Mark

"Sit down already, Mark. You're making me sick with all this pacing," Pierre snaps at me.

"Shut the fuck up," I counter and continue walking up and down the plane. Never realized there was this much room in the cabin, I must've walked miles in the last five hours. And we're not landing for another three.

"They'll find her," Pierre snaps.

"Yeah, what if they don't?" The mere thought makes me stop dead in the middle of the plane, my whole body rigid. But I fight through it, continue pacing.

"You should've thought about that before you fucked her," Pierre muses.

The single, fragile thread of sanity I've been trying to hold on to since I learned Nicole was missing snaps. My hands are wrapped around Pierre's throat, my fingers squeezing, but I don't recognize them as my own. His face is turning purple, yet I can't loosen my grip. He's trying to say something, but no sound comes out.

"This isn't my fault!" I yell at him, his throat giving way under my grip. But that's a lie.

Pain blinds me as Pierre slams his cast against my temple, my vision blurring. The shock does work to bring me to my senses though, and I release my grip.

"You're insane," Pierre whispers hoarsely, rubbing his throat. "I think I need medical assistance."

I ignore him, already dialing Thompson's number.

"There’s no news," he says hurriedly as he picks up. "I’ll call you if there is. Sir, you need to let us do our job now."

"Put everyone on it," I say. "Hire more if you have to."

But I already told him all this the last time I called, and his borderline annoyed affirmation reflects that.

"Reynard won't get away this time," Pierre tells me after I hang up. He sound like he actually cares, and as though I hadn't just tried to choke him to death.

"I should've killed him that night," I say and finally sink down into a seat across from him. My thighs and calves are aching from all the walking, but I know I won't be able to sit still for long.

I dial Nicole's number again, for what must be the millionth time. Her melodic voice comes on, telling me to leave a message. She sounds business-like and curt, yet sweet and inviting at the same time. How did I ever think I'd tame her, and bend her to my will? Why did I even try when she's perfect just as she is?

"You'll get your chance, Mark," Pierre says, his voice back to normal.

"Yeah, I know," I say rubbing my eyes, which feel like a gallon of sand got poured into them. It reminds me of the night Melanie bled out in the desert, brings it all back in naked, vivid detail. "But you have to stop talking shit about Nicole."

Pierre sighs and leans back in his seat. "Just pointing out facts."

The words are all wrong, but his tone is complacent, so I don't challenge him. Because he's telling it like it is.

All of this is my fault, and the guilt feels like my skin's getting burned off my body. If I hadn't sought Nicole out at Christmas, she'd still be blissfully unaware of my existence. And the darkness following me would be no threat to her.

* * *

Nicole

I wake suddenly, like someone shook me, yet I’m alone in a small, cold room. My head feels like I drank too much bad wine last night and then someone kicked me. The sky outside is a dreary grey, and I think snow is still falling, but I'm not sure because my vision is too blurry. Panic grips me, the pain in my head intensifying as I remember what happened.

Charles drugged me. Abducted me. Means to kill me. I lunge up and scream, as I almost dislocate my shoulder, because my wrist is handcuffed to the metal frame of the bed I was lying on. I tug on the restraint harder, trying to break free. The bed creaks under me, banging against the wall and the floor. But the cuffs don't budge, all I succeed in is making a lot of noise.

I'm shaking, can't stop fighting the restraint, even though the sharp metal edge of the cuffs has already broken skin, and warm blood is running down my arm.

What if this is my last day alive?

I should've trusted Mark. Why didn't I just trust him?

He'll find me. Save me.

The sweet comfort that floods my chest at the thought is beyond anything I've ever felt. But the seed of doubt is real too and expanding, forcing it all away. Mark's in Africa. He doesn't even know I was abducted. By the time he returns it'll be too late.

I start thrashing on the bed again, kicking at the headrest, anything to break free, get one last chance. Salty tears are running into my mouth. I'm crying not just because I might not live, but also because I'll never wake up in Mark's arms again.

A key rattles in the lock, and I freeze.

Charles walks in, icy air wafting into the room with him. He's grinning at me like he's just here to wish me good morning. "You are awake, I see. That's good, but please stop making all this noise. It is far too early."

"Release me!" I yell at him, kicking at the headrest again.

"Stop that!" he orders in a cold, forceful voice. "No one will help you, and you don't want to make me angry."

I have no doubt he's serious, that making him angry is the last thing I want to do.

"People will look for me," I tell him. "I'll be missed. And they will find me."

"You'll be missed, that's for sure," he says and chuckles, closing the door behind him. "But no one will find you."

His certainty is burning into me through his dead black eyes, takes a lot of fight out of me.

"Mark's arrogance will be his undoing once again, just as it always has been," he continues as he approaches the bed. "Coupled with his ignorance, it's a recipe for disaster. Put simply, he thinks he's better than everyone else. And I'm here to prove him wrong."

He's standing over me by the bed now, looking down at my bleeding wrist.

"He'll find you and destroy you," I hiss, though I have no idea where this defiance is coming from now. Or my certainty. I know I'm doomed, but I won't go quietly. "You have no chance. You're just a bum and he's a—"

Sharp pain interrupts me, my right eye hurting like it exploded, as he slaps me. I can taste blood in my mouth, but I glare at him anyway, struggling not to blink.

