Any miniscule chance of obeying his command disappeared when I saw a woman’s face in the background, and it wasn’t Kenna’s. It was Kat’s.
I hit an emergency button on my app and smiled at the man.
“Oh. We got a report of a fire. You’re saying it’s a false alarm?”
I gently tossed my phone a few feet down the hall to my left, sensing it would be stolen otherwise, and took a step back.
Then I kicked the door as hard as I could, doing my best to catch the man off guard.
It worked, and he retreated just enough for me to charge in and yell Kenna’s name.
In response, I heard another thump from behind a closed door next to Kat. It had to be her.
“Kat,” I pleaded.
The man shook his head and raised his fist.
I ducked, and he kicked, knocking the wind out of me.
I fell to the floor, unable to do anything except try to recover and breathe.
In that moment, he grabbed my hands, which were clutching my chest, and forced them behind my back. Then he tied them with something I couldn’t identify, got up briefly, and returned to twist both arms slowly and painfully, one at a time, perhaps testing the cloth he’d used.
I’d just regained my strength and started kicking and yelling when he sat on my legs and twisted my arm more firmly than ever, and everything inexplicably went black.
Twenty
I woke up (or came to) as if I’d been drinking all night. Groggy, bleary-eyed, achy, confused. The only thing different was the cold. Why was I so cold? Where was I? And where were the kids? Were they still with my mom? Tentacles of fear slithered through my body and out my fingers and toes.
Wait. The last place I’d been was Martin Street. With Kenna and Kat. Then what?
It hurt to move anything, but I had to inspect my surroundings.
Kenna was next to me, thank God, but her eyes were closed.
My heart raced, and I forced myself into a sitting position and poked her arm.
“Kenna. Are you okay?” She murmured something, and I jostled her gently. “Wake up, sweetie.” I never called her that, but I was so relieved to see that she was alive and conscious that I was overcome with mommy-ish emotion.
“What’s going on?” she mumbled.
“I don’t know. We were in that apartment with Kat, and now we’re…” I looked around. “Somewhere else.”
The floor was cement, and the entire room was bare, right down to its beams and studs. A night light illuminated scattered drug paraphernalia across the floor. Used syringes. Burned spoons. Lighters. A tattered belt. Sharp, clear broken glass. I hoped our clothes and shoes had protected us from anything dangerous.
The place had to be under construction or being demolished, I wasn’t sure which, and it kind of felt like both. Either way, it had been abandoned, and I wanted to say goodbye to it too. Unfortunately, there was no way out except a staircase in the corner with a door at the top, unless you counted the tiny, oblong, blacked-out windows we might not fit through. Reaching them would be another challenge. Maybe if Kenna stood on my shoulders? That would be risky, given our states. But staying put wasn’t an option.
“We have to get out of here,” I told Kenna, feeling for my phone and key, neither of which were in my pockets. Then I remembered pressing my phone’s emergency button before tossing it away. It should have sent Dean an alert with my location and an emergency message. He and Andy would be looking for us, which meant the police would be too. I had no idea what time it was. How many hours had passed? Could it have been more than a day?
“Kenna, do you have your phone or anything?”
Her eyes stayed closed, and she felt her pockets. “Nothing.”
“Can you move?”
She opened one eye. “Gimme a sec. I’m working on it.”
“Tell me what hurts.”
“Everything. Mostly my face and head. Was I was drugged? I’m just so tired.”
She turned to me, and I saw a bruise around one eye. I tried not to overreact. “You must have been hit in the face.”
“You don’t look so fucking good either.”
Okay. So Kenna wasn’t completely herself. Since she was coming out of what looked like a coma, I gave her a pass.
I felt my face and head and didn’t detect any injuries, which was a relief.
“I remember being tied up before, but I don’t remember much else. Definitely not getting untied or coming here. What were you doing there with Kat?”
She groaned as she rolled toward me and sat up.
“Kat went into the apartment,” she said slowly, “and I heard them arguing. That guy was losing his shit and threatening her. I knocked on the door to distract him, but I accidentally said Kat’s name, and he realized I wasn’t just anyone. He dragged me inside, punched me, taped me to a chair, and took my phone. Kat told him someone had been following her. He didn’t like that. And I wasn’t particularly nice to him either.” She rubbed her wrists, where tape residue remained, and she blinked painfully while taking in the room. “Then that asshole punched me in the face, and that’s all I remember. This place is awful, but at least he’s not here.”
“Not as far as we know,” I whispered. “But whoever he is, Big Tim or whatever, he might come back. We have to go now.”
Kenna winced and rested her head on a knee. “I’m not sure I can get up.”
I stood and held out a hand. “See if you can. Come on. Think about getting back to Sky. I’ll carry you if I have to.” That was true, but it would require a miracle.
“I should have made you do more squats,” Kenna joked, grasping my wrist and pulling. “Ugh. By the way, Kat didn’t call that guy Big Tim. She called him Wayne.”
