Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“Expecting your boyfriend?” he asks, and before I can even open my mouth to scream, he lifts the gun and slams it into my temple.
The pain is instant and shattering. I fall forward, almost catch myself on the sink, but I crash into the mirror, breaking it. Another blow comes to the back of my head, and this time, I don’t feel pain. Not when he hits me. Not when my mouth slams against the lip of the sink as I go down. Not when I taste my own blood as Vasily kicks me in the ribs just before I pass out.
20
Kat
I smell car exhaust as I fight to clear the fog I’m lost in. My head throbs like never before and I hear myself groan. I want to sleep. To escape. But I know I have to wake up. I have to fight.
“Put her in the trunk and get lost.”
I’m dropped and hit something hard. The jolt has me opening my eyes, but all I see is darkness.
Panic surges through me. Josh.
Does he have Josh?
No. He doesn’t. Does he? I was alone upstairs. I’d forgotten Josh’s swimsuit. That’s why I’d gone back.
Josh.
“Bye, Mommy.” I hear his sweet little voice and see his tiny face between the closing elevator doors again.
Is that it? Is that the last time I’ll see him?
God. I’m going to be sick.
“I said get lost and make sure you stay lost, fuckhead.”
Vasily.
I turn my head, look up to see two faces. Vasily’s is one, and the other man looks like a terrified junkie as he meets my eyes.
Vasily shoves bills at him, and a moment later, he’s gone.
Not too terrified to aid and abet in a kidnapping.
“You’re awake, good,” Vasily says, lifting my arms, bringing my wrists together and holding them in one of his as he picks up a roll of duct tape and starts to wind it around my wrists too tightly.
“Hurts,” I manage, my tongue feeling thick, my lip thicker.
“Does it?” He grins, drops my arms and the tape. “I’m just getting started.” He raises his arm, and I see the butt of the gun before he smashes it into my skull again.
My brain rocks, and my eyes close. The last sound I hear is the slamming of the trunk.
When I come to again, I’m not in the trunk anymore. I’m moving. Well, someone is moving, and I’m over their shoulder.
I taste puke. I must have thrown up at some point. My head hurts like my skull’s being squeezed in a vise. I open my eyes and even that hurts. I can’t lift my head but watch the ground as we move indoors into a large, dark space. I must lose consciousness again because when I next wake, I’m sitting on a chair, being taped to it as my head lolls to the side. I’m sure I’d fall over if it wasn’t for the tape.
My hair is matted with blood—mine—and when I look down at my bound hands on my lap, I see that some of my fingernails are torn. The pinky of my right hand is broken. I can tell from the angle, not so much the pain because everything hurts, and I can’t figure out what’s worse.
The sound of tape finally ceases, and he grips a handful of my hair to force my head up.
I look at him, at Vasily Stanislov’s face. Lev’s uncle.
This is the man who killed my mother.
The same man who killed Lev’s mother.
He looks like he hasn’t shaved in days, and his hair is matted and greasy. His clothes, too, look worn, and from the smell, he hasn’t showered in a few days.
He doesn’t look like Lev, I think. There’s something different inside Lev’s eyes. Or maybe that’s just how he looks at me.
“You don’t look so hot now,” he says, and I wonder if my ears are damaged because his voice echoes at first, but then the room sways around him too so maybe it’s not my ears but my brain that’s damaged.
He lets go of my hair, and I hear him walk away behind me.
My head bobs down before I can force it back up.
I’m in a huge space. A warehouse. A deserted one. Dust-covered machinery lines the walls, the floor was torn up in places, and most of the windows high up blown out. Graffiti marks many of the walls, and I think that black spot on the floor a little farther is where someone once made a fire. Maybe homeless people trying to stay warm.
There’s a dripping sound in the distance and something else. Something like rushing water.
No, not water. Traffic. Which means people.
We’re not completely isolated. If I can get out—
“You go by Kat or Katie or what?”
He’s not far behind me, but when I try to turn to look at him, an almost electrical pain shoots down my spine, and I can’t.