If You Could See the Sun (72)

He releases me with a high-pitched cry and I bolt. The two others still have their attention fastened on Peter, who’s slouched against the wall, and I’m panicking about how the hell I’m meant to get around them when I remember—

The knife.

My fingers dig into my pockets, finding the cool, smooth hilt at once.

“Stand back or—or I’ll cut you,” I warn the men as I step forward, brandishing the fruit knife before me like a proper sword, praying they can’t see how badly my hands are trembling. How much I feel like a little kid playing pretend.

The two men falter—more out of surprise than fear, it seems, but whatever works.

I seize the opportunity to grab Peter and shake him. His face has gone scarily pale, and his hairline is wet with blood, but his eyes—his eyes are open. With a low groan, he rises back to his feet, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt such acute relief in my life.

“A-Alice,” he chokes out. “Weren’t you—what—”

This kid can’t seriously think now is the time for a conversation.

“Talk later,” I snap, gripping his sleeve and pulling as hard as I can. God, he’s heavy. “Get up. Come on.”

But before Peter can stand, I notice a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. I’m too slow to react. With a grunt, the first kidnapper lunges at me, knocking me headfirst to the ground.

Pain explodes over my body.

I try to move, to fight, but a sharp knee digs into my back, the kidnapper’s full weight pinning me into place. The knife is ripped from my hand.

No, no, no.

This can’t be happening.

A shrill ringing sound fills my ears, so loud I can barely hear what the kidnapper is barking at the two other men. Something about taking Peter. The car. Transferring...

The men obey immediately. Together, they trap Peter between them and roughly hoist him up by the arms. Peter doesn’t even resist; he seems to have gone into shock, his eyes wide and his jaw hanging open as they drag him toward the door.

This cannot be happening. This can’t be—

But it is.

All I can do is watch in horror, the hotel carpet scratching the side of my cheek.

And just when I think things couldn’t possibly get any worse, the first kidnapper starts to tie up my hands, with the same kind of rope he must’ve used to tie Peter up earlier. Fuck, how much rope do these people have? He’s fumbling with the ends—he probably knows he doesn’t have much time left—and he’s distracted, but he’s also strong. I feel him wrap the rope once, twice, pulling it hard enough to cut my circulation off.

My arms go numb.

Then the pressure eases off my back, and the kidnapper’s leaving. He’s leaving with the two masked men and Peter, who’s bleeding, and I’m still here on the floor with my hands tied, and everything hurts, and I can’t believe I landed myself in this situation.

I count the kidnapper’s footsteps as they get farther and farther away from me.

One. Two. Three.

The door whines open, then shuts, leaving me alone in total darkness.



* * *



There’s no time to panic.

As soon as the kidnappers are gone, I’m half rolling, half wriggling across the floor until I bump into something hard. A desk corner, maybe.

Good enough.

I turn around awkwardly, blindly, so that my bound hands are pressed tight against whatever the sharp edge is. Then I begin to move them back and forth like a saw, praying for the ropes to snag.

“Come on,” I mutter, and the sound of my own voice, low and much steadier than I feel inside, helps ground me a little. “Come on, come on.”

It’s working, I think. I hope. Already, it feels like the ropes aren’t digging into my skin as much as before. Maybe if I just apply more pressure here, and twist my wrists this way—

Yes.

The ropes come loose after the ninth try; some combination of finding the right angle, the disgusting amount of sweat slicking my hands, and the lucky fact that the kidnapper didn’t have time to double knot.

I toss the ropes aside and scramble toward the door, ignoring the weakness in my knees, the tingling in my fingers. The tightness in my lungs.

Save Peter. That’s all that matters right now.

As I flip the lock and burst through the doorway, squinting into the sudden light, I try to figure out where the kidnappers would go.

It seems unlikely they’d hang around an area where Peter could easily be recognized. And they’d mentioned something about transferring Peter, about a car—

The parking lot.

But not just any parking lot. A secluded spot, connected to the stairs instead of the lift, a place without security cameras to catch suspicious activity.

I run down the stairs, taking two steps at a time, my mind reeling. I’ve spent so long committing the map of the hotel to memory that I can see it as clearly as if someone’s holding it in front of me: all the labels marking out cameras and exits, the lines intersecting at corridors and staircases...and the diagram of the abandoned lot two levels underground.

That’s where they’re taking Peter. It must be.

Now I just have to find them before they leave.

I move faster. My feet slam over the concrete, my heart beating so hard I’m scared it’ll explode. I wish I were an athlete. I wish I had been quicker to unfasten the ropes, or to escape with Peter when I had the chance. I wish I’d never agreed to kidnap Peter in the first place.