"What a fiery look," he muses, grinning again. "No wonder Mark likes to hit you so much. Your dumb defiance is making me hard, and I don't even go for that kind of thing. Want to have some fun?"

His words sober me up, make me look away, panic a rock in the pit of my stomach. I don't need to get raped on top of it all. No, I should be making him care for me as a person. I read somewhere that's what kidnap victims are supposed to do, if they wish to be set free by their captors.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask, as pitifully as I can, looking at the floor. "I never did anything to you."

The bed creaks as he sits down on the edge, and I jerk away instinctively, making him chuckle. "You are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. A lot like your friend Lucy was."

I gasp as I connect those dots. "You killed her too?"

He nods, scratching at his beard. "She was meant as a warning. But then I realized how much you mean to him, and saw a way to stop all this once and for all. Mark didn't care about the escort, and I'm sure the journalist was an afterthought for him. But killing you will be his undoing, I'm certain of it. After you're dead, Mark will give me what he took from me, and that'll be the end. I think I'll even let him live. In prison, of course. He'll have lots of time to miss you after he's locked up for your murder."

"What did he take from you?" I ask, my heart in my throat as I picture Mark finding my dead body. I can feel his pain, just as I felt it through those pictures Charles showed me of his wife's funeral.

"Money. Lots of it."

"Money? You murdered three women for money?" The words just spill out.

"Four, to be precise," he says curtly, like the idea doesn't sit very well with him for all his coldblooded talk. It's the single glimmer of hope I've gotten, and I need to grab it with both hands, because for all my brave defiance, I'm so scared of dying I can't even breathe.

"Please let me at least call my parents one last time," I whisper, nothing fake about the tears running down my face. "I haven't spoken to them in weeks."

But what would I even say if he lets me call them? I can picture my dad shaking as I tell him goodbye, trying to hold in tears, my mom failing at the same feat. We had such a fun time over Christmas, Mom even let me help with cooking the New Year dinner. And my sister, she's going to have a baby. What will the shock of me dying this way do to her? My head's spinning, my chest exploding with all the love I have for them.

Charles doesn't say anything, just leans in until his lips are almost touching my forehead. I start sobbing, shaking so hard the bed's rattling again. But he just removes my cuffs and stands up.

"I'm afraid there can be no calls," he says, twirling the handcuffs on his finger. "Your family will have to be satisfied with the knowledge that you chose the wrong man to fall in love with. Happens all the time."

The whole world seems to stop, and I'm looking at myself from somewhere over by the door. Is this it? Do I die now?

"You have some time left," Charles says as though he's reading my mind, walking to the door. "Mark's not in the country yet, and no one knows you're in imminent danger. I'm going to meet with your scrawny colleague and remedy that situation."

And then the door closes behind him, my mind racing, but my body frozen.

* * *

Mark

Thompson meets us at the terminal exit like I instructed him to do.

"Tell me what you know," I bark at him as we're walking to the car. Pierre has trouble keeping up, but I don't care. He's injured and even though I could use him for this, he's not essential.

Thompson sighs, but it's barely perceptible. The bags under his bloodshot eyes are more green then blue. "We're watching the office and her apartment. I've got people trying to trace her cell phone too, and they're also looking into this Charles Jones, but not much has been found. I also have a man trailing the reporter she met with at the park."

"There's nothing new?" I ask, because he told me all this already.

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry I failed you."

"We'll deal with that later," I snap. "Take me to that reporter."

"You sure that's a good idea?" Pierre asks from the back seat, out of breath from the walk over here. "I mean, he thinks you're a psycho killer, and he's writing an article about it."

"Just drive," I tell Thompson and ignore Pierre.

Career-wise it's a very bad idea. But that guy knew both Nicole and Lucy, so he might know where Charles is. No way they let him get close enough to kill them, if they didn’t trust him somehow. Nicole's not that stupid. She had a good reason for evading the bodyguards I left with her last night, I'm certain of it.

Besides, I couldn't care less about salvaging my career right now. I couldn't care less about anything other than killing Reynard. And saving Nicole. But that's such a feverish dream, I dare not even wish for it. Because failure to do it will kill me.

No one breaks the silence on the way into the city. Not that I'd entertain it, if they did. Thoughts are racing through my brain, but I don't hold on to any of them. I need to keep a clear head in this, stay laser focused, else Nicole has no chance.

Before I know it, we're parked in front of Nicole's office building. It's midmorning, and the street is swarming with people. I recognize some as Thompson’s men.

He gets out of the car and talks to one of them, returns a few moments later.

"The reporter just left the office," he informs me through the open window. "Lahey is trailing him."

I get out of the car. "Where?"

Pierre is taking his time getting out of the car.

"You stay here, or go home," I snap at him.

"No," he counters.

"You'll just slow me down," I say and start walking, motioning Thompson to lead the way.

He spends some time coordinating Lahey's location, while I scan the surrounding area.

He stops dead a few feet from a small sidewalk park. "That's him by the far wall," he says, pointing at a man wearing a bright green parka and gnawing on his thumbnail.

The guy's eyes are shooting this way and that, like he's waiting for someone.

