Come the First Snowfall

THE RECEPTION — DAY 0

When I was a child, I often dreamed of dying. Not that I wished for it, mind you. At least not in the literal sense. But more times than I care to recall, I suffered through death’s jagged, bony fingers reaching for me. They would wrap around my arm and pull me under into a vast, bottomless ocean of pitch, reducing my screams to nothing more than a cacophony of muted sounds.

Countless nights, I wished for the world to open its fist and free me from its wretched grip. The walls of my wooden tomb—that fucking wardrobe, to be precise—ceased to exist and instead fell away to darkness.

I had not experienced fear like that in a long time, except in my dreams, where I would pray in anguish for Papa to save me—the very man whose unintentional cruelty forced me into that tomb in the first place.

Now, with my back pressed against the frigid tile wall and my hand over my quivering lips, that ocean of crude oil and misery is rising dangerously high.

This must be a dream. It has to be a dream.

Or perhaps I really am crazy.

Just like Papa.

The faceless man on the opposite side of the metal stall door remains still. Slow, calculated breathing reverberates between the tile walls, sending a tremor through my body.

Papa, please.

A muffled cry pours from my lips when the door shakes in its frame, squeaking on its tortured hinges. The echo hits the stall like a tuning fork as he jerks the handle.

His hand slinks over the top and pulls on the door from above. Fear spikes low in my spine as the lock on my side rattles in its mount, barely hanging on.

Sliding to the floor, I crouch alongside the toilet before pulling my heels off, one at a time, in slow motion so as not to make a sound. If I have to make a run for it, I need speed on my side.

Thoughts of James jab at me, making me curse the distance between the country club and the reception tent at the bottom of the hill out back.

Armed with a heel in hand, I creep on my belly toward the adjacent stall.

James fades in a flash as I’m berated with memories of splintered wood, vibrating walls, and swaying coats. The stall door flings against the wall with a deafening crash, and my throat cinches in panic as I race to gather my legs into the other stall. Rough, angry hands grab my ankles and pull me along the floor, burning my skin as I’m dragged, on my stomach, across the tile. In an eternity that lasts merely a second, I’m right back where I started. My cries are shrill as I claw at the floor with all the strength I have, fighting to escape the clutches of the faceless man, who pulls me to him with such ease that I’m certain he’s more beast than human.

The heel nearly slips from my grip, forcing adrenaline into my veins with every breath, every scream, as I’m dragged into the main part of the restroom.

I pray my screams are loud enough for James to hear.

I twist my body around, flipping onto my back despite his painful grip on my ankles.

That’s when I see him. The man who has stalked the darkest recesses of my mind since I was a child—who proved to me that monsters are, in fact, real.

The man who I know killed Papa, despite the doubts of others.

He’s bulkier than the mere sight of his shoes when I was a child implied. Older, stocky, with thick eyebrows and slick black hair. His face, distorted in fury, turns my blood to ice.

I kick and flail with every ounce of strength I have left, barely finding enough air to scream amid my panicked breaths.

He reaches for the shoe in my hand, but I twist my body away. In response, he lowers himself to a crouch on top of me, locking me in with his legs. I sit upright to meet him and bring the heel straight to his face. With one hard swing, I catch him along the cheek with the point of my stiletto, forming a pronounced gash where it lands. A loud, baritone cry billows from his lips as a trickle of blood seeps from his wound.

The blow he delivers across my cheek is sharp and quick, knocking me backward. The back of my head strikes the floor, and a ringing in my ears consumes all other sounds as my body goes slack.

He shifts above me, straddling me, wrapping a hand around my throat and squeezing hard. My head pounds as his eyes darken, almost black in their cruelty. But they glint with sadistic elation in the fluorescent lighting, as if filled with life.

The heel falls from my hand and lands with a soft thud right before his grip eases and air croaks back into my aching lungs.

But I find no comfort in its release, for another wave of panic ripples through me as I anticipate what comes next. All attempts to scream fail me, my throat and lips numb and hoarse. A sharp wheeze is all I can muster. Tears coat my temples as I peer at the monster watching me.

He’s staring, and his weight is unbearable on my legs. What little sensation they have left is fleeting. Fear sends a quick shiver racing up my spine as I realize my dress has hiked way up during the struggle, exposing me in a way I can’t stomach.

Terrified, powerless, trapped.

With a grin of pure malevolence that makes my skin prickle, he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a syringe, and snatches the cap in his teeth before spitting it onto the floor. Gripping me hard by my throat, he brings his face only inches from mine. His breath is warm and unwanted against my lips, like a kiss of death, incinerating me in my final moments of life.

I claw at the hand that holds my throat prisoner, then scratch at his face as he draws near. His grimace reveals his displeasure and pain, but he makes little effort to stop me. Instead, he grabs me by the hair, yanks my head to the side, and shoves the needle deep into my neck, right below my chin. I wince against the pinch mere seconds before numbness consumes me. My nails skim across his face as my wheezing devolves into moans. My vision tunnels, then fades to black as I unwillingly succumb to its fate.

A fate as cruel as the eyes of the monster who found me at long last.

MAY 28 TH — DAY 1

A harmony of bird squawks penetrates the silence as my head throbs against a cushion. I can’t see them—the seagulls, I presume. My eyelids fail me, anchored down with a drowsiness I’ve never experienced. The left side of my body aches, especially my hip and shoulder. Everything else is horrifyingly numb.

