by Tania Joyce
Kyle turned to Hunter, the blood draining from his face. “I know who took that photo. I know who it is—”
Marshall gloated. “Cell number is registered to a—”
Kyle’s mouth ran so dry, he could barely say her name. “It’s Vicki.”
Marshall continued. “Vicki Rogers. You know her?”
“Oh my fucking God.” Kyle keeled over and clutched his knees. His vision tunneled toward darkness. “It’s Vicki.”
How had he been so blind? He remembered Vicki in Vegas. The way she’d disregarded his concerns about Gemma passing out. How she’d begged him not to leave the club. His skin crawled, recalling her touch. Fuck. He had wanted to invite her to the wedding. What an idiot. What the hell had she done to Gemma?
Hunter shook his head. “You’re kidding, right? Vicki?”
A ringing noise burst inside his head like ear-splitting feedback from a speaker. His skull hurt, but he had to get out of there. He had to get to Gemma. “We have to go. Go now.” He waved at Hunter, Sam and Mick, and charged toward the door.
“Whoa.” Jones stood. “You’re not going anywhere. This is a police matter. With the threats made, we have to take precautions.”
Kyle’s veins scorched with fire. He had no time for logic. He needed action. “You think I’m not taking this seriously? You can follow your procedures, but I’m going. You can’t stop me.”
Sam leaped from his chair and blocked the doorway. “Kyle, I agree with Jones on this.”
“Vicki has Gem.” Agony sawed in his voice. “I have to go. With or without you.”
“Don’t be a fool.” Sam’s sharp tone was like a clip to the back of the head. “If Vicki’s crazy, she could be armed. Don’t try and be a hero. You could put her in further danger. Risking your life is not worth it.”
Kyle’s eyes stung. Every muscle and tendon in his body screamed. “Gem is worth risking everything for.”
“Bud.” Hunter grabbed his arm. “Please, let’s do this the right way.”
Tears burned the back of his eyes. His chest ached. “If she’s hurt . . . “
Hunter’s eyes flickered with as much pain as Kyle felt tearing his body apart. “Let’s not go down that path.”
“I have to be there.” Kyle swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy.
Jones gave him a stern glare. “You need to follow our procedures. We’ll go to Vicki’s home, analyze the situation and question her. You can wait down the street. If she has Gemma, her safety may be compromised if Vicki sees you, or . . . she may not even be there.”
She’d better be.
After running through the processes of what was to happen and the way the detectives would handle the situation, Jones glared at him. “You do not come anywhere near Vicki’s home until we give the all clear. Got it?”
Kyle closed his eyes and gave a reluctant nod.
After picking up Chester, they headed for New Jersey. Dylan drove the Suburban as fast as he could.
Stopping a couple houses down from Vicki’s place, Kyle’s heart raced. The pale blue two-story townhouse with plantation shutters looked unimposing from the outside with its mowed lawn and trimmed hedges. But if Gemma was in there, its veil of innocence would be stripped away.
“Okay,” Sam said from the front seat. “We wait here until Jones calls and gives the all clear.”
Jones and Morris pulled their cruiser into Vicki’s driveway. Adrenaline spiked through Kyle’s veins like shockwaves on steroids. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. The detectives stepped out of the car, straightened their gun holsters, buttoned their suit jackets, and headed up the pathway.
Tapping his heel and fidgeting with his watch, Kyle inched forward on the center rear passenger seat. He leaned closer to the windscreen as the detectives approached the house.
At the top of the steps, Morris turned in their direction, gave a short nod.
Jones rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck.
He raised his hand and knocked on the door.
Kyle held his breath. His heartbeat hammered like a drum.
Oh God. Gem, please be in there.
I need you.
Please be okay.
Chapter 19
Gemma woke, shivering and shaking in Vicki’s dark bedroom. The gag around her mouth was new. So were the binds around her wrists and ankles. She tried to move but couldn’t. Her heart clambered to her parched throat. Somebody, please help. Pictures of Kyle stuck to the wall stared back at her, and her heart ached. Her eyes stung. I don’t want to die! She needed her fairy fucking godmother to turn up and get her the hell out of here.