"Stay here," I tell Thompson then approach the reporter from the side, which is blocked off from his sight by a couple of trees and a construction scaffold. The reporter doesn't see me, since he picked an idiotic place to wait for whoever he's waiting for.

I lose sight of him for a few moments as I get on the other side of the scaffold. When I reemerge he's talking to a guy that has his back to me. I walk a few more steps to get behind the reporter, not taking my eyes off the guy he's talking to. Then our eyes lock and an electric current so strong goes through me I see nothing at all for a split second. It's Reynard, and he's grinning at me, his black eyes fixed on mine.

I lunge over the low wall, knock the reporter over, but it's too late. Reynard is already sprinting out of the park. I give chase down the street, knocking down everyone that gets in my way. But I'm too slow. Reynard jumps into the passenger seat of a black van with no plates. I reach it just as it pulls out, but it speeds away on the empty bus lane.

Thompson is by my side, breathing hard and looking flustered, but I ignore him and sprint back to the reporter. A couple of people are helping him up and a bump the size of an egg is developing on his forehead. A folder is lying by his side, photos peeking out. I push aside the people trying to see if he's alright. He tries to stand and get away as he notices me, but I grab his shoulders to prevent him from moving.

"Who was that man? Where did he go?" I yell, but he just stares at me blankly, his eyes wide and his bottom lip quivering.

I shake him. "Tell me."

"You're causing a scene," Pierre informs me from somewhere over my left shoulder. "We should take this inside somewhere."

The reporter's face changes from confusion to stark fear, so I shake him some more. "Tell me what you know about him."

"I…I don't know much…he's some bum…has information about you," he stammers, his voice faint.

"Where's Nicole?"

His eyes go wide as he tries to wiggle out of my grasp, but I'm holding him too tightly. "I don't know. She didn't come in to work this morning. That's not like her. I…I thought she was with you."

"You should see these pictures, Mark," Pierre says, and his tone is so shocked and serious, I turn to him reflexively.

The photo he's showing me is of the night I buried Melanie, and I can smell blood on the cold air around us.

I let go of the reporter and snatch the folder from Pierre. It contains six or seven more photos, most of them of Melanie. One of them is of the escort from LA, and one of a woman I don't know. Both are strung up in trees, bleeding to death just like Melanie did. There's one more photo after that and I can't bear to look at it.

But it's too late for wishing. I knew that the moment I got the call that Nicole was missing. So I flip to the last photo, holding my breath.

But it's not of Nicole, and hope wells up in me so strong it hurts.

"Who could've given him these photos?" Pierre asks, his eyes wide as he stares at me.

I'm wondering the same thing. They were clearly taken by someone who stayed after Reynard and the men helping him were taken away by the police. Someone who I thought I could trust completely.

A siren wails nearby, stops abruptly. Pierre is tugging on my arm. "We should go."

Two policemen are approaching, just behind an ambulance crew.

I let Pierre drag me off, get in the car one of Thompson's men brought by.

"We'll find her, Sir," Thompson assures me, sounding perky, as he gets in the front seat. "We have someone following the van."

* * *

Nicole

The light outside hasn't changed since this morning. Or was that the afternoon already? I have no idea how long I've been locked in this dingy bedroom, though judging by how hungry I am, it must be close to 24 hours. There are no sheets on the bed, just a smelly blanket and a rotting pillow. The small bathroom probably hasn't been cleaned in decades.

The windows are large and grimy, and even if I could break them, there's a thirty-foot drop straight down. And there's woods all around the house. A forest of thick pines all covered in snow, though there's little of it on the ground. If there were more of it, I'd jump, but there's barely enough to create a thin blanket and that won't break my fall. I might risk it though, if Mark doesn't find me soon.

But I won't despair, and I won't give up.

I just have to find a way to get out of this house. Then I'll make a run for it through those woods. I know I could get to safety. I spent my childhood playing in woods just like this.

I've been sitting on the bed, wrapped in the ratty blanket since Charles left. It’s the only piece of furniture in the whole room. And despite the fact that it looks like something that was new in the 1800s, not a piece of it will come loose.

Unless something under the mattress might.

The house has been quiet all day, except for the occasional creak of wood. I get up and slide the mattress off the bedframe, the springs in it groaning. But there's only a large wooden slab underneath it.

The footsteps outside the door don't register until the lock rattles open.

"Don't bother looking for weapons," Charles says, grinning at me. "It's all been checked before you were brought here."

My heart's racing in fear so strong my whole body aches from it. But the door behind him is wide open, and I'm sure we're the only ones in the house.

I lunge for the door while his back is turned as he's closing it, and almost reach it. But he grabs me by the throat, squeezing as he slams me against the now closed door.

"Now, now, you won't run away from me," he says menacingly.

I'm clawing at his hands, drawing blood, but he doesn't seem to feel it. If I could, I'd scream, but he's gripping my throat too hard, and my vision's turning black at the edges.

He slams me against the door again, my head exploding in pain, then releases me. I crumple to the floor, taking hurried, painful breaths.

"Mark’s back in the city," he tells me with a smile that is anything but happy. "And he's looking for you rather frantically."

"He'll find me," I croak, interrupting him.