For a moment, I wonder if I’m home—if the man in the red shoes was all some alcohol-induced nightmare and nothing more. Perhaps I’m back at the Seaside Inn, by James’s side, and this has all been another night terror. If only my eyelids would open. But the indisputable heaviness plaguing my body only pushes me deeper into the cushion on which I lie. I wait for James to shake me—to free me of my mental prison as he has before.

His touch never comes.

My eyelids crack a sliver, a hint of light forcing its way into my line of sight. But my uncooperative eyes refuse to open any further.

Maybe if I use my hands to pry them open…

Amid my searing headache, a panic brews heavy inside me as I realize my hands won’t move.

They’re bound behind my back.

Alarmed, I force my eyes open with a jolt.

They land first on a white stone fireplace directly across from me. Then a glass coffee table only a few feet away, then a white fur rug underneath.

I wriggle against my restraints, my movements minimal and inconsequential. The white leather sofa squeaks with each fruitless movement, and a wail forms in my chest. But it’s absorbed into the gag secured around my mouth and comes out as nothing more than a muffled groan.

Feeling creeps back into my legs, and it’s only a matter of minutes before I can feel that my ankles are bound too. My feet prickle awake as blood finds its way back down into my lower extremities.

A door opens somewhere near my head, and rapid footsteps enter the room. A pair of legs, covered in black slacks, rush past me. I crane my head to make out more, but the throbbing weighs me down to the leather couch like a ball and chain.

Get these ties off her. Now, an unfamiliar voice roars nearby.

In an instant, there are multiple sets of hands on me, releasing my binds and freeing my mouth from its moistened gag. The air that fills my lungs is damn near euphoric.

A hand grabs my arm and pulls me to a sitting position, the leather protesting beneath me. Two men, dressed in black suits, make their way off to the side near a large three-paned mirror. Behind them are floor-to-ceiling windows that encompass the back half of the room, providing a panoramic view of nothing but ocean and azure skies.

Before me, now sitting on the coffee table and leaning in close, is a third man. He’s also dressed in a black three-piece suit, with dark hair, a salt-and-peppered shadow of a beard to match, and fine lines creasing the sides of his eyes and across his forehead. A single antique key, brass and weathered, hangs from a string around his neck.

But it all fades in the presence of those scars.

Across the right side of his face, spanning from temple to chin and disrupting that trimmed beard, is mangled, burned flesh.

Almost as conspicuous as those scars are a set of piercing gray eyes, enhanced only by those aged peppering flecks in his hair.

Are you all right? he asks. Can you stand?

I massage my numb wrists, nurturing them back to life while ignoring his questions.

Who are you? My voice is hoarse and raw. Where am I?

Are you all right? he repeats, his tone stern.

My eyes narrow. No, I’m not. Where the hell am I? My cheek aches, a sensation I’m just beginning to realize, and I brush its torn flesh.

The man extends his hand, nearly grazing my battered cheek. But I jerk away from his touch, and my head pounds at the sudden movement. I wince and palm my forehead out of instinct.

He hands me a glass of water and three pills, retrieved from the coffee table beside him. For your head, he murmurs.

I refuse with simply a stare.

Take these, he insists. They’ll help with the pain.

I don’t want anything from you. I wince again. Except to know where the hell I am.

He releases a frustrated sigh. It’s Ibuprofen. Nothing more. If I wanted to drug you, I would have done it already, and I certainly wouldn’t need your cooperation to see it done.

"Drug me again, you mean, I sneer, cocking my head to the side. Why don’t you quit wasting my time and tell me why the hell you brought me here. Wherever here is." My focus darts around the stark white room.

He reaches for my hand, but I yank it away the instant his flesh touches mine. Still, he reaches for it again, gripping it harder this time.

He places the three pills in my palm, then holds out the water glass, waiting for me to take it. The sight of the water consumes me with a thirst that’s eerily reminiscent of those long hours I spent locked in the wardrobe as a child, thrusting me into a battle between pride and unspeakable thirst. As I stare at the tablets, the latter wins. Imprinted on each tablet are the letters IBU.

I pop them into my mouth and swallow with a chug that depletes half the water. His lips twitch in approval.

Finish the water, and we’ll bring you more. You must be parched. The drug we used can have that unfortunate effect. It also doesn’t last long, and it was a bit of a journey to get you here, so we needed multiple doses⁠—

My eyes widen in horror. What in God’s name did you inject me with?

He tips his head toward the glass in my hand. Drink, poca Neve. Then we’ll talk.

His words are strange, and I can’t place the language. Nonetheless, my brow furrows with irritation more so than confusion. This fucking prick drugs me, refuses to tell me a damn thing, then barks orders at me like I’m a child?

I stand on wobbly feet, the squeaking leather grating on my nerves. My bridesmaid dress is a wrinkled mess, one of the straps torn and dangling against my back.

The man stands from the coffee table, only an arm’s length in front of me.

I don’t owe him a goddamn thing.

Least of all my cooperation.

Meeting his gaze, I tilt the water glass, spilling its contents onto the floor at our feet. When it’s empty, I let it fall, and it lands with a quiet thud on the fur rug.

Fuck you, I say.

His stoicism holds firm. Quite the defiant one, aren’t we?

I think you mean pissed off.

I never meant for you to get hurt. I realize you may find that hard to believe⁠—

You’re damn right, I cut in.

But you’re safe now, Neve. Safer here than anywhere else on Earth. Now tell me, who did this to you? He gestures to my torn cheek.

I squint at him, confused. Like you don’t know.

I don’t. That’s why I’m asking. His voice is slick with concern.

"You mean commanding," I correct him. He releases a long, exasperated sigh as he runs his hand through his kempt hair. Folding his arms across his chest, he merely waits for me to respond.