She wanted to go home. To Kyle. Chilling perspiration filmed over her skin, dripped into her eyes, ran down her cheeks and clung strands of hair to her face. The rancid, putrid smell of pot, crack, and ice hung thick in the air. And was that vomit? In her hair? Ew!
A sliver of afternoon light came in from the narrow window above the bed. How long had she been asleep? What day was it? Drugs fogged her head. The effects made her limbs feel even heavier, rendering her immobile with the binds. She needed water. Her mouth was as dry as deadwood. The gag had absorbed every droplet of moisture. Her body was weak from lack of food. They’re going to starve me to death. She hadn’t eaten since they’d kidnapped her. Turning her head an inch, the glass on the nightstand tempted her. But everything she drank had been laced by Vicki with God only knew what to keep her comatose. She doubted this water would be any different.
Not that she could remove her gag and reach it anyway. She didn’t have the strength.
There was a knock. Downstairs. At the front door.
Gemma’s pulse jumped so high her head spun. The door to Vicki’s room stood slightly ajar. She could hear people talking, just.
“Good afternoon. Are you Vicki Rogers?” A man’s voice drifted up the stairs.
Gemma closed her eyes to concentrate, listen. Who is it? Can they help?
“Yes.” Vicki’s tone held no care.
“I’m Detective Jones; this is Detective Morris. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Miss Gemma Lonsdale.”
“What’s wrong with Gemma?”
“We have a report that she’s missing.”
Gemma’s heart jackhammered against her ribs. They’re here. She fought to find a droplet of moisture in her mouth to call out. Help. But her frail voice was nothing but a muffled whisper against the thick wad of fabric tied across her lips. She didn’t possess the energy to formulate a scream. Fear scrambled up her throat. She had to let them know she was here. How?
Vicki’s voice wafted up to the bedroom; her tone was embedded with innocence. “She’s missing? Kyle rang yesterday and asked if I’d seen her, but I didn’t know she was missing.”
“Can we come inside?” Jones asked. “We’d like a few minutes of your time to ask you some questions.”
Gemma wriggled on the bed, too weak to move more than a couple inches. Her eyes burned, but no tears formed; her eyes were too dry and gritty from dehydration.
Please, please come inside. I need help.
What could she do to attract attention?
Vicki took on a sheepish tone. “My place is a mess. Can we talk here on the porch?”
“We’d really like to come in so we can get a formal statement.”
That must have been Morris, the other detective.
“Sure.” There was no hesitation in Vicki’s voice. How could she sound so calm? “Please, come into the living room.”
The living room? That was on the other side of the hallway. They wouldn’t hear her from there. Would they? She needed to make noise now. But how? Twisting her head to look around, desperation grappled her brain for ideas. She could hear the detectives asking questions. Vicki played along, acting upset. Ergh. That bitch.
Gemma needed to rattle something. Hit something. Break something. Forcing her limbs to move, she slid her hand across the mattress toward the nightstand. Each finger felt like a leaden nail. Each inch too
k seconds. Each breath sapped her energy. Biting into the gag and gritting her teeth, she thrust her hand onto the flimsy nightstand. Panting, and with the last fragment of her strength, she pushed the ceramic lamp toward the edge. It took the glass with it and smashed to the wooden floor.
Crash.
Yes! Gemma held her breath, hoping they’d heard.
“What was that?” Morris asked.
Gemma swallowed, trying to find her voice again. Her lips were dry and cracked; her tongue was swollen; her throat begged for moisture with every breath. “Help. Please.”
God, she could barely hear herself over the gag, let alone someone downstairs. Weak from the exertion, she slumped against the mattress. She had nothing left. Sweet Jesus, help me.
“Mind if we check it out?” Morris said.
Gemma prayed. Yes. Please. Come.
“It’s nothing.” Vicki’s response was quick and flippant. “Probably just the cat.”
Cat? There’s no fucking cat. Come.
“Sounded like broken glass,” Morris said. “Better make sure your cat is okay.”
Footsteps. There were footsteps on the wooden floors. Yes. Her heart raced. Drawing her hand above her head, she grabbed the metal frame of the bed and tried to rattle it, but it didn’t make a squeak.
