Page 54 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

The first thing I register is the smell.

Cherries and vanilla. It hits like a fist, not because it’s unfamiliar, but because it is . It smells exactly like my shampoo.

My head aches in a dull, radiating throb. The back of my skull pulses, tender to the touch. When I try to move, something tugs at my wrists. Soft, but secure.

I blink, my vision slow to settle, and everything comes into focus in strange pieces.

The pale blue walls. A gallery wall of candid photos of me, Theo, and Mason. Some individuals, some of us together. Some look like they’re taken from far away, the quality pixelated.

The couch and coffee table I had in my apartment in Seattle.

My pulse skids. I lift my head, slow and careful, and see the rest of the living room.

There’s my old chenille throw, draped just so across the loveseat.

A chipped mug with a lipstick print on the rim.

My favorite candle—fig and cedar—burns low on the coffee table.

The flame is so small, it might be dying.

My brain can’t make sense of it. I’m in a memory that’s been badly photoshopped. Everything is mine, but the light is wrong. The air is too thick, humid with something that isn’t fog or fear, but is made of both.

I shift again, testing the give of whatever’s holding my arms. Scarves , I realize after a blink.

The silk ones I bought cheap at that consignment shop last spring.

There’s something both theatrical and deeply humiliating about it.

My own scarves, tied in bows at my wrists.

For a second, I’m too stunned to even panic.

But the sharp tug underneath my wrists isn’t silk.

It’s plastic—hard, serrated, and biting into skin that is already raw.

Zipties. The scarves are just a costume, camouflaging the plastic restraints anchoring me to the arm of the chair.

The realization lands like a slap and the panic rushes in, hot and sour.

I twist, jerking my arms, but the zipties barely flex. The effort makes my head swim, a black curtain tugging at the edges of my vision. I blink it back, fighting to make sense of what I see.

But my brain isn’t computing what I see across the room.

There’s a woman in front of a full-length mirror, similar to the one at Nana Jo’s cabin.

And she’s wearing my favorite white sundress with the button-bodice-style top I wore to the lake with Mason last month. The hem floats just above her knees as she turns in front of the mirror, holding a coffee mug to her lips.

Her hair is curled like mine, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. There’s a mug in her hand, which might actually be my coffee mug from the looks of it, and she takes a sip.

“You didn’t have to do that, Mason,” she says softly, to her own reflection. “But thank you.” She laughs, too sharp, too forced.

She sighs and drops her shoulders, letting the mug dangle from her fingertips. Liquid drips onto the floor, but the woman doesn’t seem to notice.

Then I watch as she sets the mug down and straightens her shoulders again, her face twisting into a strange-looking smile. It’s too big for her face, her cheeks pulled too tight.

“I made muffins for you, honey. Blueberry is still your favorite, right?” she practically purrs before trying the laugh again. This time it sounds worse than before.

The woman grunts and the emotion drops from her face like someone splashed it away. She stomps her foot and yells, “Dammit. I need the video, Bethy.”

My heart hammers so hard I can feel it in my throat.

What the fuck is going on?

Beth, my bartender sort-of friend, steps into the room, wearing a turquoise sheath dress.

Her lipstick is redder than I’ve ever seen it, and her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

The last time I saw her, she was standing behind the bar, tapping her fingers in a rhythm that made my teeth hurt.

Now her hands are empty, but there’s a charge in the way she holds her arms in front of her, palms splaying toward me.

“Abby, you’re awake,” she says, a smile blooming across her face.

“Beth? What’s going on?”

She steps closer, her heels clicking sharp and even on the hardwood.

“You had a bit of a spell,” she says, kneeling until we’re eye-level.

There’s a faint chemical burn beneath her perfume; up closer, it’s almost medicinal.

“You fainted. I was worried you’d hit your head, but you’re okay.

See?” She lifts her own hand and touches my cheek with a gentleness that doesn’t match any of this.

The other woman—my double—watches from the mirror, her body humming with tension.

I realize, with a cold, crawling horror, that she’s studying me.

Not just my dress or my hair, but the way I sit, the way my shoulders curl when I’m scared.

She’s copying it, running the scene back in the mirror, like a rehearsal for a part she still doesn’t know how to play.

“Where are we? And why am I ziptied to a chair?” I try to keep the panic out of my voice, but it’s no use.

Beth sits back a little, like we’re just two friends chatting and she didn’t just abduct me then tie me to a chair. “Think of this as a bit of a pitstop. She needs a few more things from you before we can get back on the road.”

I shake my head, confusion draping over my senses like a wool blanket. “What are you talking about?”

The woman waltzes over, tugging a chair to sit right across from me. “I thought you said she was smart, Bethy. She doesn’t seem so smart right now,” she says, tilting her nose up in a way I know I don’t do.

I flinch when Beth crouches beside me. Her fingers are cold as they brush hair back from my face.

“Don’t be scared, Abby. I’m not going to hurt you,” Beth coos as she brushes back my hair.

It takes everything inside of me not to flinch back from her.

“You just have to help my sister for a little bit. Then we can leave. Here, I left you some tea. Chamomile and honey. I know you like that when you’ve been singing a lot.

” Her smile flickers as she brings the teacup and saucer to my mouth.

I turn my head a little. My throat is dry, but there’s no way I’m drinking anything they give me. “No thank you.”