After several seconds of awkward silence, I comply with a whisper. It was that ape of a man who I assume works for you. The one with the clicking red shoes. I look down at the floor, despising the mere mention of the monster.

He struck you? the man asks with a tight grimace.

Please spare me the concern, I reply, exhausted.

The mangled flesh on the side of his face grows pink with agitation.

He looks past me and motions with his head to something or someone behind me. Less than a second later, my stomach lurches at that horrific yet familiar sound:

Click…

Click…

Click…

With only a few sickening clicks against the floor, the man in the red shoes emerges from behind me and into my field of view. Still clothed in a black shirt and slacks, the clicks silence as he stops near the end of the sofa, facing us.

Come join her, please. The scarred man beckons, motioning next to me.

W-Wait, what? My mouth falls agape in horror. Don’t⁠—

It’s all right. He holds a hand up to silence me. I told you you’re safe here, and I meant it.

Bullshit.

Come, he barks at the man in the red shoes.

He approaches, his steps silenced by the rug, of which I find no relief. His very presence is far worse than those fucking shoes torturing me with their clicks.

Your piece, the scarred man commands, holding out his hand. The man in the red loafers reaches into the back of his waistband, retrieves a black handgun, and hands it over.

On your knees, he orders.

The other man hesitates, his glance shooting in my direction, then back to the scarred man. After several tremulous moments, he sinks to his knees in silence.

The man flips the gun, holding it by the long part. His eyes glimmer as he bounces it in his hands. My stomach’s ready to lurch as I look frantically around the room. Both men are between me and the door.

I debate the number of paces it would take to reach it. Are there more men outside? Would I be able to reach the front entrance before someone catches me? I don’t even know where the front door is. All I know of my prison is this white room.

My thoughts are cut short when a loud smack fills the room: the sound of metal against flesh as the scarred man brings the grip of the pistol hard against the other man’s face. A gash appears in his cheek, blood spilling from the open wound.

I scream into my palm as the scarred man raises the handgun again and brings it against the man’s face with another blow. Blood spatters from his nose, striking my feet as he buckles from the blow.

The gun strikes a third time on the same spot as before, streaking his cheek with a deep crimson and covering it in spatter. He never protests. The scarred man releases a heavy breath and hands the bloody pistol back to its owner.

You may stand, he commands, waving him up. My breath hitches as the other man reclaims his footing and wipes at the mess, further smearing it across his cheek.

I told you she was not to be harmed, and I meant it, the scarred man growls, then nods toward the door, beckoning him to leave. The clicking of his shoes fades as he disappears down the hall.

Why did you do that? I ask, my eyes wide with shock.

He disobeyed an order. He knew the consequences.

My heart’s racing. I don’t understand. W-Who are you?

Three sharp knocks thunder against the door.

Come in.

A small-framed man with black hair tied back into a ponytail and a dark, trimmed beard hurries into the room. Sir, we have a situation with our analyst, he says with a panic-stricken expression, ignoring me entirely.

What do you mean?

I mean, we have enough DNA for him to pull up a full profile, and certainly enough to do a comparison, but he’s now refusing to analyze the data unless we pay him more money.

How much? the scarred man scathes.

Triple the arrangement.

The man has a death wish, I take it? His lips twitch but soon go placid.

Unless he fancies himself invincible, the man in the ponytail replies.

Invincible.

My father once told me that facing your fears was the closest you would ever get to being invincible.

My jaw slacks. I know his voice. I recognize his face.

Wait, I say to the man in the ponytail. "I know you."

He gives me a side-eye, barely acknowledging that I’ve spoken. I step toward him, desperate to force his attention in my direction. But the scarred man steps between us.

Careful. You’ve only just woken, and you’re still not well.

This man—I point an eager finger at the man with the ponytail—was at Krelborn Manor. He’s the one who locked my cuffs and then left me in a locked closet. What’s he doing here? I growl.

You must be mistaken, miss, the ponytailed man states dismissively. I’ve never seen you before in my life.

"Bullshit. You think I would so easily forget the face of a man who locked me in some dark room, leading to one of the worst panic attacks I’ve ever had?" My body shakes all over again, this time from pure, unadulterated anger.

Have a seat, Neve, the man with the scars orders.

No. Fuck you. Get out of my way.

He stares down at me, his large frame dwarfing mine.

Move, I demand. But he doesn’t budge.

Rage boils inside me. My head throbs, my heart’s pounding, and beneath it all, I’m fucking terrified.

Before I have the chance to rationalize a plan, driven by an uncontrollable need to be free of those dark eyes and this feeling of being trapped, I react. I spin my snowflake ring around, then bring my palm hard against the scarred man’s face. But right before my hand makes impact, he catches my wrist and wrenches it hard. A sharp pain cuts straight through it, and I wince in agony. His gray eyes blaze like a plume of smoke billowing high above a forest fire. Fear supersedes my anger as I’m unable to anticipate his next move and desperate for him to release my hand.

And my gaze.

I await his wrath—a blow to my face, a shout in my ear. Something.

Instead, he remains quiet, his expression and demeanor calm. Too calm. His lack of movement makes my anxiety crest to an all-time high.

He lowers my striking hand and holds it in front of him. His gaze lowers to my ring, a single snowflake with a blue gem in the center, upside down on my middle finger. He runs his thumb over it, spinning it back around so it’s properly seated.

This would have done some damage if you’d managed to land that blow, he says. Did you spin it around just for me? Or do you always wear your rings the wrong way?

I wrench my hand back and leer at him.