It makes bark another cold laugh. "He won't, unless I tell him where to look. Which I'll do soon, since it's almost time. But first we need to establish that you are actually with him."

He pulls a tape recorder from his pocket and fiddles with it, then sticks it in my face. "Say: I’m with Mark Cross and I’ll call you tomorrow."

This is so surreal, like I’m watching it on TV.

"Who am I calling?" I ask. My breathing's returning to normal, and the room is no longer fuzzy. "Let me call my parents, please."

"There'll be none of that," he muses. "This call will go to your co-worker's voicemail, and he'll go to the police with it when your body is found, I'll make sure of that."

"I won't do it," I say and wrap my arms over my chest, glaring at him, even though just the sight of his dead black eyes makes me nauseous.

A double-edged, black hunting knife appears in his hand. "You will."

He slides the knife down my cheek, pressing the tip into my throat. "I don't need you whole for this. Just alive long enough for Mark to watch you die."

I'm shaking as he slides the knife lower, down the side of my throat and along the center of my chest. I have no doubt that he means it. And I can't run, if I'm maimed.

"OK," I mutter and he chuckles.

"Good girl." Hearing those words in Charles' cold voice, the same ones Mark would say to me, almost makes me retch.

He repeats the message I'm to record, and I do it in a flat voice that makes me sound dead. He has me repeat it a couple more times until he's satisfied.

And then he shoves me aside and leaves, slamming the door shut and locking it, splintered wood raining down onto my shoulder.

I listen to his footsteps fade into silence. Is this what being dead is like? Hearing nothing, seeing nothing. Because if it is, I'm there already.

* * *

Mark

We met up with Lahey at a gas station on the New Jersey Turnpike. He's checking out a black van, the back open and the driver side window smashed.

It's the same car Reynard escaped in.

"We lost him, Sir," he informs me as I get out of the car, but I already know that. "They pulled into this station, then just vanished."

A tall chain-linked fence surrounds the gas station parking lot and there is nothing but a thick pine forest on the other side of it. There are no holes in the fence, and there's no way anyone could climb it. But there are skid marks next to the van like someone drove away in a hurry.

I'm so angry I can hardly feel my body. "You incompetent idiots."

"I am sorry," Lahey says. "There's nothing in the van."

I turn to Pierre who's swaying beside me like he might pass out at any moment. "I have to go to the police."

He grimaces like he's in pain. "Think about this, Mark. I know you care about her, but telling the cops everything will create more problems for you."

"I don't care," I snap and get back in the driver's seat of the car we came here in. And I really don't. Hell, I'd give my right arm to have Nicole back with me right now, and I'd certainly give my reputation and even my freedom.

"You coming?" I snap at Pierre through the open door, since he's still just standing there. He groans and mutters something under his breath, but gets in.

I keep my mind as blank as I can, ignoring all thoughts all the way back into the city. They're filled with doom and gloom and despair anyway, and I can't let any of that in else it's all lost. But I can't pretend as though going to the cops is not my last hope. I've called in all favors on this, but no one's returning my calls. First the escort, then the journalist. And me implicated in both deaths. No one wants to be associated with me after that.

The receptionist at the precinct is a portly uniformed cop with a cigarette tucked behind his left ear.

"You want to see who?" he asks, grimacing at me.

"Whoever's working that journalist’s murder, the one that was found in the park," I snap at him.

"And your involvement with that is?" Everything about his demeanor is telling me he's used to cracking down on wackos ten times my caliber all day long.

"I have new information," I say through gritted teeth, that's how hard I'm trying to stay calm.

"You and everybody else today," he groans and picks up the phone. "Have a seat over there."

He points to a row of rickety chairs by the wall where a few miserable looking people are already sitting. Pierre obeys him, sits down with a groan next to a skinny black woman who looks high.

"I'll stay right here," I say and the cop just shrugs, dials a number, and says something to whoever's on the other line.

"You'll have to wait here after all," he says. "They're interviewing someone else right now."

I called my lawyer on the way here just in case they try to detain me, but he hasn't showed yet, so it’s probably for the best that I have to wait. Not that I care. Minutes count here. It could already be too late.

Through the glass doors, I watch a man in a green jacket approaching. He does a double take as he opens the door and sees me, looks back like he might run. It's the reporter I knocked down this morning. His left eye is swollen shut under the bump on his forehead.

I grab his arm and pull him to the side. Pierre takes the cue and stands between us and the receptionist, blocking his view.

The reporter looks like he might scream, but I silence him with a glare.

"Did they find her?" I ask, surprised I can actually say those words.

His face turns from shock to surprise. "I got a call from her. She said she was with you."

"She's not with me," I manage. "She's with a very sick man, and I have to find her."

"What are you even doing here?" the reporter asks. "Is this some clever way of getting an alibi for her murder."

A painful jolt passes through me at his words, the idea behind them.

"Did you tell them she was missing?" I ask.

He nods. "And that you're behind her disappearance."

"What are they doing about it?"

He shrugs, tries to pull his arm from my grasp. "Nothing much, I don't think. You got them all paid off."

Fuck, I'd pay them any amount to find her right now.

"You can go in now," the receptionist tells me. "Ask for Detective Carrington."

