Page 116 of Freckles

It’s notthatlate.

The bus comes every twenty minutes. It will get me into the city by a quarter to eight.

He’ll probably be long gone… but fuck it. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t try.

“I have to go,” I yell to my startled colleague, tearing off my apron. “Sorry.”

He protests but I’m already out the door, running for the bus stop, fingers scrabbling through my bag, trying to find my bus card by feel.

Rain pours down, the typical Wellington gale driving it nearly perpendicular into my face.

I’m ten metres shy of the bus stop when the waiting vehicle closes its doors, pulling away from the curb. The car following sends a sheet of water spraying from its tyres, soaking me to the skin.

Now what?

A scooter! There’s a bright pink model a few shops along and I shelter my phone long enough to bring up the right app.

Despite the lower speed, I can take a more direct route and end up at the hotel only a few minutes after the bus would have got me there. The keycard should be in my pocket, but I can’t find it. My fingers fight the wet denim as they delve into every pocket.

I enter the lobby anyway, planning to dry myself in the bathroom, then ask after Kincaid at the front desk. Four steps from the door, a security guard stops me. “Guests only, madam. Are you staying here?”

“I’m meeting someone.”

He doesn’t budge and I reverse direction, approaching the desk instead. “Kincaid Tana. Room 801.”

The counter clerk’s lips curl as I drip rainwater onto the marble floor. “We don’t have a guest under that name.”

My stomach shrivels. “Try Lance Tana.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Could you call the room and check if—”

“Ma’am, I’m not going to disturb a guest when you’re not even sure of their name. Is it possible you have the wrong hotel?”

He gestures to the guard and I back away. My gaze shoots to the stairs but they’re keycard protected.

If Esther stole the hotel card, she’s going to be sorry.

Not that I have a job any longer. To leave mid-shift is as good as quitting.

I stand outside, sheltering from the rain, unable to think of a new plan. After five minutes, the guard taps on the inside of the glass, waving me along. I give him the finger but walk past the front window, stopping again just before the dark alleyway to the side.

A gloved hand suddenly clamps over my mouth, an arm pinning mine at my sides as I’m dragged backwards into the alley.

I claw at the fingers over my mouth, but the rain turns them slick, I can’t get purchase.

The attacker drags me into a recessed service door halfway along, slamming me against the cold concrete.

When I blink away the rain, Kincaid’s icy glare freezes me in place.

His gloved hand covers my mouth, pressing up against my nostrils until I can only access a sliver of air. “Do you think this is a game, Francesca?”

The words are lost in the cacophony of panic as my body burns through the oxygen in my lungs.

My fists punch against him, not making a dent.

Then his grip loosens. I drag in one breath, then another.

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