My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton, and I can't quite get the smell of that damn chemical out of my nose. As I come to, I realize I'm lying on a blanket spread out on the floor in the back of a windowless van. My hands are tied behind my back, my feet are bound, and there's duct tape over my mouth.

Other than that, I'm having a great evening.

I wiggle myself around enough where I can see through the windshield of the van. We're on city streets. And as we pass through a couple of intersections, I can see the street signs with familiar names. We're still in Long Beach. But, where in the hell are we going? Where is he taking me?

Carlyle Hawkins is sitting behind the wheel in the driver's seat. He's focused on the road ahead, not paying attention to me. I feel the van slowing, and then come to a stop. I look up and see that we're at a light.

Not knowing where he's taking me, but knowing he'll kill me once we're there, I do the only thing I can think of – I start to piston my bound feet against the side of the van. I kick the side of the van, trying to create enough noise that if there's anybody – and hopefully there is – sitting next to us at the light, they'll hear me.

“Knock it off, or I'll kill you right now,” he says, his voice like ice. “Besides, there's nobody out there who can hear you. That noise is only annoying me.”

I feel my heart sink into my shoes as fear ratchets up inside of me. I can see his eyes. He's looking at me in the rearview mirror. Those eyes are so cold. So emotionless. So – evil – that it sends a chill colder than anything I've ever felt before, rushing through me. If it were possible to get frostbite from just a glare, I would definitely have it right about now.

I try to speak, but the tape muffles my voice. I've never been more scared than I am right now. I'm practically numb with fear and am managing to keep functioning on pure adrenaline.

When I opened the bathroom door and saw him standing there, with that blank, emotionless look on his face, it scared the hell out of me. But that fear was nothing compared to what’s running wild and unchecked through me now.

He starts the van again, and I can feel every bump in the road below us. I rack my brain, trying to figure a way out of this, but come up empty. It's not like I have a lot of options – I'm bound up like a damn turkey in the back of a van, being chauffeured to my personal execution.

All I can hope is that Brice has people looking for me. Surely, they've noticed I'm missing by now. Somebody knows I'm gone. As I struggled with Carlyle, and before he took me, I made sure to throw my phone down in the bathroom – an obvious clue that something wasn't right. I just hope that somebody has bothered to check the bathroom, find my phone, and do the math.

Please, Brice. Find me. Save me.

I idly wondered if the cops would help. If Brice called them, would they come looking for me? Or, given our ongoing spat, would they look the other way? As we hit a pothole that bounces me up, then slams me back down to the floor of the van, pulling a pained groan from me, an even more chilling, completely unsettling thought occurs to me.

What if, they're not only looking the other way, but given our ongoing feud, they actually put him up to this?

It's an incredible thought. One that I should be able to reject, out of hand. But, after the implied threat the Deputy Chief dropped on me recently, I can't. I can't discount the possibility that they told him they would look the other way if he shut me up.

Paranoid? Maybe. Probably. But, that doesn't mean I'm wrong. Like that old saying goes, just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean they're not out to get you.

My stories have created some serious controversy in the city. People are talking about the serial killer – Carlyle Hawkins, though they don't know that part yet – and it's created a palpable sense of tension and fear. It's also made the police and local politicians the frequent targets of critics, not to mention a tsunami of backlash from the people.

The conversation has been started – an important conversation. People have every right to be informed, no matter how inconvenient the facts may be for certain people. If there is a predator operating in the city being protected by the authorities, either by their own incompetence or something darker, they have every right to know.

The van comes to a stop, and Carlyle shuts the engine off. He looks back at me and gives me a smile that chills me to the bone – one that contains no warmth or humor. It’s cold and reptilian – the sort of smile a snake might flash a rat before consuming it whole.

“Really can't wait to get you out to my place on Catalina,” he says. “I'm gonna have some fun with you before I kill you. You've made life a little difficult on me, so I need to make your death a little difficult on you. It's only fair, right? I'm all about being fair and balanced.”

