About his mother, who’s still waiting to welcome him home with his favorite dish. Who won’t be able to sleep once she finds out he’s gone.

Whatever you do, do not turn around, I command myself, even as my feet drag against the carpet. Do not turn around. Do not fucking turn arou—

I turn around.

Without even fully realizing what I’m doing, I run back to Room 2005 and pound on the door.

“R-room service for two.” My voice is a terrible, breathless squeak. It occurs to me too late how utterly unprepared I am. My own phone’s battery is running low, and Henry has no idea what I’m planning to do, and the only weapon I have on me is a fruit knife I took from my hotel room. But it’s also too late to go back now. “Club sandwich with truffle fries.” This is the code Andrew and I agreed upon in case I needed to speak to his men directly. I can only pray it works.

At first, there’s nothing but deafening silence on the other end. Then footsteps approach, slow and cautious. After a few seconds of just-audible murmuring and shuffling around, the door creaks open.

I glance up.

Three men tower over me. They’re dressed in identical business suits, their striped ties straight and well ironed, all wearing dark pollution masks that cover most of their faces and fitted, surgical gloves. They don’t look anything like the kidnappers I’d been imagining. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think I had accidentally stumbled into a private business meeting.

The tallest of the three stares into the space behind me. “Hello?” He cranes his neck, opens the door wider. “Anyone there?”

I creep in past him.

The first thing I notice is that the TV is on, the sound turned off, and the other men’s eyes are glued to a basketball game playing over the large flat screen. I guess holding a kid hostage can get pretty boring after a while.

The next thing I notice is Peter, and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach.

He’s been pushed into the farthest corner of the room, blindfolded and gagged, the ropes still secured firmly around his wrists, feet, and waist. Andrew She had made it sound like Peter would be resting in a nice little resort until the company campaign was over, but this—this is too much.

There’s no way in hell I can leave him here like this.

As I rush toward him, I hear the tall man mutter, “So strange.” Then: “Who did She Zong’s son hire for the job again?”

The man standing closest to the TV shrugs. “Person from some kind of black market app. Apparently it’s built a solid reputation around their school for doing whatever people want.”

“But no one knows who it is? Or how they managed to drop this kid”—the tall one jerks a finger at Peter, and I freeze, careful not to give my presence away—“right off at our door?”