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CHAPTER TWELVE

Evangeline

I wake up to darkness and silence. There’s no sound of traffic, no neighbor’s television bleeding through the walls, no hint of where I am except the unfamiliar texture of the couch beneath me. Still half-asleep and disoriented, it takes me a second to remember what happened.

Then the pain in my shoulders and wrists returns. Not as bad as it was before I fell asleep, but still a dull throb that I can’t ignore, and with it, so do the memories of the last twenty-four hours.

The blanket tangles around my legs as I push myself up, testing whether my arms work. They do … sort of. I rotate my shoulders carefully, working out the stiffness. Every muscle protests the movement, but at least I can control them now.

The darkness is absolute. It’s like being wrapped in black velvet, and my other senses strain to compensate, picking up small details. The air smells clean. Almost too clean. No cooking odors, no lingering traces of anyone actually living here. The temperature is perfect. Not too hot, not too cold. Even the silence feels manufactured.

The couch feels like expensive leather, butter-soft under my fingers. I trace its shape, trying to build a mental map. Three seats, based on the cushions. An end table to my right holds what feels like a lamp, but I don't dare try to turn it on. I think it might be made of metal and glass. Heavy. I could use it as a weapon if I get desperate enough.

I ease my feet to the floor, then hesitate.

What if I can’t stand properly? What if I fall? What if I make a noise and he comes back and drags me back into the bathroom?

My heart rate kicks up speed, but I force it down. I can’t afford to panic right now. I can’t let my mind spiral back through everything that’s happened to me.

I need to focus on what I can learn. What I can use. Then I need to get out of here and call the police.

The police … my phone! Where’s my phone?

My hand goes to the back pocket of my jeans, but the familiar shape of my phone isn’t there.

Did he take it? Did I drop it? Maybe I should try to find it.

I stand cautiously, but my legs are steadier than I expected, and I take a careful step forward. My knee bumps into something solid, and I stretch out a hand, running my palm along the edge. A coffee table. From the feel of it, more metal and glass. Apparently his aesthetic is prison chic meets modern furniture showroom. My fingers trail across the surface, but there’s nothing there.

What kind of monster has a coffee table with no clutter covering it?

There must be a wall somewhere. The room can’t be that big. I turn, and keeping one hand touching the couch, I shuffle forward with tiny steps. One wrong move could send me crashing into something. The carpet muffles my movements, but in this silence even breathing seems too loud.

When I reach the end of the couch, I pause. I need to be extra careful now. With my hands outstretched in front of me, I keep moving until, eventually, my fingers touch something solid. A wall. Finally .

I follow it, counting steps, still building that mental map in my head. I reach a corner, another wall … a door frame.

My heart is a staccato beat in my ears when I search for the handle. It doesn’t move.

Locked. Of course it’s locked.

The wall continues. Another door. Also locked. Everything seems designed to control movement, to restrict access. It’s like being trapped in an elaborate puzzle box.

Something brushes against the side of my face, and I jerk back, heart in my throat. Taking a second to get my breathing under control, I reach up. It’s a cord. I pull it carefully, and there’s a swishing sound.

Vertical blinds. A window .

Moonlight filters through as they part, offering the first real illumination I’ve had. The glass feels thick under my fingers, probably reinforced. Outside, there’s a balcony, and beyond that I just about make out three other buildings. There are lights on in some of the windows.

This whole place is a fortress pretending to be an apartment. Just like he’s a predator pretending to be a hacker.

No. My mind dismisses that thought. He’s not pretending . He’s both. The pretender might be the one who sent me cat memes at 3 A.M. The one who understood about Michael. The one who?—

The sound of a door opening freezes me in place.

Footsteps approach. He’s letting me hear him, and somehow, that’s worse than when he was moving silently.

“Planning your escape route?” His voice comes from the darkness behind me. “I’d suggest against it. This building has better security than most military bases.”

I don’t turn around. “Speaking from experience?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” A lamp clicks on, filling the room with soft light that still manages to hurt my eyes. “Step away from the window.”

“Why? Afraid someone will see me?”

“What will they see? A woman in the window of my apartment? I don’t think that’s going to cause anyone any concern.”

“I could go out there and scream for help.”

“You could, but the only thing out there is my security system. And it’s not kind to uninvited guests.”

I finally turn to face him, squinting as my vision adjusts. He looks perfectly at ease, like finding me at his window is a minor inconvenience rather than a threat.

“There’s no such thing as a perfect security system.”

“Would you like to test that theory?” His eyebrow lifts. “The last person who tried didn’t enjoy the results.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?” I’m terrified, but I don’t want him to know that.

“Just managing expectations.” He gestures to the couch. “Sit down before you fall down. You’re still very pale.”

“I’m fine standing right here. I want to go home.”

“That’s not happening.”

“You can’t keep me here.”

“Actually, I can.” He settles into an armchair, all lethal grace and controlled movement. “And I will.”

“I could just walk out that door.” I nod my head toward the door on the opposite side of the room.

“You could try.” His voice carries a promise of exactly how that would end. “But then I’d have to stop you again. I still have handcuffs and a gun. It wouldn’t be pleasant.”

“You’re such a gentleman.”

“Says the woman who broke into my home.”

“I had codes! He gave me codes to get in.”

“ He doesn’t exist.”

“So you keep saying.” I lean against the wall, trying to look casual rather than using it for support. “But someone gave them to me.”

“And that’s the only reason you’re still breathing.”

“Fuck you!” I can’t stop myself.

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m not interested. I prefer my dates to at least buy me dinner first.” His tone could freeze hell. “And they don’t typically break into my apartment.”

“I’m leaving.” I push away from the wall, and for one heart-stopping moment, I don’t think my legs are going to hold me up. But then they steady, and I take a step forward. “You can’t stop me.”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” He rises, expression shifting from bored to deadly serious. “Someone spent weeks manipulating you, setting up this exact moment. Do you really think it was just about breaking into my apartment?”

“I didn’t break in!”

“Did I invite you?”

I glare at him.

“They gave you my access codes. That means either you know something worth manipulating you for, it’s connected to your brother’s disappearance, or you were unfortunately in a position that made you the perfect patsy.” He moves closer. “And until I figure out which it is, you’re staying right here where I can make sure you don’t disappear too.”

“You think I know something?”

“If I thought that, we wouldn’t be standing here having a pleasant conversation. You’d have a lot more injuries than you do now, unless you decided to cooperate and talk, or you’d have a bullet in your head.”

My jaw drops, icy fingers of fear sliding up my spine.

"Someone went to a lot of trouble to put you in my path. I intend to find out why."

I slide down the wall, legs giving out beneath me. Adrenaline crashes through my system, making my entire body shake.

“I don’t know anything! Michael never talked about his work. I barely saw him, except on holidays. There’s nothing to find!”