His eyes bounce between mine, as if searching them for something beyond their edges. For what, I have no idea. Despite the pain in my head, my aching wrists, and the fact that I’ve been abducted by a man with grotesque scars, I cannot look away from his gaze. I’m locked in. It terrifies and mesmerizes me all at the same time.

Forget the DNA analyst, the scarred man says, his eyes still peering into mine.

What? the man in the ponytail replies. What the hell for? We need⁠—

No. We don’t. Not anymore. He looks at my ring once again, and the sudden vulnerability makes me cover it immediately. It’s her.

But don’t you want to be certain? the other man asks, his brow furrowed with confusion.

I am. I’ve never been more certain about anything. Fear tears through me as he repeats the words, It’s her.

I shake my head, goose bumps plaguing my flesh as a chill jolts my spine. He must be mistaken. Surely, he has the wrong person.

Send Maria in here to escort her to her room, he commands.

Wait, wha— I begin, my eyes wide with horror.

And send One Tap in here asap, he says, ignoring me.

He’s still on the Cape with your detail of men there. It’ll be hours before he can get here.

He was never supposed to remain on the Cape, he grumbles with frustration. "Send for him now."

Right away. The man hurries from the room.

Listen, I begin, my heart racing a mile a minute. I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m telling you, whoever you think I am, you have the wrong person. I’m desperate. I’d fall to my knees and beg if that’s what it took.

Is that so? the scarred man asks, as if amused. And what makes you so certain?

A shocked exhale forces its way past my lips. "Because I have no idea who any of you are. Because I’ve never seen this place before in my life. Because…" I trail off. How do I convince him he has the wrong person when I don’t know who I’m being mistaken for?

I avert my gaze. Because I’m no one. I’m of no importance, and I never have been. If you’re kidnapping me for some sort of ransom, you’ll be hard-pressed to find anyone who would pay it. I’m nobody, don’t you get it? Tears of desperation pinch my throat.

The door opens and light footsteps approach. But my eyes are caught in his gray hurricane.

You asked for me, sir? a soft, feminine voice inquires.

Yes. Please escort Miss Neve to her room.

Certainly. The woman steps to his side and into my field of view. She’s older, with stern eyes and graying hair tied back into a tight bun.

"Neve? Why do you keep calling me⁠—"

And please give her anything she requires, he continues. The woman motions for me to follow her.

I’m telling you. You have the wrong person, I plead. But he continues to ignore me. Maria’s gentle hand presses on my lower back as she guides me toward the door. Exhausted, confused, and defeated, I comply.

Oh, Neve, he calls out as Maria and I reach the threshold, giving us pause. He takes several steps in our direction and locks eyes with mine. "Understand this. You’ve never been a nobody. Never. The storm in his gaze is far from subsiding. It’s precisely the reason I’ve brought you here. Beneath the weight of his stare, I shift with discomfort. And I don’t want to hear you refer to yourself in that way ever again. Capisce?"

Capisce.

Thoughts of Jenna come rushing in. She must be terrified, scrambling to make sense of my sudden disappearance. A coil of guilt takes root knowing that her big day was hijacked by the monster who’s haunted me for so long.

It’s all my fault.

But they must have the wrong person. This is a huge mistake.

Wait, did they hurt Jenna?

Fear strikes me broadside as I try to recall the last moments before everything went black. For the first time, I realize I have no idea if the man in the red shoes took or harmed anyone else last night.

Was James with her? Are they trying to find me? Christ, Jenna. I’m so sorry.

I have no words. Only a crippling concern for the only two people in my life who matter: Jenna and James.

Maria presses her hand against the small of my back once again, attempting to lead me from the room. But before I take a single step, the scarred man calls out to me once more.

And one more thing.

I turn to face him, my eyelids heavy with exhaustion.

Welcome home, Neve.

Her hair strikes a familiar chord first: the gray intermixed with more youthful black tones and tied back into that tight bun that rests low on her neck.

When I realize I’ve seen the woman before, it all rushes in like a windstorm of clarity and utter confusion.

I’ve met you before, I say to her as she escorts me to my room.

Right this way, miss, she replies, her breathing labored as we traverse yet another flight of stairs.

You were at Krelborn Manor, too, weren’t you? You and that man with the ponytail. I follow closely behind her. You were the one who asked me to select a room—who told me my presence was requested downstairs at the start of the evening. Tightened lungs afford me only the shallowest of breaths. Whether it’s from all the stairs or from the uncertainty of everything going on, I can’t be sure.

She ignores me as we reach the top landing, opting instead to motion me forward with a quick wave of her hand. Follow me.

I keep up as we make our way down a long corridor filled with sunlight from the span of windows on our left. The manor is vastly different from Krelborn. In place of mahogany wood and hallways lit only by flickering lantern light, this place is modern and bright, full of windows covered by sheer, billowing curtains. The white marble floors, interspersed with veins of silver and gray, chill my bare feet as I obey her commands to follow.

With each ocean breeze, the curtains flounce as we pass by.

This here is your room, miss, the woman says after we make a right turn at the end of the corridor. My heart races, uncertain of what prison awaits me on the other side of the looming door.

It opens with creaking hinges, revealing a room of unquestionable beauty. A large bed against the wall to the right is adorned with white-and-blue linens, topped with a plethora of arranged pillows. The headboard appears to be a patchwork of reclaimed wood, giving the room a sophisticated yet quaint energy.

Against the opposite wall is a fireplace of jagged light-gray stone that spans all the way to the ceiling. A bank of windows along the far wall fills the room with daylight, illuminating the blue chaise that faces the balcony door.

