“A-Alice,” he chokes out. “Weren’t you—what—”

This kid can’t seriously think now is the time for a conversation.

“Talk later,” I snap, gripping his sleeve and pulling as hard as I can. God, he’s heavy. “Get up. Come on.”

But before Peter can stand, I notice a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. I’m too slow to react. With a grunt, the first kidnapper lunges at me, knocking me headfirst to the ground.

Pain explodes over my body.

I try to move, to fight, but a sharp knee digs into my back, the kidnapper’s full weight pinning me into place. The knife is ripped from my hand.

No, no, no.

This can’t be happening.

A shrill ringing sound fills my ears, so loud I can barely hear what the kidnapper is barking at the two other men. Something about taking Peter. The car. Transferring...

The men obey immediately. Together, they trap Peter between them and roughly hoist him up by the arms. Peter doesn’t even resist; he seems to have gone into shock, his eyes wide and his jaw hanging open as they drag him toward the door.

This cannot be happening. This can’t be—

But it is.

All I can do is watch in horror, the hotel carpet scratching the side of my cheek.

And just when I think things couldn’t possibly get any worse, the first kidnapper starts to tie up my hands, with the same kind of rope he must’ve used to tie Peter up earlier. Fuck, how much rope do these people have? He’s fumbling with the ends—he probably knows he doesn’t have much time left—and he’s distracted, but he’s also strong. I feel him wrap the rope once, twice, pulling it hard enough to cut my circulation off.

My arms go numb.

Then the pressure eases off my back, and the kidnapper’s leaving. He’s leaving with the two masked men and Peter, who’s bleeding, and I’m still here on the floor with my hands tied, and everything hurts, and I can’t believe I landed myself in this situation.

I count the kidnapper’s footsteps as they get farther and farther away from me.

One. Two. Three.

The door whines open, then shuts, leaving me alone in total darkness.

There’s no time to panic.

As soon as the kidnappers are gone, I’m half rolling, half wriggling across the floor until I bump into something hard. A desk corner, maybe.

Good enough.

I turn around awkwardly, blindly, so that my bound hands are pressed tight against whatever the sharp edge is. Then I begin to move them back and forth like a saw, praying for the ropes to snag.

“Come on,” I mutter, and the sound of my own voice, low and much steadier than I feel inside, helps ground me a little. “Come on, come on.”

It’s working, I think. I hope. Already, it feels like the ropes aren’t digging into my skin as much as before. Maybe if I just apply more pressure here, and twist my wrists this way—