorative warp that made it impossible to determine what was on the other side.
Stepping gingerly across the bathroom floor, her head still woozy, she tried the bathroom door and was unsurprised to find it locked. Screaming was an option, but she had a feeling that might be foolish, that it might get her in trouble. She didn’t know who was outside the door or if she even wanted them to know she was awake. Better to look for something she could use as a weapon first, make a plan.
She tried to soothe herself. At least there was a window. That was something she could work with, and she needed everything she could get, because a check of her pockets revealed that she didn’t have a single thing on her.
Matis Juska — and she knew now that Juska hadbeen the one to drag her from her car because she remembered the brown eyes staring at her though the ski mask, eyes she remembered from the parking garage at the hotel — had taken her cell phone.
Or had it fallen from her hands in the struggle? She couldn’t remember exactly, but she knew she didn’t have it now, that she’d left her bag — and her gun — in the car.
Would her parents have found the car? Would someone have called the police? And what about Nick? Pain tore into her chest thinking about him. He would blame himself, would make himself crazy over someone taking her.
She sat down on the closed toilet lid and forced herself to breathe. She couldn’t afford to panic. She had to be smart, had to think.