Through here, the woman begins, motioning toward a closed door near the bed, is your closet. There isn’t much inside, but you should find a few things that may fit until your things arrive.

My attention diverts to her. "Wait, what do you mean, my things?"

There are several men who’ll be gathering your belongings to have them shipped here, she proclaims. They’re probably there now.

Hold on, I snap. You’re saying there are people in my apartment right now, as we speak? How do any of you people even know where I live? I swallow a nervous gulp.

"I don’t believe they’re in your home, miss. They’re in your room at the Seaside Inn on the Cape."

My room? I shake my head. But…James will be there. Jenna. The whole damn wedding party. There are people who will be looking for me. At least, I sure as hell hope they are. If the men you speak of see them… My voice trails off as I realize the danger James and Jenna and everyone else may be in simply by being there.

You need to rest, miss. You’re visibly exhausted⁠—

I need to get the hell out of here. Please. I need your help. I bite down on my bottom lip and wince at the sharp pain that follows.

She ignores my pleas and looks away.

Well, if you aren’t going to help me get out of here, my tone deepens, will you at least convince the man of the house—I don’t know his name—to forget about getting my things? I don’t need them. Just please tell him to keep his people away from the Inn. Away from my friends. Can you do that, at least? Please.

She takes a step toward me, a sudden wave of what I perceive as concern crossing her face. I’ll see what I can do. On one condition.

Name it. Anything, I choke.

You remain in here until you’ve had some rest. You get yourself cleaned up. You dine with Mr. Moretti when he calls on you. You do as you’re told. Understood? The brashness of her voice catches me off guard.

I wrap my arms around myself, clutching at my elbows to ward off a chill that sends goose bumps skirting across my flesh. I give her a nod of compliance before she heads for the door.

She pauses at the threshold. Your washroom is just through there, she says, motioning toward a door between the fireplace and the nearest corner. In there, you’ll find fresh towels and toiletries. Please, make yourself comfortable.

A simple nod is all she gives me before opening the bedroom door.

And behave, she mutters as she disappears into the hall.

A gentle knock on the door forces my sleepy eyes open. The padding of footsteps entering my room follows close behind. Panic hits me broadside at the sound of the unwanted stranger, and I roll over to see who has entered without invitation.

Dinner will be served in the dining room in about thirty minutes, Maria says.

I’m not hungry, I whisper.

It wasn’t a request.

My head is no longer pounding as I sit upright, but I’m groggy and yearn to lie back down all the same. Do you intend to hold me down and force food into my mouth? I ask, squinting at her.

I reminded the boss that he was risking discretion by sending his men to the Inn, she boasts. I upheld my end of the agreement. Now you must do the same and do as you’re told.

I fling the covers aside in a silent forfeit and hop off the bed. Crossing over to the bathroom, I straighten my tattered bridesmaid dress, then pause. Did he agree?

Agree?

To call off the search? Are my friends okay? James, Jenna…?

Perhaps you may ask him yourself when you join him downstairs. I’ll be back to escort you in half an hour.

With only a few shuffles of her feet, she’s gone.

The chill of the gray stone attacks my feet as I doff the bridesmaid dress and let it slip to the bathroom floor. My body aches, fear and tension causing every muscle to tighten in a vise grip as I wait impatiently for the water to become more temperate. The heat against my ragged skin once I step inside is, in a word, euphoric. With each passing second, I wash away the makeup that covers the bite mark on the back of my shoulder, as well as the other old bruises I bear, exposing James’s lustful prowess across my body. But it does nothing to purge the new wounds. Despite it clearing away the gore on my torn cheek, the remnants of the red-shoe man’s skin and blood under my fingernails, and the unwanted touch of the scarred man, the wounds are ever present. My wrists ache from my recent binds—bruises fresh on the horizon—and my throat and cheek sting from the monster’s attempts to force me into submission.

The last of James’s marks will soon be gone, trepidation turning my insides to ice as I fear their loss as if they were James himself. I don’t have my phone. I don’t have access to any photographs we took over the last week. I have nothing tangible left of him. Just a bite mark on my shoulder that’s sure to leave some semblance of a scar, and bruises that will disappear completely in a matter of days.

I’ve never been so relieved to be scarred by another. I can’t bear the thought that the deepest kiss I’ve ever received will possibly leave me someday.

Tears well, but I stave them off, bracing myself against the tile wall with outstretched arms and leaning into the stream.

Is James looking for me? Did he see what happened? Did he see who did this…?

Or does he think I left him?

Shit.

I swallow hard at the ravenous thoughts that pierce my mind. Oh God, please don’t let James think I left him intentionally. The very idea grows like cancer until my knees buckle and I collapse to the shower floor.

I weep. Harder than ever before. And for the first time in my life, I refuse to be silent about it. My wails are animalistic, shattering me to pieces like a ship ravaged by a gale-force storm.

I want the oily pitch of my nightmares to seep out of the drain and rise until I’m drowning in my own darkness. I wish for it. I beg for it.

Papa, please.

"The monsters are here, baby bird. And they’re coming for you. Now hide. And don’t make a sound, no matter what. Don’t let them find you."

I’m shaking like a brittle leaf, the water bouncing off the curve of my back as I hold my knees tight against my chest. They’ve found me, Papa. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how. I don’t know where I went wrong. I did everything you told me to. But somehow, I let the monsters get me.

Ragged breaths tumble from my throat as I clutch my soaked hair. Tears coalesce with the shower stream as I wait for the oily sludge to seep in and claim me once and for all.

As I anticipated, it finally calls for me, just as it did all those years ago. The darkness seduces me while it robs me of air and sanity as the hours tick by in my wooden tomb, making me more thirsty, more panicked.

