I wrap myself in a robe and grab an one for her. I'm already smiling like a moron as I push the door open. My eyes fly to the bed, eager to see Libby's face. But she's not there. I stride into my room and turn a full circle. Empty. The blinds to the right of the bed are cracked, and Libby's clothes are on the floor where I tossed them. The bedroom door is open, so I wonder if she went to another bathroom.
I stride into the hallway. “Libby?”
I look right, but there's no noise farther down the hall, toward the great room. The only thing that's to the left is the foyer. I take a few steps down the hall before I notice the blood spots on the hardwood.
*
~ELIZABETH~
Lockwood has a cloth in my mouth before I can scream. Something burns the inside of my nose, and everything goes dark.
When I come to, the first thing I notice is the dim roar of a small plane. I wince, because it makes my head throb. Why am I flying when I have such a bad headache?
My eyes snap open and I bite back a scream. I suck in a few shallow breaths through the cloth that's tied around my mouth. I listen, but hear only the plane. I see...a ceiling. It's round, of course, and not too wide. I shut my eyes again, hoping for some clarity, but there's nothing. I remember making love to Hunter...and then Lockwood was there.
Holy cow. I can't believe this really happened.
I open my eyes a little wider and look down at my body. I'm lying on a narrow cot, with my arms bound in front of me, and holy crap, I'm almost naked. I'm wearing an oversized, dirty green t-shirt, but it barely comes to my upper thigh. I register some soreness between my legs before my eyes are bouncing around the space again. I slide them to my right, I see Cross. He's lying in a recliner beside me, slumped over on his side, facing the wall. He's not moving. Seeing him so still makes me panic. I gasp, and when I do, I smell the bitter scent again. Some kind of chemical. That must be what put me out.
I turn my head a little, ignoring the skull-splitting ache, and try to get a better look at Cross. But there's nothing to see. He looks...limp. Slowly, with great effort, I turn my head to the left, hoping—no praying—I see Hunter on the bed beside me. When I don't, I feel a rush. That's a good thing, I remind myself. If Hunter was with us, who would rescue us?
And someone has to rescue us...don't they?
That's the last thing I think before the door to our room opens, and Priscilla steps in, a smile splitting her face.
“You’re on your way to Mexico,” she says.
She steps a little closer to me, and I shy away. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.” She walks behind me chuckling. A moment later I feel a pinch in my upper arm, and her face, above me, starts to blur.
I don't know how much time has passed when I wake up and find myself lying on my back in a dingy motel room. Long enough to land a plane, and long enough for my stomach to cramp with hunger, despite a brain-killing headache and the stench of garbage.
I glance down at my aching body. Wrists still tied; ankles now tied. My gaze drifts up to the cracked ceiling, and then back to my body, which feels weak and strange, like I haven't moved in years. I'm lying on a twin bed, on the most disgusting pale yellow bedspread I've ever seen in all my life. Right in front of me, pushed against a cracked yellow wall, is a rickety-looking wooden table with a chipped ceramic flower vase on top. I assume based on the heat that we’ve arrived in Mexico.
God, are we really in Mexico? Part of me can still see Hunter moving over me. Taste the strawberries. How did this happen—and why?
I summon the energy to lift my head and glance over to my right, where I find Cross, lying face-down on the other bed. He looks so...still. My pulse starts pounding.
“C-cross?” As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn't spoken aloud. I lie there for a minute, tense, worried that Priscilla or Lockwood will burst through the warped wood door. When no one does, I try to sit up. Maybe if I kick and strain enough, I can get myself untied. Unfortunately, I find that with my arms tied in front of me and my legs bound, plus the effects of whatever drug I've been given, I have no balance. I can barely even get my shoulders off the mattress.
I press my hands together and try to get some slack in the dirty rope that's squeezing my wrists. No luck.
Oh shit. Now I start to panic. What's going to happen to us? Is Cross okay? Where is Hunter? Even thinking about him makes tears spring into my eyes. I need him so much right now. What if he can't find us?
If he can't find us, I tell myself sternly, you will save the day. You don't need a man to save you. Hunter may have no idea how to reach us; I can't wait for him. If I can just get Cross awake, he and I can try to come up with a plan. In the meantime, I shut my eyes and try to figure out Priscilla and Lockwood's game. Is Cross's dad in on it? Surely not. He and Cross don't get along, but I can't imagine him wanting to hurt his own son. So it's just Priscilla and Lockwood.
I take a deep breath and glance around the room once more. I cast my eyes on Cross, looking desperately for the rise and fall of his shoulders. He's breathing, thank God, but his face seems to be pressed into a pillow. I think about the monitors Nanette had to take off of him for our field trip today. One was for his pulse, the other for his blood oxygen saturation. I forgot what the other one monitored. Nanette said he really didn't need them anymore. He's doing extraordinarily well, but that was before this. What if the drugs he got today make him go back into his coma?
I inhale deeply. Positive thoughts, Elizabeth. You'll find a way out of this. I can't really vanish into Mexico—can I?
I hear a creaking sound, and before I can think to play dead, Lockwood strolls through the door. He's wearing dirty-looking brown workman's pants and a gray button-up shirt. He's got on some kind of big, floppy cowboy hat, which shields most of his sunken-cheeked face. I also notice he's wearing a gun on his belt.
Of course.
Belatedly, I want to shut my eyes, but his gaze is already on me. “What do you think?” He spreads his arms out. “You like your comfy little Mexican hideaway?”
I swallow back a string of curse words. I need to appear calm or he might put me back to sleep. “My wrists hurt,” I answer.
“I didn't ask about your wrists. I asked about your room.” He looks up at the cracked ceiling. “Believe it or not, this is big shit in Mexico.”
“Where are we?” I ask him.
He grins, looking genuinely amused. “You think I'm telling you? All you need to know is this is where we sell 'em. You'll fetch a good price. He may, too,” he says, nodding at Cross's broad back. “He's got nice blue eyes.”