I release the reporter and stride inside, calling for the detective. A willowy lady approaches, her gaunt face scrunched up. "And you are?"

"Cross. I'd like to report a missing person."

Her whole face brightens. "Mark Cross?"

I just nod.

"Follow me," she says and waves another guy over.

They lead me to a small room, which looks like something between a broom closet and an interrogation room.

"Have a seat," she says but I just shake my head.

"Nicole West, a journalist with the Wall Street Journal went missing last night," I tell them. "I know who has her. It's a man named Charles Reynard, but he goes by Jones now. I followed him to a gas station in New Jersey, but then the trail went cold."

The two detectives exchange a glance, and I see perfectly well that they have no idea what to make of this information.

"Won't you sit and explain it all to us in more detail?" the man says. "You say your name is Cross? Would that be the Cross this woman was writing an article about before she disappeared? And the one found dead too?"

"Yes," I snap, not sitting down. "But I had nothing to do with her death. I know who did though. We have to go now. Get dogs, search the area."

They're staring at me like I'm insane, and I might well be. My phone is vibrating in my pocket, but I ignore it.

"The man who was just here is certain the West woman is with you," the detective says.

"Would I be here reporting her missing if she was?" I should be controlling my temper, trying to sound more likable, but I can't.

They both eye me for awhile saying nothing.

"Wait here while we go make some calls," the woman finally says, and ushers the other guy out of the room.

My phone's still ringing, and I dig it out of my pocket, my heart lodging in my throat as I glance at the screen.

"Nicole?" I ask as I pick up.

The laugh that greets me sends a chill through my entire body.

"You wish," Reynard says. "Perhaps you can still watch her die, if you hurry."

"What do you want from me?" I yell. "I'll give you whatever you want."

I sound too desperate, a fact evident in his renewed bout of cold laughter.

"I want you to suffer first," he informs me. "Then you'll give me what you owe me. Look for her in the woods behind the gas station where you found the van. If you hurry, you might make it in time."

Then the line goes dead.

The detectives yell something after me as I rush out, but I can't make out the words.

"I'll send someone with instructions on where to look for her," I yell to them over my shoulder.

Outside, Pierre doesn't catch up until I'm pulling out from the curb, so he has to jump into the already moving car. It's getting dark. And Nicole might already be in the woods, alone with Reynard and his knife. But she’s still alive, and that’s all I want to know. But flashes of that night in the desert are all I see, no matter how hard I'm trying to ignore them.

* * *

Nicole

The sky outside is turning a darker grey and I'm still just sitting by the door. My fingers are aching; my broken nails bleeding from trying to pry open the door. But it wouldn't give. It must be over a hundred years old and built to last, as my dad would say. A fresh bout of tears erupts from my eyes, but I'm too numb to feel any sadness at all.

The lock clicks and then the door slides open softly. I'm on my feet, blood rushing to my head. I'm gonna fight him this time. Escape, or die trying.

"Ms. West?" a man calls softly. It's not Charles' voice.

I stay quiet, and don't move from my spot behind the door.

"Thank God," the man whispers as he pokes his head into the room and looks at me from behind the door. "Come with me. Mark Cross sent me. I'm here to take you to safety."

Just hearing Mark's name fills me with a flashflood of hope. I move from behind the door to face the guy. He's wearing the same kind of black suit as all the bodyguards Mark had watching over me, along with a clear earpiece.

"Where's Mark?" I ask.

"There's no time for questions," the man says, eying me up and down. "Can you walk?"

I nod and precede him into the dark hall outside the room. He's right. I can ask all the questions I want once I'm safe and away from this house. Because I'll be alive.

Out in the hallway, the floorboards creak something awful and I freeze, afraid to move any further.

"Don't worry," the man says. "The house is empty. But we have to hurry."

I follow him down three flights of stairs, then through the foyer and out the door. There's barely enough light to see by in the house, and it's eerily quiet, like we're the only two people left alive in the whole world. I almost yell out in joy as we finally exit the house, but manage to stifle it. I'm expecting to see his car, but the yard in front of the house is empty.

He points to the trees at my questioning look. "That way."

I run to the tree line without even glancing back, sure I heard his footsteps right behind me. But when I turn he's not there. The yard in front of the house is deserted too.

I call out in a hoarse whisper a few times, and get no reply. My heart's racing, and I have no idea what’s happening. But I'm free. And I plan to stay that way.

So I keep running, the cold air piercing my lungs. My thighs soon start burning from the effort, a stich developing in my side. I'm not wearing a coat, and it must be near freezing, but I hardly feel the cold. As long as I keep moving, I'll be fine. The guy who released me will catch up, I'm sure of it. I'm free.

* * *

Mark

I drove to the gas station so fast even Pierre commented on it. But he didn't press the point, and I didn't slow down. Now I'm standing in the parking lot of the gas station, next to the van, cold winds picking up, blowing snow off the pines so it looks like it's snowing. If I squint and don't think too hard, this forest looks exactly like the one near my house growing up, where Nicole and me used to play as kids.

How different my life would be if I'd just admitted my love for her back then. But she was too pure to ruin with my messed up life and my sick fantasies. As she still is. Yet I was too weak to stay away from her the way I always knew I should.