More stark-raving mad.

Exactly as it is now.

The pounding of water against the tile silences as my vision narrows. Soon, the only sound is the beating of my heart against my eardrums. I can barely see the opposite shower wall, the steam is so thick. Closing in on me. Suffocating me. Just like those fucking wardrobe walls.

They don’t know where I am, Papa. No one does. I’m sorry it was all for nothing. Your death. It was…all…for…

My eyes flutter closed, and everything goes black.

Black as pitch.

And the thumping of my heartbeat fades to an impenetrable silence.

A faint knocking sounds in the distance. So far away, in fact, I’m sure it’s in my own head. Moments later, I’m enveloped in a soft warmth, the comfort undeniable. But it’s taken from me all too soon, replaced with small slaps on my cheeks. Mild at first, then sharper, until my eyelids part and I’m greeted with the face of the woman with silver hair. Her voice emerges to the forefront of my hearing. In an instant, it’s all I can hear aside from the mild buzzing in my head.

You’ve fainted, miss. Let’s get you up off the floor. She reaches underneath me and pulls, and I grab on to her arms for support. My legs wobble as she escorts me from the shower stall and into the bedroom. I hold the towel closed around me with one hand as she guides my other arm and plops me down on the chaise.

You mustn’t turn the hot water up so high. Especially on an empty stomach. When’s the last time you ate? she scolds through pursed lips.

I’m exhausted in every sense of the word; my mind is a whirlwind of confusion and fear, and every square inch of my body is suffering the brunt of it. But despite my compromised position, I can’t ignore the audacity of her question—of what actually sounds more like an accusation.

 Well, let’s see. I ate a meal and a few bites of cake at the reception last night. I furrow my brow and glance toward the ceiling in a show of sardonicism. "Or, I guess, I’m assuming it was last night. I’m not sure what day it is, to be perfectly honest, because, well, oh yeah, that’s right. I was drugged and kidnapped and taken to this fucking place. I gesture wildly with my hands. So forgive me if I’m a bit malnourished, a bit exhausted, and a lot fucking confused."

Her shoulders straighten. Dry yourself off. Get dressed. I’ll be waiting for you in the hall. She marches for the door and disappears from the room.

The closet is a small walk-in, sparse save for a handful of slip dresses on hangers, plain T-shirts and simple drawstring shorts folded on a single shelf, and a drawer of panties underneath. No bras. No shoes. At least none that I can find. All the other closet drawers are empty.

I wasn’t wearing a bra underneath the bridesmaid dress, and my stomach knots at the idea of having to be around him without one.

Thank God for my small chest.

I grab the navy-blue slip dress at random, drop the towel to the floor, and slip it over my head. It falls into place on its own, the fabric soft against my damp skin. My hair clings to my back and shoulders, wetting the dress’s thin straps.

After dabbing my hair and donning a pair of fresh panties, I return the towel to the bathroom, where my disheveled bridesmaid dress lies in a ball on the floor. I scoop it up, carry it to the bed, and tuck it underneath the mattress. I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to it. It’s the last thing I have of James—of Jenna.

Of my life before today.

Once I’m confident it’s out of sight, I make my way out into the hall, where the silver-haired woman waits for me with a pinched, impatient face.

Follow me, she says, turning her back before receiving a response.

I oblige.

And follow her to where the scarred man waits.

When I follow Maria through the parted French doors and into the dining room, he doesn’t stir. He doesn’t motion for me to enter. He doesn’t greet me. He merely watches from the head of the table as I scan the room and take in my surroundings.

A coffee bar of whitewashed wood sits beneath a bank of large windows to my left, filling the space with evening light and emphasizing the collection of seaside paintings that encircle the room. Bursting with platters of food from one end to another, the long wooden table awaits far more guests than me alone—six, based on the number of chairs present. A cool, salty breeze fills the space, making the red centerpiece roses shift and the napkins squirm from alongside the two place settings.

Sit, Maria instructs, gesturing toward the vacant setting across from the scarred man.

I make no effort to obey.

We had an agreement, she reminds me with a pointed look. I did as you asked. Now it’s your turn to behave.

And how do I know you actually said anything? I ask her, my eyes narrowing with defiance. How do I know any of my friends are okay?

Your friends have not been harmed, the man interjects, making my heart skip a beat as his baritone voice cuts through the room. Now, sit, Neve. Maria does not lie.

Rage rumbles inside my chest at the audacity of these fuckers. But before I can turn back around to Maria to remind her where she can take her next behave remark and shove it, she has already left the room with a silent swiftness that catches me off guard.

The scarred man stands and motions to the empty seat across from him. Please. Have a seat. You must be famished. As if triggered by his very words, my stomach grumbles with hungry displeasure.

I sit despite my irritation. The small feast that spans the length of the table twists and tortures my stomach further. I avert my gaze anywhere other than the food, which I have no intention of eating.

No need to await my permission to eat, he says, his eyes bouncing between me and the plate of food in front of me.

I’m not hungry, I say, pushing it away and looking toward the open windows. I wonder how fast I could jump out of them. I’m slowly starting to learn the layout of this place, and I know we’re currently on the ground floor. The edge of freedom seems so near. Perhaps it’s all ocean on this side of the house and I would plummet into a watery abyss. Maybe he’ll catch me right as I reach the windows, and who knows what awaits me after?

I find that very hard to believe. It’s been nearly a day since you’ve eaten anything.

My attention follows his stern voice. So, you’re saying today is Sunday the 28th? The day after the wedding?