She stood semi-upright, put an arm around my shoulder, and leaned on me.
“I’m amazed you remember that. Good for you. Well, watch out, Wayne. Here we come.”
We took the creaky wooden staircase, doing our best to be quiet and listen for any signs of Wayne, Kat, or anyone else. I walked behind Kenna, each of us using a splintered railing for balance. I was ready to catch her, or at least break her fall, if necessary.
“I don’t hear anything except us,” Kenna whispered.
“Same.”
At the top of the steps was a dented closed door.
Please be unlocked, I begged repeatedly.
Kenna put her ear to it and eventually gave me a thumbs up. Then she held the knob and tried to turn it, but it didn’t budge. I got the same result.
“Don’t worry,” I said, knowing Kenna was weaker than I’d ever seen her. “We can do this.”
Like many basement doors I’d seen on playdates, this one felt flimsy and looked even worse, and if the lock was anything like mine at home, a kid could probably pick it with time.
Unfortunately, time was not on our side. Sheer will would have to substitute.
I helped Kenna retreat a few steps and told her to hold onto the banister. Then I gripped its ends for leverage and kicked and kicked until the door broke free, and so did we, at least partially, not even close to celebrating yet.
A quick peek told us we were in a central hallway, and there was a rear door off an unlivable “living room” with peeling paint, warped floors, and a water-damaged ceiling.
“Let’s go out the back,” I whispered.
“What if it’s locked?”
“Then we’ll go out a window.”
“What if someone’s outside guarding the place?”
“We’ll kick his ass.” I realized that was unrealistic, and we should have taken a few items from the basement, such as chunks of broken glass. “Hang on. I’m getting weapons. Are you okay?”
She nodded, so I made my way down the steps and found the biggest shards possible, including half a broken beer bottle. Syringes were out of t
he question, but I did snag the belt.
“Here,” I told Kenna when I returned. “Take one of these.” She chose the broken bottle, and I pocketed the other glass, afraid I might cut myself.
“I don’t think I can run,” Kenna said.
“You don’t have to. I’d rather not make that much noise anyway.”
We crept down the hall to the back door, which was also locked, this time with a deadbolt.
As quietly as possible, I unlocked and slid open a nearby window, carefully removed the glass from my pocket, and sliced the screen, squinting as it made a crackling sound. We’d have to crawl through it and onto a covered back porch, but then I hoped we’d be free.
“What’s that?” Kenna asked a moment too late. Beeping was coming from the front of the house, and I recognized it as the warning before a home alarm goes off, which would probably alert anyone but the police.
“An alarm. Hurry.”
I pushed through the screen, pretending its scratches didn’t hurt, and helped Kenna follow, urging her to race down the porch’s steps into bright sunlight, which was welcome but insulting to our freshly conscious brains. There were also trees. Lots of trees.
“I hear cars past the forest,” Kenna whispered. “Do you?”
“Yes. Let’s go.”
I ignored my usual instinct to avoid ticks and other critters while Kenna and I dashed into the grove and made a path for ourselves, pushing branches, weeds, and “hope-that’s-not-poison-ivy” out of our way. I took the lead, holding branches while Kenna moved safely past them.
Mostly, we were quiet, other than grunting as we avoided prickly shrubs and thick roots. Eventually, after countless backward glances to ensure we were alone, my guilty conscience forced its way out.
“I’m so sorry I got you into this,” I told Kenna. “So sorry.”
“Hey, I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”
“You wanted excitement, but not like this.”
“Stop it, Nicki. We’re going to be fine. I’m the one to blame. I said Kat’s name.”
“You were trying to help her.”
“You know what? We did what we promised to do. We found Kat. We figured out whether or not she’s safe. She’s not, so we offered to help. We know where she’s spending time, and that she’s choosing to put herself in danger. Case closed. Right? It’s a sad ending, but…”
I let her sentence trail off and kept my thoughts to myself.
Kat’s current ability to choose anything was debatable. And our promise wasn’t to see if she was safe. Our promise was to do everything we could to make sure she was okay. At the time, I’d thought Kenna’s “everything” might be more than mine. Now I wasn’t sure.
Before long, we emerged from the woods, ready to collapse with exhaustion and relief, knowing that was the last thing we could do.
Even without displaying glass shards or a leather belt, we must have been intimidating. Several drivers zipped by as we limped along the closest road, waving for help. Being scratched, bruised, and disheveled apparently wasn’t enough (or was too much) to disrupt peoples’ lives. I was losing faith in humanity when someone finally pulled up beside us.
“You two okay?” the driver asked.
“Yes and no,” I blurted. “We need help.”
“I’m an off-duty sheriff’s deputy,” he said. He held out an ID for us to inspect. Either he was visiting from a neighboring county, or we were in one. “You two obviously need medical attention. What happened?”
“Are we in Davis County?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Is that where you’re from?”
“No. King County,” I said. I reached for my ID before remembering I’d left everything except my car key and phone in the van.
