I’m being kept prisoner in a classically elegant room. The furniture all looks antique but well-maintained, and the room is furnished with a seemingly endless supply of ornamental pieces each looking more priceless than the last. I have half a mind to trash the place just to spite these assholes, but I know it wouldn’t be smart. Because it might make them kill you faster, whispers a small voice in my head. A wave of chills washes over me.

It still doesn’t feel completely real. The last few hours have been such an emotional rollercoaster that I still can’t completely wrap my head around it. Hell, the last few weeks have been an emotional roller coaster, except it seems like there have been way more downs than ups.

I can’t seem to go more than five minutes without thinking about Jesse. Without worrying about Jesse. Those men hit him so hard I thought they killed him. I nearly cried with relief when I saw that he was still breathing as they dragged him into a waiting car. But God, as horrible as it is, part of me almost wished he wasn’t breathing. I know what Liam plans to do to him and it’s eating me up inside.

I know I should be completely focused on getting myself out of here right now, but I’m finding it hard not to give into despair. Jesse is gone. They took him and he can’t save me. If I’m going to get out of here I’m going to have to do it myself. Easier said than done.

I pace around the room, thinking of every possible way out of this situation. I don’t know how long I have. All I really know is that Liam had some “business” to set in order before he could come “fuck the bitch.” I feel bile rise in my throat. I’ll bite off my own tongue before I let him touch me. It’s not going to come to that, because I’m going to find a way out of here. Somehow.

I stupidly reach for my purse to grab my phone on impulse. I have neither, of course. I still vividly remember watching my purse fall to the concrete when they dragged me to a car, its contents spilling to the concrete. As I remember the image, I fixate on my inhaler tumbling from the bag and an idea strikes me. I haven’t had an asthma attack since second grade, but every time I’ve changed purses, I’ve always moved the inhaler from purse to purse out of habit. Now that it sparked this idea, I know it might not have been a complete waste of effort.

I have to wait a few minutes until I hear men outside my door. I quickly put myself in the zone. Lights. Camera. Action.

I clutch my throat, gasping dramatically, wheezing in a pained breath like it might be my last. I choke out a strained “help,” pressing my mouth close to the door. I keep gasping and clawing at my throat as I fall to my knees, banging a hand on the door. It’s only a second before I hear a key scrabbling at the lock and the door swings open to reveal Edwards and Rosenthal.

Rosenthal looks annoyed, but Edwards’ face is lined with concern.

“The fuck?” asks Rosenthal.

“Asthma… attack…” I gasp. “Inhaler…”

The two men exchange a look. “Fuck, man,” Rosenthal says. “Liam’s going to be pissed if she dies before he gets to play with her.”

“We need to take her to see a doctor or something,” Edwards says.

“Are you fucking stupid?” Rosenthal asks. “That idiot told her we’re planning to kill her. We can’t take her anywhere.”

I squeeze my throat discreetly, making the blood rush to my face as I gasp, letting spit drip down from my mouth.

Edwards picks me up and throws me over his shoulder, heading toward the front door of the large house.

“Put her down,” says Rosenthal. “If she dies, she dies.”

“I’m not going to watch her suffer. This isn’t what I signed up--”

A gunshot blasts my eardrums. Edwards’ tall frame crumples beneath me and I’m slammed to the ground as he drops me. He falls to his knees, pulling a gun and turning in time to shoot once at Rosenthal before Rosenthal empties the rest of his clip into the man, squeezing the trigger several times after he’s out of bullets, making the gun click uselessly. I barely manage to crawl out of the crossfire.

I look to Rosenthal in horror.

He takes a step toward me, face contorted in rage. His steps falter and he falls to one knee, clutching his stomach. “Fuck!” he shouts, slamming the butt of his pistol on the ground. I realize his gun is empty and Edwards’ weapon is only a few inches from my hand. Rosenthal is looking down at his wound, pulling his bloody hand away and cursing again. I suck in a deep breath and grab Edwards’ gun before I have time to talk myself out of it. I aim it at Rosenthal just as he looks up and realizes what’s happening.

“You fucking--”

I fire three times. The first two shots are above him and to the left, but the third catches his forehead. I expect his head to snap back or explode in a show of gore, but all I see is a small black circle appear on his forehead, almost like a fly just landed there, and then I turn away before I throw up everything I’ve eaten in the last month.

I hear footsteps thumping from upstairs and raised voices. I force myself to my feet and run to a nearby closet, shutting the door and watching through the slits in the wood.

Men come down the stairs a few seconds later, cursing and making disgusted sounds as they take in the scene.

“What the fuck?” one of the men asks. “Weren’t they partners?”

“Maybe they wanted a bigger cut?”

“Hey!” someone shouts from down the hall. “The girl’s gone.”

“Shit!” another man yells as they all rush out the front door. I hear shouting from outside and car engines starting.

Within a minute, I’m completely alone in the house, except for two dead bodies.