Page 17

Shit. I choke back my fear, breathing hard as I back away from the door, watching it and knowing. They’re going to come through. They will. I don’t think they saw where I went, but they’ll figure it out. This is it.

Matty. Bianca. Everything will hurt them, and I won’t be there.

“Check every door!” I hear a muffled shout.

I draw in a sharp breath, realizing they’re right outside. I stumble back, bumping into something, the legs of a table screeching across the floor.

I whip around, seeing I’m in some kind of kitchen just as a cop shouts, “Here!”

No.

I bolt, pushing around the steel worktable and past the ovens lining the wall, the lingering smell of cherries and sugar drifting around me. I dash through the two-way door, into the shop with coffee machines, a display case, and a counter—dishes, cups, and other supplies are stacked underneath.

Frosted. I catch the name of the bakery on one of the paper menus sitting by the register.

Racing to the front door, I yank at it, but it doesn’t open. I run to the windows, squeezing between small round tables, and hesitate, gauging whether I should use one of the chairs to break a window. But then lights flash, a cruiser’s lights approaching down the street, and I spin around, hiding myself behind the patch of wall between the windows.

“Goddammit,” I grit out.

The back door slams shut, and I hear a sharp voice bellow. “You have nowhere to go!” he says.

I stumble off to the side, my eyes planted on the two-way door. I shake my head, my eyes stinging.

“We’re coming through the door!” he warns. “Put your hands above your head! Say ‘okay’ if you understand.”

I back up, slamming into the wall, but my palms press against something smoother. Something cold.

I hear their feet shuffle, the walls closing in and at my back. There’s no way out. I drop my head, knowing Hugo was right. It was only a matter of time.

The hinges on the two-way door creak as the cops start to come, and I close my eyes, ready.

But then…my stomach drops, and I pop my eyes open as I fall backward.

What?

I gasp, a hand covering my mouth and an arm wrapping around my waist as my body is hauled backward, just as the kitchen door opens.

What the hell?

We stop, they hold me to their body, the entrance in front of me closes, and I watch as the cops enter the eatery, flashlights scanning the space.

No. I jerk away from the hand, but they hold me tight.

“Shhh...” he bites out next to my ear.

The cops approach on the other side of the window, and I jerk to escape, because they’ll see me, but the arms won’t let me go.

“Don’t move,” he says in a quiet voice.

We watch the police flash their lights around the shop—around us, over us, but never on us. They pass, never seeing, and search the space, not seeming to notice us here.

Can they not see us?

I remember seeing a large mirror with a gilded frame on the right wall when I burst through the door. I stop breathing for a moment as one of the police officers approaches, two feet in front of us, flashing his light on the glass.

He sees something. I shake.

But then I see it too. Blood. My blood is on the mirror. When did I get hurt? I try to take inventory of my body, but my blood is pumping too hard to notice anything else.

The stranger’s hand falls away from my mouth, but I don’t move, waiting for the cop to see us.

He stands there, his breath fogging up the glass as he inspects the stain, confirming what he already knew. I was here. Now I’m not.

He backs away, all them making their way through the kitchen door again and disappearing. Off to look for me wherever I’d gone.

Arms release me, and I jerk my head around, seeing Hawken Trent glaring down at me. “This is awesome,” he gripes. “What the hell do I do with you now?”

As if I’m his problem and he didn’t one-hundred percent escalate what went down tonight right along with me.

He turns and walks away, down a long hallway that’s too dark for me to gauge its length or have any clue about where the hell I am. I follow the white of his T-shirt before I lose sight of him.

“What is this place?” I ask. “How do I get out?”

He says nothing, and I stay on his tail, going deeper and deeper into a black void until we come to a short set of stairs leading down. A small, wrought iron chandelier hangs at the bottom, finally giving the space some light.

“How do I get out?” I shout, chasing after him.

I got the cops off my tail. Now I want to leave.