The woman’s lids dropped a fraction. “There are no public trails within twenty miles. And this facility is bordered by a wall.”
“I—I don’t like to stick to trails. Too confining. I’m more of a free spirit. And the wall just made me curious.” Layla’s laugh came out shaky. Please don’t feed me to the wraiths. “Gets me in trouble sometimes. But point me in the right direction, and I’ll be out of here.”
“Afraid we can’t, ma’am,” the man said, his tone final.
“I promise I won’t come this way again.” Her blood surged, and her bladder cramped. Here was the moment to fight or flee, and she suddenly needed to pee.
Not good.
The man ignored her. “You’ll have to come with us.”
“Are you going to call the police?” Actually, calling the police wouldn’t be too bad. Law enforcement would be much better than whatever Segue could do with her.
“We’re going to need your camera, too.” The man stretched out his hand, ignoring her question.
Damn. The time stamps on the digital shots would quickly prove she’d been there for hours, not the MO of a lost hiker. To come so close . . .
She held on to the camera and switched to grit. “So I snapped a few shots of the building. It looked cool. Is that a crime?”
“Now,” the man said. “Or I will take it from you.”
Double damn. No time to pull out the memory card. Layla removed the strap from around her neck and handed over the camera. Wasn’t like she could refuse He-man and She-ra. “Will I get the camera back? It was expensive.”
“This way,” the woman said, turning back into the woods as she took up the lead. The man maneuvered to take up the rear.
“Where are you taking me?”
Neither answered. Crap.
Layla swallowed hard and followed.
Agitation bounced like a bright ball in Layla’s stomach as she followed the male soldier through the ground floor of what used to be the Fulton Holiday Hotel and was now The Segue Institute. She hadn’t counted on getting inside the castle. Inside was a scary place to be, but the soldier didn’t know that she knew it, so she kept her expression modulated to suit her cover story—anxiety mixed with I-want-to-see-the-man-in-charge self-righteousness. And she had in fact requested to see him.
They passed through several sparsely furnished connected rooms. Afternoon sun fell through tall, arched windows. The effect was lovely, elegant. Her imagination flashed with a scene of fancied-up, turn-of-the-century hotel patrons chatting, strolling, taking tea, a ghostly twist of time. She could almost hear violins, the murmur of voices.
When they reached a set of beautiful, paneled doors, she asked for the twentieth time, “Where are you taking me?”
The guard kept his square jaw shut, his ruddy face neutral and composed.
Great. She could see the headline: JOURNALIST DISAPPEARS IN THE APPALACHIAN MOUNTAINS. The last piece with her name on it would be an obituary.
The guard tapped a code into a panel at the door, and she kept an eyeball on the pattern of his fingers. He typed fast—six digits, the first two a five and a three, the rest obscured by a sudden shift of his body.
He was definitely not buying her story, though she had the sweaty, bedraggled ponytail to prove it. She couldn’t help it if she got “lost.” If she “wandered” onto the property of a private research facility. If she “happened” to shoot a photo that would’ve accompanied an article that revealed Segue for what it was.
She attempted to peek around the door before entering, but the guard none too gently nudged her inside. As expected, he closed the door on her plaintive “But, sir, I . . .” and locked her in.
No luck (or pity) there.
Layla turned and surveyed her prison. The room was large and solely furnished with a long table of some dark, varnished wood, surrounded by sleek office chairs. The table probably cost a mint, but then, Adam Thorne had a mint to spend. The rest of the room was similarly Thorne-fabulous, moldings edging the walls, as well as ornately framing the flat expanses all the way to the high ceiling. The floor was made up of glossy wood squares, diagonally arranged in alternating deep and lighter tones. A ballroom with a conference table. Okeydokey.
She shrugged off her backpack, dropping it onto the floor, swiveled the nearest chair out from the table, and collapsed into it. Chairs were lovely things. The long-dry film of sweat that coated her skin cracked with the movement and she caught a whiff of herself. Wow. But very lost hiker–ish.
Now a wait while they decided what to do with her.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat