She stood on shaky legs and tried to see Nate, to wake him. The flashlight bounced around the room erratically, passing quickly over Nate's face. Just long enough for her to see blood. Had he been shot? Could she have slept through a gunshot?

"Move."

Richard Gray pushed her past the bed and toward the door.

She found her voice. "What did you do to him?"

"If he wakes up before we leave, I'll kill him."

Rick could be lying to her, but Marisa decided to believe that Nate was only sleeping. Or unconscious. Either way, as long as he wasn't dead.

"Do you want to see your daughter or not?"

"Yes. Please."

"Then walk."

His hand was tight around her arm, not that she'd fight him now. He had Ana. This man was taking her to her daughter.

He pushed her out the front door, and the wood planks of the front steps were cold on her bare feet. The air blew through her thin pajamas, raising goosebumps on her skin. She'd expected to see a car idling, but no. He pushed her up the driveway, to the street, and turned away from the main road.

Suddenly, he stopped her. The flashlight went out, but the half-moon offered plenty of light to see. He stood behind her, yanked her hair, snapped her head back.

"You'll do what I say, and you'll do it silently. You understand?"

"Yes."

"If you scream, I'll kill you the way I killed your stupid sister. You understand?"

She stifled a sob. She couldn't nod, because he was pulling her hair too tight. She forced out another "yes."

"And then I'll put a bullet between your daughter's eyes."

"I promise I won't scream. Just don't hurt her."

"We'll see."

Chapter 33

NATE COULDN'T MOVE, but from far away, the swoosh of fabric was followed by Marisa's soft gasp.

A menacing voice.

Then Marisa's. "What did you do to him?"

A threat.

Nate had to move. He couldn't make his eyes open. Couldn't make his body obey.

The noises faded.

He had to get up. Dear God, he had to get up.

He forced his head off the pillow. His torso up. His eyes open.

The room spun, and nausea churned in his stomach.

He closed his eyes and pushed to his feet. Stepped forward, nearly fell. Turned and felt around on the nightstand.

There. His phone.

He opened his eyes, squinted in the bright light, and found the number. Dialed.

Staggered forward, nearly fell again, and gripped the door jamb.

"Detective Thomas." Brady's groggy voice.

"He was here. He took her."

"What? Nate?"

"He was here." He couldn't make his voice sound forceful. Could barely make his legs move. His head pounded like the bass drum at a screamo concert, and the accompanying confusion resembled the screeching of the songs. Nate pushed into the living room and supported himself on the back of the sofa as he made his way to the front door.