I have no idea where to even start looking for her now. And a scary, huge part of me doesn't even want to. Because I know what I'll find, and I can't go through that again. With Melanie, Reynard called me too and I had every intention of saving her. And failed.

I won’t fail this tome. I’ll do all I can not to fail.

But if I do, I owe it to Nicole to at least watch, bear witness to her death. Seeing as I caused it.

My phone rings, Nicole's name on the screen waking strong hope, feeding my resolve to find her, save her like gasoline poured onto a fire.

"You're not far now," Reynard informs me. "Walking in a straight line north should do it. Or better yet, run."

Then he hangs up. I'm already at the chain-linked fence, checking it for sturdiness. When Reynard called to tell me where I could find Melanie, I had half the local police force with me. Now it's just Pierre and me. But having backup didn't help then, and it likely won't now.

"Be smart about this, Mark," Pierre says, gripping my arm to halt me as I start to climb.

I just glare back at him.

"If he's calling you and telling you where to go, then he wants you to see," he explains. "She'll live until you get there, so there's no reason to kill yourself trying to climb this fence. Or going there without backup."

I know he wants me to watch Nicole die. And spoken plainly like this, it’s such a terrifying notion I almost throw up. But Pierre's right.

"Let's find a way around and then wait for Thompson," he says looking up and down the fence to see where it ends. "We know what to expect this time, Mark. Last time we didn't. That means we can still save her."

It’s such a tiny hope, but I cling to it because it's all I have.

Thompson and his men arrive a few minutes later. He pulls a scrawny looking kid out of the van as I approach, so hard he almost drops his laptop.

"There's been a breakthrough, finally," Thompson says. "I had Richard here try and find the location of Ms. West's cell phone since she went missing. It's been impossible to get an accurate reading, until a couple of hours ago. Tell him."

That last is directed at the kid who is squinting up at me, and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else but here. Thompson nudges him, making the kid shake.

"I…I have a clear reading on the cell, with a one mile accuracy," he stammers. "Her phone was off before, but now it's on, and there's only one tower around here. The phone's near it so the accuracy of the reading is greater."

"You know where she is?" I bark at him, since there's no time for this lengthy discussion of pings and towers and whatever.

He nods and shows me the screen of his laptop, a green dot with a small circle around it blinking on a black and white map.

"You have this location mapped?" I ask Thompson who nods.

"And you're sure this is where the phone is?" I ask the kid.

"Has to be," he says. "I hacked the tower data. It was easy, because…"

I halt him with a wave of my hand. It's the best lead I have, the only one really. And it's possible that Reynard doesn't know the dangers of keeping a cell phone on. He went to prison before any of this was even possible, and there was certainly no such technology six years ago in Africa.

"Inform the police about this," I tell Thompson. "Have the kid wait here for them and brief him on what to do."

"See, I told you to wait," Pierre says, taking a sniper rifle out of the trunk and loading it. "I say we circle the area, then I'll find a nice tree to climb."

I'm not sure how he plans on doing that with a broken arm, but he's by far the best sniper I ever knew, and I'll let him try.

So I take out another handgun from the trunk, along with a knife. Because whoever bleeds tonight, Reynard will be one of them.

* * *

Nicole

My teeth chattering is the only thing breaking the silence. I'm alone in the middle of the woods, nothing but thick pines surrounding me. It feels like I’ve been here for hours. I can't run anymore. Can hardly walk. I'm weak like I don't remember ever being, my head pounding from exertion. I followed what I thought was the sound of the interstate, but that turned out to be a brook deep in the woods.

If I just sit down for a bit, I'll feel better. All sorts of warnings are going off in my head at that, but I'm so tired I can't care. At least I'm free. Maybe I'll climb a tree after I've rested, see how close to civilization I am.

But right now I just have to close my eyes for a moment. Rest. I know all the dangers of falling asleep in a forest in winter, but none of them seem very important as I burrow into the side of a tree, the brook bubbling next to me, the treetops hissing in the wind.

"There you are," a man says, and my heart beat blossoms to life, hope erupting everywhere.

"Mark?" I croak, but when I open my eyes the guy who freed me from the house is standing over me.

He chuckles as he pulls me to my feet. "We're not far now. You shouldn't have run so fast. I almost didn't find you. Come on."

"You know where we are?" I ask, leaning against him, since I'm shaking all over. Mark would pick me up, carry me, but this guy just grabs my arm and pulls me after him.

"Yes, yes, we're almost there," he whispers.

He’s dragging me into the trees, and I’m stumbling over the roots. A faint voice in the back of my mind is telling me something's wrong, that I'm not free if I'm with him. I'm so cold I can hardly feel my legs, but I try to wriggle from his grasp, which just makes him grab me harder.

"Calm down, we're almost there," he says.

"Almost where?" I whisper, because there are only trees all around us, and I don't like the sound of his voice. It's not concerned, but filled with a sick sort of anticipation.

He just chuckles and grips me harder. So I stomp on his foot, with all the strength I have left and elbow him in the stomach. The way I learned in that self-defense class my mom made me take before I moved to the city. It shocks him enough to loosen his grip on my arm. I yank it free and start running, burning through the little energy I have left. Because the warnings are getting louder, and they're all telling me this is the last chance I have. The very last.

