Page 116 of The Weight Of Falling
I hit speaker and keep the phone in my hand while I punch the code on the back door’s keypad and pull the door. The air outside is cool against my skin.
The driver stands with a clipboard, cap pulled low. There are three stacked cartons on a dolly.
“Hi,” I say, brightly, the way you do when people haul heavy things for your little dream. “Is it the A7s and mailers?”
He nods and lifts the clipboard for me to sign. I reach for it, looking for the signature block.
Then the driver tips his chin, and the brim of the cap shifts just enough for me to see his eyes.
The same pale eyes that made my skin crawl when he asked me for directions.
My pulse spikes, my hand freezing midair.
The driver grins and closes the space between us.
I stumble back a step, Joel’s name tumbling from my lips.
Before I can scream, a white cloth appears from under the clipboard like a bad magic trick. The sharp, chemical smell hits my nose.
No, no, no.
I jerk back, but I’m too late. A hand grabs my arm and the cloth is pressed over my mouth and nose. Panic floods me. My phone slips from my hand and skitters against the concrete, screen still lit.
“Kenzie!”
Joel.
I try to fight. I claw at his wrist, but he’s stronger than I am. My head goes light and my fingers slip. The smell is everywhere—under my skin, inside my lungs. My vision starts to blur.
I hear Joel still shouting my name.
And I desperately want to answer him. I want to tell him the light in the studio was perfect this morning, that Tess said the lemons I drew looked sweet enough to bite, that Sofia wore eyeliner with a wing so sharp it could etch glass.
Most of all, I want to tell him I choose us, again and again and again.
That’s the last thing I remember before the world tilts and darkness consumes me.
50
“Come on, Sleeping Beauty, wakey-wakey,” a voice whispers in my ear.
Something cold and hard taps my temple, aggravating the dull throb there. I crack my eyes open. An unfamiliar ceiling swims in and out of focus. My mouth is bone dry.
I’m still in my clothes and tied down on a bed. Rope bites into my wrists and ankles.
Panic beats its wings inside me, frantic as a trapped moth.
“You took your sweet time waking up,” the voice says, amused.
I turn my head andhe’sthere. The stranger with the pale gray eyes who asked for directions to the White Heart Inn. He’s sitting crosslegged on the floor next to the mattress, a hunting knife held loosely in his hand.
“Where am I?” I whisper.
He rolls his eyes. “Always the boring questions first. A better one is,What are you going to do to me?” He chuckles. “Now that’s an answer I’d be thrilled to walk you through.”
When I don’t say anything, he sighs, like I’ve spoiled his fun. “Fine. You’re somewhere they’ll never think to look. If you want specifics, we’re in an old, abandoned farmhouse.”
That explains the stale, damp air. I lift my head a little. Pain spikes in my temples. In the dim light, I can just make out peeling wallpaper and a sagging dresser.