Beth nods like she understands, like this is a normal conversation and not a hostage scene. She sets the teacup and saucer down on the floor and trails her fingers over the scarf at my right wrist. “I know it’s not ideal, but we had to make sure you didn’t run.”

The other woman, Beth’s sister, claps twice.

“She’s not thirsty, so let’s begin. I have some questions, and you’re going to answer them.

Okay? Now laugh. I need to study the way your face moves because I can’t get it right.

The photos don’t show me enough and you don’t laugh much on the video calls. ”

My heart stops, panic threading through every single pore and floods my nervous system. “I don’t understand.” I don’t understand anything.

Beth’s sister sighs. “Ugh, okay . Let’s try something else first.”

“Do you remember the night you met Mason?” she asks abruptly. “The first thing you said to him?”

The question lands like a slap, so out of left field that for a second all I can do is blink. “What?”

She leans forward, chin propped on her hand, eyes boring into mine. “Just say it,” she says. “Say the words, exactly.”

I shake my head. “I don’t remember. I was a kid?—”

“You do remember,” Beth’s sister purrs. “You said, ‘You look like a superhero, but you sound sad all the time.’ You wrote about it in your journal.”

My mouth goes dry.

She beams, a bright, glassy smile, and claps her hands. “See? You do remember. That’s perfect, Abby. So honest. It’s what makes you so . . .” She trails off, looking down at her lap. “It’s what makes people want you.”

I stare at the woman as she sits up taller, crossing her legs with a little flourish. She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, just so, and looks at me, waiting. I can’t look away. It’s like watching a snake unhinge its jaw.

Beth sits back on her haunches but looks at me expectantly.

I close my eyes and exhale slowly. When I open them again, Beth’s sister holds up a black velvet pouch, the gold ribbon dangling like a noose. Her fingers work it open. What she tips into her palm makes my stomach twist.

No .

She turns toward me slowly, grinning like we’re sharing a joke.

“Most women might draw the line at using another woman’s vibrator,” she says lightly, running one finger along the rose gold bullet nestled in her palm. “But I don’t see the point in half-measures. If I’m going to understand what makes you tick, shouldn’t I know everything?”

My skin goes ice cold. “Did you take my vibrator?” There’s a thread of hysteria in my voice, that kind of grand incredulity I couldn’t mask if you paid me.

She looks at me as she turns it on, dragging it over her own wrist and then—slowly, deliberately—pressing the tip to her lips. The hum is loud in the hush of the room. She shudders, eyes rolling back in a pantomime of pleasure, and then snaps her gaze back to me.

I want to retch. I want to claw out of the chair, out of my own skin, out of this fucked-up funhouse version of my life.

Beth’s smile is thin. “You don’t have to watch if you don’t want to,” she says, but she doesn’t look away from her sister.

Beth’s sister laughs—not my laugh, but a parody, high and shrill. “You’re blushing,” she purrs. “I love that. I really do. It’s so . . . honest .”

The room tilts, nausea surging up my throat. “What do you want from me?” I rasp.

She’s suddenly inches from my face, the toy flicked off and dropped to the floor. “ Everything . You stole my family, and I’ve decided I want them back now.”

A gag rises in my throat.

“Stop hovering,” Beth’s sister yells suddenly, her voice snapping through the room like a whip. She turns toward the doorway. “You said you’d help. So help or get out.”

When she faces me again, I can see the person hovering in the doorway.

Jake. My ex-boyfriend and almost-fiancée.

His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, but he doesn’t step into the room. He just watches me like this is an everyday occurrence.

I don’t move. I can’t. My body has locked down on instinct, every muscle frozen like stillness is the only defense I have left.

Beth clears her throat. “Analisa.”

“ Lisa ,” the woman snaps, too sharp. “God, will you get it right? I told you I’m a changed woman. I’ve been reborn . You’re my sister, you should already know that.”

Beth flinches, and the air in the room tightens.

Jake finally speaks, though he won’t even look in my direction. He shuffles his feet a little, dragging his hand through his hair. “This is messed up, Lisa . You said you were helping a friend get away from a bad situation. This is not what I signed up for.”

Lisa turns slowly to face him, her face held too still in a pleasant expression. It’s unnerving and I’m not even on the receiving end of the look.

“We did. She’s Bethy’s friend, and we’re helping her by taking her out of a situation,” she says, syrupy and low.

Jake shakes his head, jaw working. “When you say you’re helping someone out of a situation, it usually implies that they’re in something dangerous or abusive.

I thought I was doing something good. But this?

This isn’t what I signed up for. She’s my fucking ex-girlfriend, for Christ’s sake. ” He’s yelling by the time he finishes.

But I can’t tell if he’s genuinely scared for me or for himself.

I look at him, and I know he can feel my gaze. “My brothers are going to kill you. That is, if Mason doesn’t get there first.”

The woman whirls on me and stalks closer, quicker than I thought she could move. She’s in my face in the span of three heartbeats. “Don’t talk about him like that. You don’t exist for him anymore.”

Beth gently moves the woman out of my face, flashing her a loaded look. “You said I get Abby, remember? You don’t get what you want if I don’t get what I want. That was the deal.”

She says it like it’s a done deal. Like I’m a gift they’re passing around, just waiting to be unwrapped.

My stomach turns, but my brain clears. If I panic, I lose. If I scream, no one hears. So I swallow it. Tuck it away somewhere I can’t reach it now, and I’ll pretend.

I’m not safe. But I’m playing safe.

And that might be the only thing that keeps me alive.