My lungs and my legs are burning, and the world around me is a quickly darkening blur. But I keep running and will until I collapse.

I can see a clearing ahead in the distance. If I just reach it, I'm saved. I repeat that to myself over and over again, because I need hope.

Someone slams into me from the side, strong arms enveloping me, keeping me from falling.

"That's quite far enough," Charles whispers into my ear. "Did you have a nice escape?"

I'm shaking, in frustration and exhaustion more than fear as he drags me toward the clearing. I try to fight him off but he's too strong, and before long the other guy, the one who freed me, joins in and helps him.

A lone pine tree stands in the center of the clearing and they drag me to it.

Rough rope is tightened around my wrists, pulling my arms up over my head, stretching them painfully and making it even harder to breathe. There's almost no light left.

"You staged it so I'd think I could escape?" I ask through chattering teeth. "Why?"

He just chuckles, making the knots tighter.

"You sick fuck," I hiss, spitting him in the face. " Even animals don't play with their food."

"Except cats," he corrects me, wiping the spit off his face.

I yelp as he rips open my shirt, which makes him laugh, his foul breath hot on my frozen cheek.

He squeezes my breasts together before yanking down my bra. My nipples are hard, and they ache in the cold wind.

"You are so much more beautiful than Melanie was," he whispers. "You should know that."

He drags the tip of the knife down the center of my chest. I dare not even breathe, but I can't help whimpering as he slides it behind the waistband of my pants. He slices through it, nicking my belly with the knife.

I'm so cold, I'm not even shaking anymore. "Just kill me and get it over with."

"Oh, no, no. I can't kill you yet, we have to wait for Mark to get here so he can see."

I can't allow that. It would destroy him. And I won't be the cause of that, I can't be. Warmth returns to my body as I realize this, and I kick out hard, the rope ripping the skin on my wrists as I dangle from it. My third kick finally connects with Reynard's thigh, knocking him back. I start screaming. Loud and clear, high pitched and piercing, the sound echoing off the trees. Not in physical pain, I don't feel any of that anymore. I'm screaming in anguish, in the pain of regret, of losing everything that might have been, but never will be now.

He punches me hard in the face, but I don't stop screaming even as hot blood erupts from my nose, its metallic taste choking me. I'm glad for it's warmth, because it lets me know I'm still alive.

He hits me again and my last tenuous grip on reality snaps.

* * *

Mark

A scream pierces the quiet, makes me freeze mid step. It's Nicole. I'd recognize her voice anywhere. But that's not how I know it's her. That certainty comes from the fact that I can hear this scream in my very soul.

I break into a run, following her voice blindly, not caring about how much noise I'm making. Someone slams into me, knocks me down right before I reach a clearing where I'm sure I'll find her.

"Steady, Sir," Thompson whispers into my ear, panting from the effort of holding me down. "Wait until we all get in position."

What he's saying makes perfect sense, but my urgency to reach her, save her from screaming is not a reasonable thing. Only she's not screaming anymore. Only my ragged breaths are renting the silence.

"There are only three hostiles surrounding the clearing," Thompson says and releases me. "We'll dispatch them quickly."

I push myself off the ground and peer forward. We're right by the edge of the clearing and my very blood freezes as I take in the full scope of the scene.

Nicole is tied to a pine tree, naked, blood covering her face and neck. Dead.

I care about nothing but killing the black haired man next to her.

Thompson has no hope of stopping me as I lunge up and start running. No one can stop me.

I close the distance in what seems like the space of a breath. The man next to Reynard only has time to yelp as I slam my elbow into the back of his neck, making him crumple to the ground. Reynard tries to move aside as I jump on him, but he's too slow, and I'm too angry.

My knee collides with his stomach, then his face. A knife slices through my bicep, but I feel no pain. It's all burned away by the hatred I have for this man. Blinding, black and fierce. Beyond anything that can be sated by anything other than death. Maybe not even then.

He slashes at me again, almost taking my eye, but this time I manage to grip his wrist, twisting the knife towards his face as I tackle him to the ground.

He's no match for me and my black hatred. Nothing but killing him matters.

His eyes widen as he realizes this too. I'm kneeling on his chest, his breaths uneven, ragged and shallow, but he's still managing to hold back the advance of the knife. And the hatred in his eyes matches mine, even as he focuses just on the tip of the knife descending toward his skull. It's all in slow motion, but the ending is inevitable, and he knows it's his death.

"Mark?" Nicole's faint whisper reaches me. But it has to be just my imagination, a voice born of my desperate wish for her to live. Safe and whole, with me forever.

The terrible injustice of it all doubles my hatred, makes my strength infinite. Bones crack as I wrangle the knife from Reynard's hand and swing it back to pierce his neck.

"Mark, don't kill him," Nicole says and this time her voice is clear, alive.

I freeze, the knife less than an inch from Reynard's throat. He uses the distraction to punch me in the kidney, but I hardly feel it. Thompson and another of his men grab Reynard, as I lunge off him and stumble to Nicole.

Her lips are purple, but her eyes are bright.

"You're not dead," I whisper, brushing the hair off her face.