More footsteps.
Vicki’s voice jumped. “The sound didn’t come from up there. It was outside.”
“Then you won’t mind if I take a quick look.” Morris’s voice drew closer.
“Please,” Vicki pleaded. “Don’t go up there. My room’s a mess.”
“Miss, I’ll be quick.”
“NO!” Vicki screeched. There was a scuffle of footsteps. “Don’t touch me. Get your hands off me.”
“Ma’am, please stop.” Jones groaned as if wrestling Vicki. “Before I arrest you for assault.”
Loud thuds ascended the staircase.
Gemma moaned and whimpered, anything to make noise so whoever was coming could hear. The rock goddess was gone; a frantic innocent on death row took her place.
Through the curtain of her messy hair and her sore eyes, she saw a man appear in the doorway. With his plain navy suit, white shirt and jaw squarer than Rami Malek’s, he was no sparkling, glittery fairy godmother, but she’d take him.
Too weak to do anything, her eyes fluttered shut. A lone tear slipped from the corner of her eye.
“Jones,” Morris hollered. “She’s here. Bound and gagged. You right with Vicki?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll call the paramedics.” Morris rushed to her side and removed her gag and binds. “It’s okay Gemma. We got you. You’re safe now.”
Oh. Thank. God.
She sobbed. Relief seeped into her heavy bones like thick tar. She drifted in and out of consciousness. She had no idea how much time passed. Was it seconds? Minutes? Hours? Then she heard familiar thudding footsteps on the wooden floor. Her heart pounded. Kyle. He’s here.
“Kyle. No.” Vicki’s screech hit Gemma’s ears as if she was standing right beside her, not downstairs. “No.”
“Where is she?” Kyle yelled.
Jones’s voice drifted up to Gemma. “She’s upstairs. Morris is with her. Paramedics are moments away.”
“NO!” screamed Vicki. “Kyle. Stay with me, not her. Don’t go up there. Please don’t.”
Thunderous footsteps charged up the steps.
“Oh fuck. Gem.” Kyle rushed to her side.
Her angel had arrived. Her eyes fluttered open and shut. She wanted to speak, cry, fling her arms around him, but weakness rendered her useless.
He sat on the bed, stroked her face, kissed her, hugged her. “Babe, I’m here. I’m here. Oh God, please be okay.” His hands trembled against her face. “Shit. You’re burning up.”
She breathed him in. He smelled so good like whiskey and spice. Dizziness rushed through her head. He’s here. Kyle’s here.
More footsteps. Hunter’s voice hovered overhead. “Holy shit. Look at this fucking place.” Through burning eyes, Gemma saw him glance at the walls as he fell onto his knees beside her head. “Gem. We’re here. We found you.” His fingertips felt cool against her hot skin as he stroked her forehead.
Hunt. You came, too. Her vision blurred and she closed her eyes again. Her heart rate skyrocketed and she panted for air. Everything was hot. Too hot. She clutched at the sheet.
Burning. Everything’s burning.
She heard Sam and Chester and Mick, ordering each other around to get towels, get water, get ice to reduce her fever.
Kyle hooked his arm beneath her shoulders to help her sit up, but her body slumped. Her head lolled back. “Gem, baby, please wake up.” His voice, soft and shaky, pleaded. He stroked strands of sticky hair off her face and placed her back on the pillow.
Regardless of how hard she tried, she couldn’t open her eyes. Not again.
Sirens wailed and screamed down the street.
Thank fuck.
She’d be okay.
Everything would be okay.
It had to be.
Muffled sounds drifted around her. Oxygen mask. IV needle. Flashes of light in her eyes. Carried, lifted onto a gurney, placed into the back of an ambulance.
Kyle stayed by her side, never letting go of her hand. Hunter mirrored his actions on her other side. These guys were her life.
As the ambulance raced toward the hospital with sirens blaring, Gemma’s eyes flickered open. Kyle’s eyes were rimmed with red. He clutched her hand to his lips. His cool touch soothed her skin.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For everything. I love you. So much.”
Some alarm beeped by her head.
“What’s that?” Hunter jumped, clutching her hand tighter.
