Mind Games (Mind Games, #1)(36)

“Are you sure?” Fia asks.

I am not sure. I don’t trust James. I think he’s even more dangerous than his father because he is bright and handsome and funny. I’m trying to draw her out with love and hope, but this place kills those. His voice has those extra layers, that anger simmering under the surface. I know Fia connects to it. I know it draws her in and comforts her in a way I never can. If I let her walk out that door with him, I’m worried I’ll never get her back.

But James was right. I lost her the minute I brought her here with me. And if he can salvage something of who she used to be, no matter what his game is, I have to let him. I won’t waste this time. I’m going to figure out what, exactly, is going on here. Because if I understand the what, I can understand the why, and if I understand those I can figure out the way to get us both free to a better future.

“Have fun. I love you. Don’t forget your promises.” I jerk my head in James’s direction. No kissing. No drinking. She’ll remember. “And don’t plan anything without me.”

She runs and hugs me—she hasn’t hugged me in so long, and she is too thin, and taller, and I don’t recognize her body anymore but maybe, just maybe, her voice will come back—and then she is gone and I am alone.





FIA

Tuesday Morning


JAMES. (MY HEAD, MY HEAD, IT HURTS SO MUCH.)

James.

Where is James?

Where am I?

I open my eyelids; they are sticky and they don’t want to open and they hurt and the light—

Stabs of pain. Nausea roils through me. I don’t want to feel like this, I can’t feel like this, I can’t remember why I feel like this. If I feel like this, I can’t tell if something is wrong.

James. Oh, no. James.

I force my eyes open. I’m in a room. Alone. No windows (no escape points, no glass to use as a weapon), no furniture (maybe they have heard of my reputation with furniture), just smooth white walls and hard, dark-gray industrial carpet. And a door.

I stand. My head swims and the room tilts and swirls around me, and Annie was right, she is always right—I should not have gone dancing, I should not have gotten drunk, I should not have kissed James.

James said he loves me. He was probably lying.

I do not regret kissing James.

If they have hurt James, I will kill them.

Kill them kill them—wait. Annie. If I’m gone, Annie’s not safe. What if James is with me? What if he can’t tell them that I was taken, that I didn’t run? Oh, no, Annie. Annie!

The door is locked. I scream and smash my hand against the handle, then slam my shoulder into it. I careen off, the room still spinning, but I have to get out. I can’t lose Annie because I wanted to dance and kiss James. How could I have been so stupid and selfish? Everything was already screwed up; we were already in trouble. I can’t believe I did this. I did this. Again. How many times will Annie have to see her own death because of me?

And Adam. I picture him checking his email, frantically, never hearing from me. He’ll give up on me. He’ll go back to his old life, and they’ll find him, and they’ll kill him. I’ve failed Annie and I’ve failed Adam. I destroy anything that’s good.

Door opens inward. Can’t break through. If I kick the doorknob off (no shoes, I will break a few bones in my foot), they’ll have to take down the door to get in. Lots of advance warning, and they can’t keep the door shut again.

The hinges. I drop down and look at the bottom one. Simple straight metal pin down the center. I tug. It’s painted shut. I can probably break the seal with my fingernails, but it’ll take a while. I wish I had a tool. Something. Anything.

My fingers go to my hair, to the tiny bobby pin I tucked in last night to keep a twist of hair back from my face. I smile. I knew that was a good idea.

The top hinge pin will be a problem; I have nothing to stand on to reach that high. If I can get the bottom one out, I’ll have options, though.

Break the doorknob, pull on the door to warp it, maybe make enough room to crawl out? It would take a lot time. If they’re watching, they will know before I finish.

Stop! Stop planning. Just get the pin.

My fingers hurt and my head pounds and Annie, oh, Annie, I’m so sorry. How many ways can I fail you in one lifetime before it’s too many, before I can’t fix it? I sit back, lean my head against the wall, let myself cry. The weight of Annie’s life pushes my shoulders down, wraps itself around me, sneaks into my heart and my lungs until I am suffocating.

I wipe under my eyes, wipe above them, try to get as much of the makeup off as I can. Try to look like a seventeen-year-old girl who is scared and alone and helpless.

Only one of those is a lie.

I get the pin out just as I hear the click of the lock on the other side of the door, then the slide of a dead bolt (dead bolt, glad I didn’t try to kick in the doorknob). Rush or play dead? Rush or play dead?

I hide the hinge pin in my fist and scramble backward into the corner. They’ll be most ready, most wary when they open the door. I’ll have another chance. I curl into a ball, hug my bare legs to my chest. I’m glad I was crying, it will add to the look.

I stare up with my big, innocent eyes (they don’t know about my hands; my eyes are my best liars). The door opens.

It’s the girl, the one with brown hair whose car I stole. And behind her the man with the stubble. Cole. So much for feigning helplessness. I stand, keeping my hands fisted. They both walk into the room; neither has weapons. That was smart of them. Too bad. Cole has a slight limp (I wonder where my knife went; I liked that knife).