Alive (Book 1)

Twenty-Two

My wrists hurt when I came to. As my surroundings solidified in my blurry vision, I realized, much to my chagrin, that I was tied up. The space around me was empty and dull, and if I didn't know better, I'd say I was in a storage facility. A meager light flickered above me, but besides that, there was darkness.

I worked to get some feeling back in my stiff body, flexing my aching leg muscles and neck. I wondered how long I had been hanging there, because all the blood had already drained from my fingers. They were tingly and numb; not a good sign.

August.

My mouth was dry, and that was why I thought of him, because the lingering presence of him still clung to every part of my body. It was the wrong thing to be thinking about, especially since I was so clearly kidnapped, and nothing good ever came out of that for me. But it happened anyway, like the heat that rose to my cheeks and the unabashed acknowledgment of how much I really, honestly wanted him in that moment. How I had never quite felt anything like that in my life. How it scared the shit out of me.

How I needed to suppress it and forget it and make sure it never happened again.

Because I was Ellie Armstrong, an emotionally-handicapped eighteen-year-old who didn't even known how to handle a stupid crush on a guy she had no business having a crush on, and was running for her life waiting until the day she died, and finally coming to terms with the fact that she might just not want to die as much as she thought she did, but it seemed inevitable, anyway. I was a series of unbelievable, unfortunate events that were scattering in all sorts of directions, and I could hold onto nothing.

I was a fractured mess of jagged pieces that kept slicing open my palm every time I tried to put myself back together.

A wedge of harsh white light spilled into the room from behind me, paired with the creaking sound of an industrial door opening and shutting. On instinct I braced myself, not sure what to expect.

The last person I thought I would see walk in front of me was Ray.

And that was when I knew I was in trouble.

"Ellie," he said, voice toneless and cold. He wasn't wearing his cop uniform any longer, but jeans and a navy blue t-shirt. "So good to see you again."

My entire leg flamed up, a phantom ache from remembering. "Your station . . ."

"Gone," he answered. "Just like you said. All those supposed 'Prophets' killed everybody . . . well, everybody but me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm valuable, Ellie Armstrong." He stopped talking, pausing in his pacing, long enough to bore an angry gaze through my face. "You killed my partner."

There it was. My blood chilled, because I knew that look in his eyes, and it never meant anything good for me. "I'm sorry."

I meant it. He didn't care. "Sorry's not good enough. Sorry won't bring her back."

"Ray . . ."

"Don't say my name!" he shouted, spit flying furiously from his mouth. I pressed my lips together and clammed up. A vein in his neck throbbed, face splotching with patches of red. He closed his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose, and then a placid smile spread across his face.

"Anyway," he began again, voice airy and decidedly less ticked off. "The important thing is, I know who you are, now. And I can finally exact some revenge."

"Please," I begged. "I didn't mean to kill them. They were just . . . I'm not bad, I swear."

It was funny, though, how people didn't listen. How they didn't give a hoot to what you were saying if they already gave credit to their beliefs and preconceptions. And that was what happened between Ray and me, as he flexed his fingers and cracked his knuckles. My body would never get a chance to fully heal.