She wasn’t scared when I tied her hands, but I did see a glimmer of something that resembled fear when I tied her hands to the steering wheel and left her at The Turning Place. Callista was a classy woman, a socialite, an heiress. I could see the disgust on her face as she surveyed the dump where I’d taken her. The way she tried to hide her cringing. She was unaccustomed to filth, but what did she expect? That I’d kidnap her and stick her in a Hilton suite?

As I made the half-hour drive to Northbridge, I couldn’t help but wonder if this plan was getting out of control. There were too many loose ends, too many ways it could all go wrong, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I was a hair’s breadth away from being thrown back in prison for the next decade.

But Cally came up with the entire goddamn plan. Kidnapping had flitted into my consciousness, but she made it real. She wanted this. We had a deal. So why the fuck did my gut roil at the thought of seeing her plan through? If Rayner caught on, or his men got to me before the cops, my fate would likely be worse than death. I couldn’t risk driving the Porsche all the way back to Northbridge. The license plate would get picked up by every traffic cam for twenty miles. They might already be looking for us.

With that thought, I slammed on the brakes, made a sharp right, and headed towards the nearest town, Brockton. I could get my photos developed there and mailed from the next town over, Spring Tree. Ditch the car in Glen County and walk back to The Turning Place if need be. It’d take me five or six hours, but at least I wouldn’t have to add a carjacking to my already mounting list of crimes.

I arrived at Brockton ten minutes later and popped into a small strip mall that had a HourPhoto shop claiming to develop any photos in sixty minutes or less. My kind of place. I went onto their website and uploaded the photos of Cally along with a few other ones of fake gore and a movie set so it wouldn’t seem suspicious. After I completed my order, choosing ‘pay by cash’ at the end, I popped into the drugstore next door and bought a bubble mailer, some stamps, four bottles of water, and some beef jerky. All with Cally’s credit card of course. Thank God for the tap feature.

Had they already noticed that Cally was missing? Even though it had been Cally’s idea to fake the kidnapping, I’d used force on her, and she hadn’t consented to that. If any of this went to trial, it was my word against hers, and there was no way in hell the justice system would let an ex-con and sex offender win.

Thankfully, when I picked up the photos, the man at the counter didn’t comment on them. I paid in cash, shoved the photos of Cally into the bubble mailer, asked to borrow a pen, and scribbled Rayner’s address on the front. It was one I knew by heart. After all, I worked for the man and ran errands for him for so long, it was hard to forget his personal details, even if I wanted to. After slapping a stamp on the top right corner, I tore off the plastic strip on the envelope and pressed on the seal. I thanked the man and headed off to Spring Tree, where, just as planned, I popped the envelope into a mailbox and proceeded to dump the car by a school in Glen County. I’d been careful to only touch the photos, envelope, and ransom note through my sleeve, not that it’d matter much anyway because only I would write a ransom note demanding Rayner turn himself in for the crimes he committed against Orielle. It didn’t really matter; his men were already looking for me anyway. This would only fuel his fire. Which was exactly what I wanted. I needed to confront him, face to face, man to man. Cally was my ticket.

I wiped down Cally’s car with a shirtsleeve and slammed the doors shut. After locking it, I dumped the keys in the knothole of a tree trunk three blocks away. Glen County was filled with retired vets and used to be a hippie commune, so I wasn’t too worried about the Porsche being jacked. But if it did get stolen, I was certain Cally could get her daddy to buy her another one. Besides, that was what insurance was for.

Finally, after what felt like one of the longest days of my life, I began the six-hour walk back to The Turning Place.

By the time the dump came into view, the sun had almost set. I’d passed by a McDonalds about five miles back and had grabbed two Big Mac meals. Mine was mostly gone by the time I returned, and Cally’s meal had gone stone cold. The fries were limper than flaccid dicks, but I figured she had no right to complain.

“I brought dinner,” I called out, walking towards the rusty car. The corrugated metal glinted dully in the sunset, and there seemed to be a new dent on the chassis. But none of that was as worrisome as the realization that Cally was no longer tied to the steering wheel. “Cally?”

I heard before I felt the blunt object strike the side of my head. It was hard and cold and felt like a pipe. I reeled backwards, clutching the injury. Pain showered my skull like fireworks. I heard Cally’s voice.

The sweetest voice in the world said, “Fuck you, Ryder.”

Exhaustion overwhelmed me and I sank to the ground. Driving around all day and then walking fifteen miles back to The Turning Place had taken every ounce of energy I had. By the time I’d returned, I was running on fumes, and no amount of greasy McD calories could make me feel better. I slumped against the beat-up car and dug the heels of my palms against my eye sockets. Black dots danced across my vision, followed by floating white specks.

“You left me tied up in a car, in the middle of summer, with no water, for five fucking hours.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” I groaned, holding up my hands defensively.