“Her blood pressure’s dropping.” The paramedic by her head flicked a switch or two.
Gemma couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. She just wanted to sleep.
“Move,” the paramedic snapped.
Was that directed at Kyle? Or Hunter? Gemma couldn’t tell.
Another alarm sounded.
“What’s that one?” Panic gripped Kyle’s voice.
“Her heart rate’s dropping.”
“Gemma . . . Gemma . . . what are you doing? Stay with me.” Kyle squeezed her hand, but hers felt like a deadweight. His voice sounded close, then far away. Close, then far away. “Gemma. GEMMA?”
The oxygen mask reappeared over her nose. Another needle pricked her arm. She didn’t even flinch as she was prodded and poked.
“Gemma. GEMMAAAAAAAAA.”
Kyle’s cry was the last thing she heard.
Chapter 20
Lights flashed overhead. A frenzy of whizzing wheels and fast footsteps clattered over the floor. Through thin slits, Gemma saw blurry visions of people in teal scrubs rushing around her gurney. Voices rambled. “Blood pressure seventy/fifty. Pulse forty-three. Possible drugging with GHP, methamphetamine and diazepam.”
Sticky monitors and tape pulled her skin and she groaned. Fire burned beneath her flesh. She wanted to rip and scratch at it, but her limbs didn’t work. Her breath sliced her lungs. Nausea heaved and swelled in her gut like a boat on a wild ocean. Bluuugh. Bitter vomit filled her mouth and she spluttered and spat. Someone wiped a cool cloth across her lips. Her eyes fluttered closed. She slipped into darkness.
***
Crisp sheets itched her skin. Cool air enveloped her. Cackling laughter on low volume filtered from a nearby TV.
Gemma sensed him before she opened her eyes. His hand lying beside hers on the mattress. His woodsy scent filling her head. Her body ached to touch him, have him hold her. Ignoring the scratchiness in her dry eyes, she pried them open.
“Oh. Thank. God.” Kyle lunged forward from the chair beside the bed and kissed her. Tears escaped down his cheeks. “You’re awake. You’re awake.” He kissed her lips, her forehead, her cheeks, again, again, not letting her go.
He was there. His warmth seeped into every cell of her bo
dy. “Hi,” she whispered, her throat sore and arid.
Sitting on the bed beside her, he pressed his forehead to hers and stroked her hair. “You okay? You scared the hell out of me.”
Her head ached, her body ached—everything ached. But she was alive. “Where am I?” Seeing the IV in her arm, the ugly nightgown she wore, and bland surroundings. she could easily guess. But how did she get here?
“You’re in hospital.” Kyle sniffled, rubbed his nose.
She squeezed her eyes shut, afraid of the random, blurry images that flashed behind her eyelids. Vicki’s room. The drugs. The hate in Vicki’s eyes. Was it real or had it been a nightmare? Nothing made sense. Her voice came in a staggered whisper. “Vicki . . . wants to kill me.”
He lowered his chin; anguish contorted his face. “I’m so sorry. I never suspected her. Never knew she felt that way. She’ll be in jail for a very long time.”
Gemma sobbed; tears slipped from her eyes. “She was my friend.” Her trust in those close to her had been shattered yet again. Only Vicki made the awful things others had done look like child’s play. Vicki was pure evil.
He wiped her wet cheek with the pad of his thumb. “She had us all fooled.” He entwined their fingers and kissed the back of her hand.
Her eyes focused on their ring fingers. The absence of wedding bands crushed her heart. “We didn’t get married.”
Kyle shook his head in slow motion. “Shh. Don’t worry about that now. We’ll sort it out later. When you’re better. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”
The evening sunset threw a golden glow through the venetian blinds. Gemma had lost all sense of time. “How long . . . what time is it?”
“It’s Sunday afternoon. You’ve been in here nearly twenty-four hours.”
Sunday. What? It felt like a couple hours had passed, not days. “How did you find me?”
Kyle ran his thumb over the back of her hand. “You’re not going to believe this, but Taylah—we ran into her at the police precinct. She recognized a common phrase on the letters and posts on Facebook. I’ll fill you in with details later. We got a lucky break.”
