If You Could See the Sun (71)

No.

Stop it.

It’s too late. I just have to get up. Move. Put as much distance between me and this place—this memory—as possible.

After who knows how long, I finally manage to pull myself back up into a standing position. My feet move obediently toward the stairs, in the same direction I came from. I take one step. Then another. Somehow, it’s more exhausting than climbing up a mountain.

I can’t stop thinking about Peter in that room.

About his mother, who’s still waiting to welcome him home with his favorite dish. Who won’t be able to sleep once she finds out he’s gone.

Whatever you do, do not turn around, I command myself, even as my feet drag against the carpet. Do not turn around. Do not fucking turn arou—

I turn around.

Without even fully realizing what I’m doing, I run back to Room 2005 and pound on the door.

“R-room service for two.” My voice is a terrible, breathless squeak. It occurs to me too late how utterly unprepared I am. My own phone’s battery is running low, and Henry has no idea what I’m planning to do, and the only weapon I have on me is a fruit knife I took from my hotel room. But it’s also too late to go back now. “Club sandwich with truffle fries.” This is the code Andrew and I agreed upon in case I needed to speak to his men directly. I can only pray it works.

At first, there’s nothing but deafening silence on the other end. Then footsteps approach, slow and cautious. After a few seconds of just-audible murmuring and shuffling around, the door creaks open.

I glance up.

Three men tower over me. They’re dressed in identical business suits, their striped ties straight and well ironed, all wearing dark pollution masks that cover most of their faces and fitted, surgical gloves. They don’t look anything like the kidnappers I’d been imagining. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think I had accidentally stumbled into a private business meeting.

The tallest of the three stares into the space behind me. “Hello?” He cranes his neck, opens the door wider. “Anyone there?”

I creep in past him.

The first thing I notice is that the TV is on, the sound turned off, and the other men’s eyes are glued to a basketball game playing over the large flat screen. I guess holding a kid hostage can get pretty boring after a while.

The next thing I notice is Peter, and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach.

He’s been pushed into the farthest corner of the room, blindfolded and gagged, the ropes still secured firmly around his wrists, feet, and waist. Andrew She had made it sound like Peter would be resting in a nice little resort until the company campaign was over, but this—this is too much.

There’s no way in hell I can leave him here like this.

As I rush toward him, I hear the tall man mutter, “So strange.” Then: “Who did She Zong’s son hire for the job again?”

The man standing closest to the TV shrugs. “Person from some kind of black market app. Apparently it’s built a solid reputation around their school for doing whatever people want.”

“But no one knows who it is? Or how they managed to drop this kid”—the tall one jerks a finger at Peter, and I freeze, careful not to give my presence away—“right off at our door?”

“Nope.”

When the three of them have turned back to the TV, I crawl forward, shaking violently all over. My fingers fumble for the ropes behind the chair, and I feel Peter stiffen.

Please act normal. I’m trying to help you, I think desperately.

If only my powers included telepathy as well.

As Peter twists his head around, I yank hard at the final knot, ignoring the burn of the ropes against my skin.

Please, please—

The ropes drop to the floor with a soft thud, like a dead snake, and I’ve barely had time to breathe out in relief when three things happen at roughly the same time:

One, Peter rips off the blindfold, stumbles out of the chair and looks wildly around before staring at me. Right at me. His mouth drops open, then closes over the unspoken word: Alice?

Two, Andrew She’s men spin toward me and Peter with varying expressions of shock. The tall one moves first, leaping over the bed and yelling at us to stay right where we are—

Three, I throw the closest thing I can find to stop him. Which, unfortunately, happens to be a pillow.

A fucking pillow.

The pillow bounces off the seven-foot kidnapper’s shoulder as he growls and swipes at us, undeterred. I shove Peter in front of me and try to run after him to the door, but I’m too slow. A rough hand closes over my wrist, yanking me back so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if my arm’s been dislocated.

I gasp. Tears jump to my eyes.

“Where did you come from, little girl?” the man demands. His grip tightens, crushing my bones to dust. The pain is unbearable, but still I pull against him, my feet kicking out wildly, my eyes darting over the room.

In my blurred, peripheral vision, I see Peter duck past the two other men, unlatch the lock with shocking speed and fling the door open—just as they tackle him from behind. There’s a terrible crack as his head hits the wall.

The world seems to flip upside down, my stomach flipping with it.

“No!” I scream.

The tall man follows my gaze, and in the split second he’s distracted, I sink my teeth into his hand.