“I could’ve died from dehydration! Look at my wrists, Ryder. You did this to me.” Cally shoved her cut-up wrists in my face, but I couldn’t focus on them because my vision was blurry.

All of a sudden, it wasn’t Cally’s voice yelling at me anymore. It was my own, my seventeen-year-old self, crying tearlessly inside The Box, overheated and helpless. Dad had left me at the mercy of the elements, and I’d done the same to Callista. What the fuck had I been thinking? I blinked rapidly, but my eyeballs felt like sandy orbs rubbing against a bone-dry socket. The more I moved them, the more irritated they became. I squinted up at Cally, then down at her bloody wrists. Dark, crusted blood stained her shirt and coated her smooth skin like cracked paint.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled again.

Cally saw the McDonald’s bag lying by my side and my backpack. She rifled through my pack, took out a bottle of water, and nearly downed the entire thing in one gulp. Then she began working on the soggy fries, which were sweating grease in the evening heat. For a while, all I heard was her enthusiastic chewing and occasional slurping as she downed the warm Coke.

“You didn’t leave,” I pointed out after a few minutes. “You cut yourself free. Why didn’t you run?”

“Where would I have gone?” Cally replied, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

“Anywhere but here. You could’ve waved down a car and asked for help.”

“Do you know how dangerous it is to hitchhike out here?” Cally swallowed her food. “Besides, I need answers, and I’m not quitting without them.”

“There’s probably an easier way. You know, instead of working with your father’s enemy.”

“I’m not working with you,” Cally mocked. “I’m using you.”

I wanted to laugh. Here was this leggy, sexy blonde who weighed maybe 150 pounds, with the face of an angel, telling me she was using me.

“Just because your hair is messed up and you’ve got dirt all over your face doesn’t mean you’re suddenly capable of evil.” She was uncorrupted. She’d never seen the shit I did.

Cally swallowed the last of her fries and then smirked. “You were so busy ogling my tits that you didn’t notice me tying your ankles together.”

I looked down and fuck, she was right. She’d managed to find the stack of supplies I’d hidden inside an old tire. Cally balled up the brown McDonald’s bag and tossed it in the trash heap behind her. “Thanks for dinner. Now put your hands together behind your back.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Turning the tables on you,” she declared triumphantly.

I turned onto my front and tried to push myself up, but Cally was faster. She pinned down my lower back with her knee and pulled my right arm behind my back. I arched my back and threw her off. Once she’d gotten back on her feet, she grabbed a roll of duct tape and came back towards me. I wondered if I should try to cut the zip strap or just get away from her as quickly as possible.

Cally tugged at the tape, which let out a loud scrrrpt. “Like you said, Ryder, we’re all alone out here, and we’ll be here for days. Let’s not fight, sweetheart.”

“What’s the point in tying me up? If you get in trouble, I won’t even be able to help you.”

“I want you to feel what it’s like to be trussed up like a suckling pig ready for the spit.”

“I already apologized.”

“Not. Enough.”

I bit down hard on my bottom lip as she grabbed my arms again and wrapped them in three layers of duct tape. Then she tied my wrists together, even tighter than I’d done on her, and finally sank back to catch her breath. “Now sleep in that filthy, stinky car overnight, and I’ll count us as even.”

“You’re stronger than you look,” I said. She dragged me by my bound wrists toward the car, and I helped her by walking backwards so my ass wouldn’t bump along all the nasty syringes littering the ground.

“Took martial arts classes for six years, buddy,” Cally said proudly. “Never underestimate this blonde again.”

Once she’d thrust me into the car, I realized what she was talking about. The polyester seats reeked of urine, old cigarettes, and marijuana. Possibly some other bodily fluids as well, though I didn’t want to think about that. I’d panicked when I put her there. I was just so worried about getting the photos and mailing them off. Now Cally was giving me a taste of my own medicine.

Cally ripped open a packet of beef jerky and popped them in her mouth. “How’s it feel in there?”

“Shitty,” I grumbled. My muscles tensed painfully every time I tried to adjust my position. I could feel veins popping out along the side of my neck and too much blood trapped in my forehead. My neck ached, and I could taste bitter sweat rolling down into my slightly parted mouth. I watched Cally as she plowed through almost the entire package of beef jerky. Saliva flooded against my parched tongue.

“Don’t even think about it. You’re not getting a drop of water or food until noon tomorrow.”

“That’s more than six hours.”

“You’ll be sleeping through the night, which won’t count.”

“I doubt I can sleep like this.”

“Your problem.” Cally curled up against the dingy sofa, used my now flattened backpack as a pillow, and threw a winter coat over herself as a blanket. “Sweet dreams, Ryder.” Despite my vulnerable new position, I still enjoyed the way she said my name. But most importantly, and most intriguing of all, was the fact that she hadn’t run away. She had every reason to leave, but she didn’t. Was it really just because she wanted answers? Or did she actually start caring about me and my plight? About Orielle?