I’m so out of it from the taser, I forgot Briggs cuffed me to a pipe.

Seated across from me, handcuffed to her own bench, Molly stares through a jungle of wet hair. A tiny stream of rainwater overflows from the buckling canopy and drops down the back of her dress. She leaps, cursing wildly and dancing out of the way of the errant water. This is the second time she’s gotten doused from above. Looks like I got the better bench.

“Where’d you come from?” she asks, her voice finally returning.

“Chicago,” I generalize. Outside of Ambrose, no one knows where Ambrose is, so I’m used to answering this question with “Chicago.”

“I’m from Arizona. I was at a party…at my dad’s club…”

“I hope these guys brought you a change of clothes. You’re not dressed for running drills.”

“Drills?”

“The boot camp.”

“We’re going to a boot camp?” Molly’s lips tighten. Something in her tone drops my stomach. “They told me it was a retreat…to learn business management,”—her twitching eyes begin to water—“which was clearly bullshit.” Molly whimpers into her raised arm and moans, “Clearly bullshit, clearly bullshit.” I wish she’d stop because now my guts are swirling through my body like a Chinese dragon.

I’m one hundred percent sure this is a kidnapping, but I’m zero percent sure why. As I was abducted, Mom said “I love you” softly, reassuringly, the way she used to when carrying me to bed after I fell asleep in front of Doctor Who. Bubbling acid rises in my stomach with a panicked realization: Mom wanted this. Wanted me kidnapped. Wanted me handcuffed to a boat. The black van with its black windows—a PredatorMobile—lurked around my house all evening, so Mom must have arranged the abduction before dinner. Maybe even during her shift. Why? Because I needed toughening up? And what does any of this have to do with Ricky Hannigan? Mom and Ricky never met each other.

“You—you know R-R-Ricky Hannigan?” I ask, my jaw trembling from the cold.

“Who?” Molly asks, retaking her seat.

“Nothing.” I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the tears already pooling. Crying would be easy—so easy—but it won’t help me escape. It was a long shot hoping Molly knew anything about the dead man I delivered meals to, but there has to be a connection between her situation and mine. One of the last things Ricky ever did was scribble the word Nightlight in messy, urgent letters. The name on this boat.

Overhead, a corner of the canopy flaps open in the wind, sending in more aggressive weather. I fold my legs together on the bench as seawater floods over Molly’s feet. She whines—strained, like a dog left alone too long—and pulls against the handcuffs trapping her to the pipe. Except neither of us are going anywhere. Poor Molly—it’s as if we’re in one of those water rafting rides where there’s always that one person in the group who gets the most drenched.