Yes, he replies. You’ve been here since very early this morning. When you first arrived, I figured sleep was the most important thing for you. But now I really wish you would eat something. He takes a quick bite of his food and dabs the corner of his mouth with the napkin pulled from his lap.

Unless you have something wrapped and untouched, I have no intention of eating anything you offer me. Just so we’re clear, I snap.

His face remains static. You seem so convinced that I’ve brought you here to merely drug you with every opportunity. He sips from his drinking glass.

Can you honestly blame me?

I suppose not. The levelness of his tone fills me with suspicion. Tell me what you need to feel more at home here, Neve. I want you to feel like you can trust me.

I chuckle at the brashness of his presumptions and begin drumming my fingers on the table alongside my cutlery. "Well, first off, you can start by telling me why you keep calling me Neve."

Because it’s your name, he responds without missing a beat.

"It’s not my name. My name is Evie. I told you, you have the wrong⁠—"

That’s not your name, he lashes, sending a shiver down my spine. "Evie is the name he gave you." He drops his fork to his plate with a loud clank.

My mind whirls with confusion. "What on earth are you talking about? Who’s he?"

The man who took you, he replies, pressing steepled fingers together on propped elbows.

"The man who took me? You mean you?" My tone is sharp with irritation as I point in his direction.

He taps his fingers together and looks away. No, Neve, I don’t mean me, he growls, his scars now flush with a pink hue. I didn’t steal you. You’re not my prisoner. Don’t you understand? I brought you home.

My stomach plummets into a darkness that rivals my night terrors. No. I don’t get it. I bring my hand to my forehead even though my headache is long gone. "I’ve never been here before in my life. I’ve never seen you before in my life. This isn’t my home. I was born and raised in Seattle. Unless you’ve brought me back to Seattle while I was drugged? I look around, confused as ever. I mean, honestly, I have absolutely no idea where I am." Shit. Another headache is brewing behind my temples.

You’re not in Seattle. And that’s not where you were born.

My mind spins, the weightlessness of my body making me nauseous. I don’t understa⁠—

One Tap is here to see you, sir. Just as you requested, the man with the ponytail says behind me, appearing near my right shoulder. What’s his name? Jenna mentioned it once. Marco? I can’t be sure.

Please send him in, the scarred man instructs.

He disappears as silently as he arrived.

A flock of seagulls swoops low outside the window, casting a series of agile shadows across the dining table, temporarily blocking out the sun.

The footsteps that appear behind me are brisk and purposeful, growing louder as they enter. My vision narrows on the plate of unwanted food that sits in front of me, calling out to my voracious appetite with unnecessary cruelty.

You asked for me, Boss? a deep voice calls out, also painfully familiar.

Yes. I have another job for you. The scarred man reaches for the dossier alongside his plate and holds it out.

As the man crosses into my line of sight, all the air rushes from my lungs with a crushing blow.

No.

The DNA analyst has chosen to make an enemy of me, the scarred man continues. All the information you need is here.

It can’t be.

I’ll take care of it immediately, he replies, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

Ashton.

Wrath swells inside me and bursts open like a flooded dam, nausea following close behind at the memories of his unwanted touch on game night. The ringing in my ears dilutes all sounds into an indistinguishable mess, like muffled screams underwater. I no longer exist in my own body.

You son of a bitch, I bite as Ashton passes me and heads for the door. I scoot my chair away with a deafening screech, my neck and ears aflame. What have you done?

Neve, the scarred man calls out, but I ignore him and rush after Ashton as he heads down the foyer toward the front door.

Answer me, you son of a bitch, I shout, hot on his heels. But he ignores me as he passes through the vestibule’s double doors and makes his way to the front steps.

The early evening sun is blinding from its low position in the sky. I shield my eyes from the sudden attack of garish light, losing sight of him for a moment. My eyes refocus on a black Bentley that waits in the cobblestone driveway. Ashton reaches for the rear door handle.

Ashton, goddammit. Stop. I yank him around to face me with a firm grip on his shoulder. Two sets of rapid footsteps approach from behind, but he holds up a hand and they fall silent.

I look over my shoulder and find two men, dressed all in black and armed with large guns, standing behind me. Racing to catch up to Ashton made me miss sight of them entirely. They back away and reclaim their posts alongside the front entrance at his subtle, silent nod.

He finally meets my gaze. What do you want, Neve?

A large pit envelops my stomach at the use of my false name.

That’s not my name, and you know it. What are you playing at? Do you think this is some sort of game? Did you do this? Did you tell that man where to find me?

He shakes his head and holds up a hand to silence me. That man?

The man with the red shoes? Are you the one who told him where to find me? At the wedding? Am I here because of you?

His lips twitch into a sardonic smirk. "Oh, you mean Click?"

Click?

Yeah, that’s what we call him around here, on account of those clicking shoes he insists on wearing. He snickers, forcing my rage to reach atomic levels. I didn’t send him to you, if that’s what you’re asking. His eyes narrow on me. Don’t worry, sweetheart. You aren’t here because of me. Not that I did much to stop it.

You really are a piece of shit, you know that? Where’s James? Did you do something to him too?

Hmm. Where could James be…? He looks up at the sky, searching around in false wonderment.

"Fuck you." The words spew forth like venom on my tongue.

Tsk, tsk, tsk…now, now, Neve. What on earth would that knuckle-dragging boyfriend of yours say if he knew you were saying such lewd things to me?

My entire body shakes with anger.