She shakes her head, smiling faintly. I cut through the rope with the knife I'm still holding, and she collapses into my arms, shivering so hard my arms are shaking from it. I hold her up with one arm, ripping open my shirt with the other. She needs to get warm. I press her to me, wrapping my shirt around her back, willing all the cold from her icy skin to seep into me.

"You're not dead," I repeat and it feels like a dream, but the most real thing at the same time.

She doesn't say anything, doesn't even move. But I can feel her heartbeat strong against my own, her breath hot and steady against my neck.

Someone wraps a coat around her shoulders.

"We should get her out of here," Pierre says. "What do you want to do with him?"

Reynard is kneeling in the snow, a gun at his temple. But he doesn't look cowed, his dark eyes locked on mine.

"I hate you, Mark," he spits.

"I say we kill him," Pierre adds. But Nicole wouldn't want that.

"We take him with us, give him to the cops," I say, scooping Nicole up in my arms. She's still shaking, but not as hard. I have enough warmth for the both of us.

"You sure you want to make that mistake twice?" Pierre asks, but I'm already walking away.

"Fine, lock him up somewhere," I say over my shoulder. "I'll deal with him later. Call an ambulance."

Because all that matters right now is getting Nicole safely away from here.

* * *

Nicole

Fuzzy white light greets me as I open my eyes, and I'm comfy and warm, lying on a soft bed. Mark's eyes meet mine. He's sitting in a chair by my hospital bed, gripping my hand in both of his. And the care and love flowing from his gaze into me is a thing I could touch if I tried, I'm sure of it.

"I knew you'd find me," I tell him, meaning to sound strong and sure, but my voice comes out cracked and small.

"I was almost too late," he says and moves like he's about to kiss me, but stops as though unsure he should. "It was all my fault. I should've warned you of the danger."

"And I should've trusted you," I say, trying to smile, but it hurts.

"You had little reason to," he says, sounding angry, but it's not directed at me.

The last thing I remember is his hot skin taking away the painful coldness of my own. And I want more of it. I need it.

"Hold me, Mark," I whisper.

"Is that really what you want?" he asks, squeezing my hand harder.

And the sincerity of his question makes my breath hitch in my throat.

"Yes," I whisper because that says it all.

"Even after what happened?" he asks.

I nod. "I want you Mark. Always. No matter what."

And there's no doubt in my mind about that. None whatsoever. So he shouldn't have any either.

He releases my hand and stands up. I try to make room on the bed for him, but it's so narrow he still looms over me as he climbs in.

I run my hand across his cheek, his rough stubble against my palm waking all sorts of sparks inside me. He doesn't stop me as I get bolder, run my fingers across his lips, over his neck, tangle them into his hair and pull his head down for a kiss. His lips are soft and tender as they brush over mine, trail across my cheek and down my neck.

I'm pulling up his shirt, because I need to feel his skin against mine again. His stomach is hard, the muscles taut yet pliant under my fingers. I could caress him all day and not want for anything more.

He stops kissing me and gazes into my eyes, and I shake my head, glaring right back, because I won't let him stop me from touching him this time.

"You sure this is what you want?" he asks instead, and I just nod. I almost died last night, but I feel more alive than ever now. And I need him inside me.

He sits up and removes his shirt, struggling to pull the sleeve over the thick bandage covering his left bicep.

"You're hurt?" I ask.

"It's nothing," he says, grinning down at me, then slides my gown up over my thighs, revealing my stomach and breasts, groaning at the sight of my nakedness. I'm shivering again but not from being cold. All I need, all I will ever need, is him looking at me like this.

He unbuckles his pants, stands up just long enough to remove them and then he's on top of me, and we're skin to skin once again. His lips are warm and tender as his kisses me, while my hands explore every bump, nook and crevice of his strong back and arms uninterrupted. But it doesn't last.

He grabs my arms and pushes them into the mattress. My scream as he enters me is muffled by his lips pressed over mine, waking the pain in my split lip which only heightens the pleasure.

The scream turns into moans as he starts thrusting into me, pinning me against the bed, not hard, yet possessive like he'll never let me go again. The last vestiges of pain get washed away on the soft waves of pleasure woken by his cock deep inside me. They're growing larger, wider, higher, and soon I'll let go, allow them to wash over me and take me under. But not yet. Because I need this slow buildup, this stoking of our love, as much if not more than the final release.

We're one in this moment, as much as any two people can be. Two parts of a whole, a perfect balance, sandy shores and ocean waves, sun and clouds, leaves and branches, pine needles and snow. The last thought takes me back to last night in a flash, and I'm freezing again, unable to move because my arms are tied, and I'm about to die. But I'm also coming so hard my whole body's burning, consumed by flames so searing there'll be nothing left soon.

I'm thrashing on the bed, trying to break free. And a part of my mind knows it's Mark holding me down and that he would never hurt me. But my panic is screaming louder, suffocating me. And I can't escape it, can't silence it. Can't shake the helplessness and fear of staring at death.

"You're OK, Nicole, you're fine," Mark's voice finally reaches me.

He's holding me gently, the blanket wrapped around me once again. My breaths are coming in ragged gasps, but my heartbeat is slowing as his soft voice cuts through my panic, takes it's edge and quells it.

But I don't know if it's true. I don't know if I'll ever be fine again.