Jesse’s still calling. He’s heard me fall but can’t pinpoint the noise, and he’s frantically shouting, his voice moving deeper into the subdivision.
I stay silent, as terrible as I feel about it. If I yell, Jesse might run right into my armed attacker. So I wait until I’m sure my attacker is far enough away. Then I rise and say, “Jesse?”
He comes running. As he does, I realize I’ve fallen into the basement of a partly constructed home. I’m trying to find a way out—with one hand gripping my bleeding arm—when Jesse appears.
He scrambles down before I can stop him. He jogs to me, limping slightly.
“I screwed up,” I say. “I—I just wanted to see him, to end this, to get proof—”
My voice cracks, and Jesse’s there, and I collapse against him, still apologizing, as the shock passes and I realize exactly how much danger I’ve been in—how much danger I ran straight into.
When tears well, I pull away, apologizing harder, but he hugs me and says, “It’s okay,” and rubs my back.
I get it under control, and I’m about to straighten when he tenses and says, “Do I smell blood?”
His gaze shoots to my arm. “You’re—Oh, hell. Sit. Just sit.” He doesn’t give me a chance to obey as he propels me to the dirt floor and strips off my jacket.
“You’re cut, Skye. You’re really badly cut.”
“He had a knife. I—I—I was stupid. I never thought—I didn’t expect—”
I swallow. “He had a cloth, too, that smelled like chemicals. He tried to put it over my face. I—I don’t know what he planned to do. I don’t want to know.”
“Neither do I,” he says grimly as he clamps a hand over my bleeding arm. “But you’re not the only one who didn’t expect anything like that. I’d never have brought us here if I did.”
He wraps my jacket sleeves around my arm, and then tugs off his belt and fastens it over the top. It’s a bulky, awkward tourniquet, and he gives a grunt of dissatisfaction but only says, “Let’s get out of here before he comes back.”
Getting me out of that basement isn’t easy when I have only one working arm. There’s no helpful set of stairs leading up. Construction hasn’t proceeded that far. After several failed attempts, I’m finally able to get onto Jesse’s shoulders and climb out. Then I use my good arm to help him scrabble up the dirt side.
Jesse’s limping less now, and I ask about his foot, but he says he just twisted it. Enough to slow him down, nothing serious.
We go quiet after that, lost in thought as we walk through the housing construction site.
When we reach the pavilion, he says, “I’m taking you to my mom. For your arm and to talk. I told her I wanted to try handling this on our own, but we’ve gone way past that.”
“Agreed.” I check the time on my phone and notice I have texts. I was vaguely aware of my phone vibrating earlier, but I was a little occupied at the time.
When I see that I’ve missed six texts, I cringe. “Mae must have found—” I stop as I open my messages. They aren’t from Mae. The string starts twenty minutes ago, around the time I was battling my attacker.
Tiffany: Okay, I’m here. Sorry I’m late.
Two minutes passed.
Tiffany: Skye? You still around? I don’t see you.
Another two minutes.
Tiffany: There’s a BMW in the lot. Is that yours?
Tiffany: I see a parking pass for the hospital staff lot. Jesse’s mom’s car?
Tiffany: I’d make an awesome detective, huh?
Tiffany: Speaking of detective work, is that you guys in the field? I think I hear Jesse calling for you. Heading that way.
I’m scrolling and reading faster, whispering, “No, no, no.”
“Call her,” Jesse says.
I punch in the numbers. The line connects…and we hear a phone start to ring not far from us.
We both run toward the sound, Jesse hobbling but keeping pace. The phone stops, and voice mail comes on. I hang up fast. Dial again. The other phone rings as we walk, the sound getting louder and louder until…
The ringing is coming from the ground at my feet.
I bend to find Tiffany’s phone in the grass.
We’re in the car, and Jesse’s driving faster than I suspect he’s ever driven in his life. We haven’t called the police. That was, of course, my first impulse. Jesse stopped me. We need to be sure Tiffany’s gone. Otherwise, I could report her kidnapping…and discover that she’s at home, and someone stole her phone and sent those texts.
I get Tiffany’s home number from directory assistance. I don’t know her family—only that she lives with her dad and stepmom and a couple of half siblings. I call their landline. No one answers. I leave a message saying I’m a classmate, and we were supposed to meet for a project, but she hasn’t shown up, so I’m worried.
I email her next. As I do, Jesse’s fingers drum the steering wheel. When I finish, he says, “We’ll be at my place in two minutes. I think we should have my parents call 911. The police will listen to them.”
“Agreed.”
“I can’t imagine why he’d take her hostage, but I also can’t imagine why he’d stab you.”
“I don’t think we’re dealing with a rational person here. Do you think he actually abducted her?”
He says nothing.
“The texts,” I say. “That’s what you meant earlier. I was so sure they didn’t come from Tiffany, but they sounded like they did. That’s what you were thinking, before I ran after him.”
I look at him. “So if it really was Tiffany texting, how did he end up at our meeting place?”
“Either he’s been following you or he has access to your texts somehow.”
Jesse slows for a stop sign and a right turn. I glance toward his house.
“I don’t think anyone needs to call the police,” I say.
“Hmm?”
He looks over to see two cruisers parked in front of his house.