“We’re neighbors then,” he said. Davis and King Counties bordered each other and often collaborated on local issues. He said something official into a radio. “What are your names?”
“Is he for real?” Kenna whispered. “My vision’s not the best right now.”
“I think so,” I confirmed. I looked at him. “Are you calling for backup? I think that would be best. We were beat up and left in a house back there.”
I heard his doors unlock.
“Get in and get warm,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe and take care of everything.”
Kenna squeezed into the car, her long legs barely fitting behind the driver’s side.
“Backseat of a car never felt so good,” she mumbled as the car’s warmth began to soak in. “No offense to my college boyfriend.”
For better or worse, her personality was returning at full strength.
I squeezed her hand and filled in Deputy Johnston as much as possible. We used his phone to call Dean and Andy, who had been searching for us and demanded to meet us ASAP—and to track our phones, both of which were off.
“Will you get email alerts if your phones are turned back on?” Johnston asked.
“You can do that?” Kenna responded, surprised.
I hadn’t known either, despite trying to keep up with technology.
“Sometimes. I’ll explain it. But first, can you describe that house? I promise you’re safe now, and another car’s going to join us.”
Lights flashed in the distance, and before we’d said much, another deputy gave us a polite, warm greeting and said an ambulance was on the way.
“Let’s find the house so you can start investigating,” Kenna said. “Then we’ll get checked out. Okay?”
“Otherwise I bet she’s going to refuse treatment,” I said.
The deputies looked at each other and nodded.
“I think I know which house it is,” Johnston said. “But if you’re okay with it, we’ll confirm it together.”
Kenna and I gave our consent.
“I’ll have EMS meet us there,” the second deputy said. “And I’ll follow you.”
Johnston knew exactly where to go without any guidance from us.
As we talked in the car, I realized he wasn’t thoroughly convinced we weren’t drug users caught up in a bad deal. Thankfully, my brain was gradually returning to its normal function, and I gave him Detective Brunelli’s name so he could confirm our identities and report what had happened. I also reminded him that the King County police were looking for us.
As Johnston pulled up to the house, we verified he had the right one, and he verified it was a drug den. Our conversation was cut short by the arrival of two ambulances and the immediate determination that we should visit the ER before doing anything else.
It was there, before getting blood work done, that Kenna and I noticed something beyond disturbing. Both of us already had fresh pinpricks on our arms.
The reality hit us and the medical staff quickly.
We hadn’t just been drugged. We’d been injected.
Twenty-One
Our physical exams, blood tests, and urinalyses were relatively normal, but we’d have to wait for some of the results. Based on our description of the morning, the doctor had named various drugs we could have been given, but testing for them wasn’t standard and would have to be sent out. To everyone’s great relief, Kenna and I didn’t suspect sexual assault, and there was no evidence of it. Some tests, however, such as HIV, would need to be done more than once, so this was just the beginning.
That was hard for Kenna and me to accept. I was picky about anything that went into my body, and the thought of an unknown drug—with mystery side effects and a potentially dirty needle—was so awful that I couldn’t even think about it. Seeing my expression as our situation’s gravity sunk in prompted the nurse to share a personal story with me.
“I got stuck with an HIV-positive patient’s needle once. That was ten years ago, and I’m okay. I understand your fear, but we’re going to take good care of you.”
I didn’t ask, “
Risk-wise, how does getting stuck compare with getting injected?” because I didn’t want to hear the answer.
What I did want to know, or thought I wanted to know, was the truth about what had happened.
And there were at least two people who could tell me about it. Wayne. And Kat.
This case felt anything but closed.
Dean and Andy picked us up in separate cars, which was good, since I preferred to avoid Andy. He and Kenna had some sorting out to do. If he had anything to say about it, her PI career would have been over before it started. For now, she had a concussion and had to take it easy anyway. The hospital had offered to keep us overnight, but we’d declined.
Thankfully, Dean was as supportive as possible. His protests were in the form of questions like, “How are you feeling about continuing?” and “How dangerous are you going to let things get?” His best attempt was, “You’re a victim. The police are going to take care of this.”
That kind of got me.
In some ways, Kenna was right. We’d found Kat. We could report our general findings to Corey and be done with it. I could go home, shower, pick up the kids at Mom’s, and proceed with life, hoping and praying we’d survived the day’s events without long-term physical or emotional damage.
Dean and I hadn’t discussed it yet, but being injected meant I could have something transmittable, or heaven forbid, several things. Maintaining abstinence would be a medical, not just moral, dilemma.
And the kids…I was their only living parent. What had I done? And how much more could I do?
But if the police didn’t find Kat, I’d never stop thinking about her and wondering if I should have done more.
I looked at Dean, feeling lost.
“I don’t know what to do.” My voice was almost a whisper.
“What do you mean?”
“About this case. About my career. I’m a mom. Am I a horrible parent to be involved in something like this?”
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