Where am I?

Where am I where am I where am I? The question kept repeating itself over and over, trying to fire up her anxiety, to get her to act. She was fully aware that she was in serious trouble—she had been bloodnapped, her worst nightmare—but her mind calmly told her there was no reason to lose her shit, because she had a surgically implanted tracking unit. She hadn’t had a chance to activate it, okay, but her mother had been on the phone with her when it all went down. Her mother would have called the police, and the people there would track her. All she had to do was wait for the police to arrive. They were probably already on their way here—maybe were already here, about to—

The door opened.

She heard footsteps.

Someone was coming for her.

The police. Thank God. She turned her head slightly.

The man standing next to her mattress could have easily been a cop—he was a big tattooed guy—but he wasn’t dressed like one. He wore workout shorts, and his tank top, stretched across a chest swollen and rippled with muscle, was drenched in sweat. He was barefoot and had pale skin, and he left the door open.

He sat down in front of her and crossed his legs. Grace, lying on her side and curled in the fetal position underneath the blanket, could see his tattoos clearly now—the noose around his neck and, on his massive left arm, the gingerbread man with a knife clamped between its fanglike teeth. He had more tattoos along his arms, these colorful, bizarre-looking skulls with jeweled eyes and teeth.

The combination of tattoos and his pale skin made him look like a clown—a big, handsome, but mean clown. He had to be mean, and dangerous, to carry off tattoos like that.

And yet she didn’t feel any anxiety or fear or terror. Those things were there in her mind, absolutely, but she couldn’t feel them. She was fully and completely disconnected from all her emotions. It was as if they had packed up and gone away on a vacation or something, leaving this shell of a body that could only sleep and drool onto the pillow. She felt a whole lot of nothing, which explained why she didn’t jump or scream or turn her head when he brushed the hair away from her face.

“How you feeling, baby girl?” He had a warm smile and kind, attentive eyes.

Her mouth felt as dry and rough as sandpaper, her tongue a block of wood.

“Tired,” she said, the word a rasp.

“Totally natural.” He nodded in understanding. His damp skin gave off a musky but not unpleasant odor—the way men smelled after vigorous exercise. Or a fight. “Give it another day or two, and you’ll feel settled,” he said. “You cold? Can I bring you another blanket?”

Why is he being so nice to me? So kind and considerate? It scared her, but she couldn’t really feel it, and that scared her more, and she still couldn’t feel it, and it was becoming difficult to keep her eyes open—she was so, so tired.