He gets out of the van and comes around to the back. The cool rush of the night air washes over me, as does the cloying scent of the marina. Carlyle grabs hold of the blanket I'm on and pulls it to him, dragging me along on the blanket like I weigh nothing at all. I struggle and thrash, fighting desperately to break free.

I hear the sharp crack of his flesh meeting mine a moment before I feel the sting in my cheek. My head rocks to the side with the force of the blow. I turn my head and glare at him, the hatred burning in my eyes matching the disgust in my gut.

“Do that again, and it'll be harder next time,” he says.

He wraps me up tight in the blanket, and I feel him sling me over his shoulder. I know if let him get me on that boat, I'm going to die. I struggle, kicking with my feet, trying to flail my arms, but he only tightens his grip on me that much harder.

“Keep struggling,” he says, his voice low and threatening. “You'll only make it harder for yourself at the end. Besides, there is nobody around the marina this time of night, Emma. Nobody is coming to help you. You're alone, and you're mine.”

My heart is beating so hard, I fear it might burst. I feel Hawkins carry me down a ramp, and then hear his shoes thumping hollowly as he carries me down a dock. My mind and emotions are spinning wildly out of control. If he gets me on that boat, I'm dead. But, there's no way I'm going to be able to keep him from getting me on his boat.

Which means, I'm dead. Shit.

This is not how I pictured my end – alone, in a dark room, at the mercy of a serial killer. I've always thought I'd have a long life. Secretly, I hoped that I'd meet a man, fall in love, and start a family. And I always believed that I'd be a celebrated journalist one day. That my work would be powerful and influential for years to come. Is that too much to ask?

Now, I'm just going to be a cautionary tale – if that.

Carlyle sets me down and unwraps me. I look up and find myself staring into his face. He doesn't look angry. He looks calm. Maybe even excited about his plans for me. He almost looks overjoyed, like a child waiting to open a long-awaited birthday present. Which is somehow ten times creepier than if he'd been enraged and out of his mind.

He reaches down and yanks the duct tape off my mouth. I look around and see that I'm in one of the cabins on Carlyle's yacht. It's probably deep in the belly of the ship, which means that I can yell my head off for days, but nobody's going to hear me down here.

The crushing weight of my impending death presses down on me. Making it almost impossible for me to breathe.

“All you had to do was leave me alone,” Carlyle says, sounding like he’s the most reasonable man in the world. “That's all I wanted. To be left alone.”

“You're a fucking murderer,” I hiss.

He shrugs. “We all have our hobbies,” he says. “The point is, none of this had to happen. You didn't have to die like this. You could have gone on and lived a long, happy life. But, you just couldn't leave well enough alone.”

“It doesn't matter,” I say, attempting to project an air of confidence I don't really feel. “My colleagues have all my notes. The story will go on without me. They're going to expose you, Carlyle. They're going to make you pay for the lives you took.”

His laugh is cold and humorless, his expression totally alien. “We'll see,” he says. “It pays to have friends in high places, you know. Friends who perhaps, share some of the same proclivities that I do. Friends who protect me because I'm discreet, and help feed their – habits, and predilections.”

The enormity of what he's saying sinks in, and I stare at him in wonder. Even now, facing my own certain death, I can't stop being the reporter. If what he's saying is true, it's a story that needs to be told. These men in their ivory towers need to be struck down. They need to be exposed for the horrific monsters they are.

This story can't die in the dark. With me.

“Well,” he says. “Shall we get going?”

A hard thump overhead draws our attention. I see a look of mild concern cross his face, which tells me he's not expecting any visitors. It makes a small sliver of hope blossom in my chest. He gives me a long look, as if trying to determine if I somehow used mental telepathy or something to contact somebody to save me.

He stands and without a word – or reason – delivers a vicious backhand. I slump to the side, feeling a small rivulet of blood trickle out of my nose. The pain is making my face throb, but I can't stop the feeling of hope flaring up within me.

Someone is here. Someone is coming to save me.