Page 94 of The Vagabond

The intruder is dressed clean, sharp. Long coat. Hands in his pockets. His face is covered with a balaclava. He waits—just outside her door—watching her fumble with the lock. Then he moves. Fast. Maxine doesn’t hear him. She doesn’t see him as he reaches out and hits her from behind.

His arm swings up andcrack—her body crumples to the floor just inside the apartment. The tote bag goes flying. Her keys scatter.

She’s down. But not out. She kicks out at him.

I lurch forward in my chair, my stomach turning. She’s trying. Even half-conscious, she’s still fighting. She scrambles through the living room, dragging herself on her elbows. I can see the panic in her eyes, even in low resolution.

The man steps inside, calm, and shuts the door with the heel of his shoes. My fists clench so hard that my knuckles crack.

He circles her like he has all the time in the world. Watches her struggle to crawl away. She reaches for something out of frame, but he’s already there. He grabs her by the ankle and yanks. Her scream doesn’t carry through the feed, but I feel it. I feel it like a knife under my ribs.

She kicks again, scratches at the floor. I’m sure her nails leave drag marks on the floorboards. The man drops a foot to her back, holding her down even as she continues to crawl away from him. He lowers himself to one knee beside her, presses something—a cloth?—over her mouth.

No.

Her arms thrash, her head jerks from side to side. She’s not giving up. But he holds it there. Firm. Patient. And slowly, too slowly—her jerky movements slow down. Then stop. She goes limp.

I stare, heart punching against my ribs as he scoops her up like she weighs nothing. One arm under her knees. One around her back. Her head lolls against his chest, her hair hiding her face.

He walks toward the door and pauses—just for a second. Then he looks up. Right at the camera.Right. At. Me.Like he knows I’m watching. I shoot to my feet, fury exploding in my chest. The camera glitches for half a second, static ripping through the image, and when it clears—he’s gone. Maxine is gone.

The door hangs open — gaping, waiting — exactly how I found it. He was halfway out when I arrived, slipping past me just as I crossed the threshold. And there I am, sprawled in the entryway, unmoving.

Rage coils tight in my chest. I drive my fist into the desk, hardenough to send the laptop skidding, crashing to the floor with a sharp, echoing crack.

My vision has narrowed to a single thought, pounding like a war drum inside my skull.

“Fuck!”

The sound echoes through the apartment like a death sentence.

Someone took her, and I have no idea where she is or with who.

I grip the back of the chair, my knuckles going white as the vengeance claws up my throat and threatens to tear itself out of me.

I’m going to find her. And when I do, I’m going to rip apart the motherfucker who took her. I’ll drag him out of whatever hole he’s hiding in and make him watch while I take everything from him. Because Maxine Andrade is mine to protect. And I don’t give a single goddamn who I have to destroy to get her back.

38

MAXINE

The first thing I register is the taste of blood. Metallic. Sharp. It coats my tongue like rust. The second is the ache in my skull—a deep, pulsing throb at the base of my neck that reminds me I was drugged. Again. My body knows it before my mind catches up. The sluggish limbs. The queasy weightlessness. The hollow ache behind my eyes.

But I don’t panic. I’ve been here before. Not this exact place, maybe. But this feeling. The cold, airless dread. The fluorescent hum of captivity. I know what happens if I let it in—the panic. I’ll spiral. So I bury it deep, where it can’t reach me.

The light stings as I pry my eyes open. My vision flickers, blurry at first, until the shape of the room bleeds into focus. Concrete floor. Stained rafters. I’m in a basement. It’s a wide, empty expanse of dimly lit floorspace. I sit facing a set of rickety old metal stairs, a faded dark red color, with a heavy metal door at the top.

My muscles ache, and I feel as though I’ve taken an excruciating beating. That’s when I realize that my hands are bound behind my back, my wrists rubbing against each other. My feet,too, will not move when I try to stretch them. They’re flat against the floor, bound with tape, creating friction between my ankles.

My eyes adjust to the dim light, and as they do, a shadow moves, footsteps pacing towards me. Someone steps into the light.

Zack.

For a moment, my brain tries to protect me. Tries to twist his features into someone else—anyone else. For a breath, I still see the boy with the flirty smile. The gentle sarcasm. The illusion. But illusions die quick when you’re tied to a chair.

Because standing here now, hands in his pockets like this is the place where he’s most comfortable, is not the same Zack. His mouth still tilts in that smirk he always wore—but now it curdles at the edges. It’s not boyish or charming anymore. It’s vile. Vicious. Cloying.

And the way he just stands there, not even pretending to reach for the chains holding me down? That’s what tells me everything I need to know; that he is so much more of a threat to me than I ever imagined.

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