If you’ve hurt him, I swear to God, I’ll⁠—

You’ll what? Your idle threats don’t scare me, sweetheart. Just be thankful you’re free of that prick once and for all. He flings the car door open but pauses before climbing inside. Enjoy your new digs. He nods toward the lavish estate behind me and then disappears inside the Bentley. It peels off after he closes the door, leaving me behind in the driveway, enveloped in the golden rays of the setting sun.

My pulse has elevated to the point that my ears are screaming for mercy. More than once, I try to swallow back the lump lodged in my throat to no avail.

Before me stands a vast circular driveway of gray cobblestone. Just beyond are woods in all directions. Clearly, the ocean is to the back of the house. Who knows how far those woods go? Is there a fence along the perimeter? Could I scale it if there is one?

The armed guards behind me shift, and I can feel them approaching.

It’s now or never.

Neve, come back inside, a stern voice calls from the doorway.

Ignoring his command, I take a small step to the left, shielding my eyes from the sun as I examine the tree line. It seems so within reach, but I have no idea what lies beyond. Freedom? Hopefully. Death? Perhaps. All I know is, I can’t stay here any longer. The scarred man has no intention of freeing me, that much is clear. And it’s highly likely that no one knows where I am.

I’m lost all over again.

And this time, I may never be found.

With all forethought obliterated and my adrenaline stripping me of fear and consequence, I run as fast as my bare feet can carry me toward the tree line to my left. My dress dances around my thighs as I race along the perimeter of the driveway and into the woods. I don’t hear footsteps behind me, but I also don’t make a conscious effort to listen. All I can hear is the thrumming of my heartbeat blasting my ears and my labored breaths that tear my lungs to shreds.

The detritus is rough against my feet, and the woods are dense and filled with shadows in the fading light. Despite having endured similar conditions only a week ago as I fled from a man eager to indulge his most primal urges, running through these woods terrifies me in a way I can only equate to fighting for one final breath before I drown. I secretly wanted James to catch me then—to claim me in the pouring rain as the forest looked on. But now, being caught may very well cost me my life. The dread the notion bestows upon me makes me damn near weightless, and the ache in my lungs disappears as adrenaline gives me new life.

I dodge one tree after the other, left, then right, then right again, desperate for some reprieve in the form of a road, a house, a trail, or any signs of human life. But there’s nothing.

No one.

Not a soul.

No one to save me.

A small animal scurries under a bush to my right just as a sharp twig digs into my heel. The warmth of the blood that seeps from my open wound gives little distraction amid the pain that follows. I stagger for several steps but quickly regain my momentum.

Several sharp snaps sound behind me as the foliage is crushed beneath pounding feet. Soon, I’m aware of panting breaths in the distance. Fallen leaves and dirt stick to my open wound as I race ahead, swatting at low-hanging branches. One catches me across the cheek, splitting the flesh open across my already-compromised cheekbone. I brush it with the back of my hand, leaving a small streak of blood in its wake.

My desperate, directionless escape lands me on my ass as the ground declines into a shallow ravine and my feet give way to the landslide of fallen leaves. They crunch beneath my bare bottom and cling to my dress as it twists around me and exposes far too much of my body.

With a muted slap, I slide into the ravine, which is nothing more than a pit of mud and water. My feet and legs are covered in filth, and the cut on my foot is screaming. After a string of muttered curse words, I manage to squirm onto my knees and crawl onto the opposite bank.

I right my dress and crane my neck to peer behind me for a second.

No one.

I listen for the sounds of snapping twigs and crunching leaves.

Nothing.

My lungs fill to capacity with the first deep breath I’ve given them since taking off from the driveway. A burst of energy courses through my veins, my vision narrowing in on every little forest detail as I run further into the green inferno. Moss on the trees, birds flitting on a nearby perch, the stillness of the air as the breeze fails to penetrate the forest walls. It all blends together into a blur of bark and foliage.

Until I see an opening in the trees up ahead. Not a meadow. Certainly not like the clearing in which I succumbed to visions of my father as we twirled together in the rain. This break in the trees is occluded by something looming. Something massive.

Something man made.

A wave of hope shocks me back to life as I force my legs to carry me a bit further. I pray for the presence of a person, just one person, who can be there—somewhere—to help me get to a phone, a car, anything.

The looming object draws near as I close the gap.

I can’t make sense of it, even when I’m only feet away. Stopping dead in my tracks, I gaze high above me at the pruned hedge line. It spans into an indistinguishable distance in both directions, coming together at a ninety-degree angle right in front of me. My lungs burn with fatigue, and the stitch in my side lances me with an unforgiving blade. The arm I wrap around myself provides little comfort.

There don’t appear to be any breaks in the hedge line. It’s a solid behemoth of a trimmed brush that provides no escape as I desperately peer down both sides.

The woods are dense and foreboding and growing darker by the minute as the sun falls below the tree line. Just as the forest is enveloped in darkness, a spotlight off in the distance turns on, illuminating the entire area and forcing my gaze straight toward the garish light.

I fall to my knees, my heart thundering with torrential fervor.

Oh my God. A chill grabs hold of me as I realize exactly where I am.

Right as a pair of violent hands reach for me, yanking me to my feet.

Before me, clear as the spotlight that pierces the rising nightfall, stands the backside of a hedge maze.

The hedge maze.

It’s Krelborn Manor.

A defeated cry escapes my lips as a man, panting and cursing under his breath, yanks me toward him by the crook of my elbow. My head swims as it catches up to the situation and registers that I’ve been recaptured—that I’m trapped on an island, and no one knows where I am.

Surrounded by the ocean.

Nowhere to run.

Nowhere to hide.

Once my paradise, now my prison.

I’m back on Eden’s Green.