I do claw, but the rope is already digging in, my nails shredding against it. I kick backward. Rear kick. Side kick. Roundhouse kick. I know them all, but my foot never makes contact. Even when I manage to get my hand behind my neck, all I feel is that length of rope.
He hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t made a sound.
My sneakers scuff against the stone, and I’m gasping, the world tinging red at the edges.
I am suffocating. I am going to die, and there isn’t a goddamn thing I can do about it.
Fight. That’s what I can do. Fight in any way possible.
My kicking foot finally makes contact. Hard contact. The man grunts and staggers, and I get my balance again. I throw myself forward, but he’s already recovered, wrenching me off balance.
The man yanks again, as if growing impatient. I am taking so long to die. I twist, and down the alley, two figures shimmer. A young woman with honey-blond hair, in a cornflower-blue dress, as a shadowy figure has his hands wrapped around her throat.
The figures vanish, and I fight anew, but I’m off balance and can’t do more than flail.
I’m sorry, Nan. I’m sorry I won’t be with you. I know I promised—
The world goes dark.
TWO
I wake on a bed. It’s not exactly soft, but considering what just happened to me, I’d be happy with a stone pallet. Better than a wooden casket.
There’s a rough pillow under my head and a stiff coverlet over me. A hospital? When I crack open my eyes, pain trumpets through my skull, and I shut them again.
My ribs feel tight, as if they’ve been bound. Nothing else hurts, though. I’m wearing what feels like a hospital gown, tugging at me when I move.
The room is chilly and damp. When I breathe in, there’s the smell of … camphor? That’s the word that comes to mind, though I’m not even sure what camphor is. Something medicinal. Definitely a hospital, then.
Definitely? It seems very quiet for a hospital. No footsteps on linoleum floors. No creaking of gurney or supply-cart wheels. No blipping of machines or whisper of voices.
I try peeking again, but the pain forces me into retreat.
I survived. That’s all that matters. A man lured me in with that video, and I fell for it. Someone must have heard the noise and rescued me.
In the alley, I’d remembered an article sent by a colleague. A fellow detective who also had his eye on advancement. According to the article, two bodies had been found in Edinburgh, possibly the baby steps of a nascent serial killer.
My colleague joked that maybe I could investigate it and become a homicide detective with Scotland Yard. I hadn’t had the heart to tell him that Scotland Yard isn’t in Scotland. Let’s just say one of us has a better chance of climbing the law-enforcement ladder than the other.
I’d only skimmed the article, and mostly just to reassure myself that I wouldn’t risk becoming victim number three. The victims had been a middle-aged man killed midday in his car and an elderly woman murdered in her garden. While the murder weapon—old hemp rope—suggested a connection, the police suspected the victims themselves would end up being connected. Targeted killings rather than the thrill-motivated actions of a serial killer.
A visitor out for a jog was in no danger at all … unless she spilled coffee on the killer.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around that. I was targeted for murder, not because I had a life-insurance policy or a long-standing feud with a neighbor. I was targeted for an everyday offense. An accident, for which I sincerely apologized and tried to make amends. Part of me is laughably offended.
Plenty of time to dwell on that later. For now, my colleague’s joke might actually come true. At least the part about me helping in a homicide investigation.
I have critical information on a serial killer. A face, emblazoned in my memory. A motive, as mind-boggling as it might be. A potential location, as the man’s jacketless dress shirt had suggested he worked in a nearby office. I know what he looks like and how he chooses his victims and where police can start canvassing for an ID. It’d be much more impressive if I learned that as a cop, rather than a victim. No matter. At least I hadn’t actually died.
Died.
Nan.
I lever up in bed, my head and stomach lurching together as I swallow bile. I gag and then force myself to slow down. If I vomit, they’ll keep me in the hospital. I need to get to Nan. Everything else can wait.
The room is dark. I blink, in case my eyes are still closed. They aren’t. My head booms, and thoughts flit like fireflies, sparks of light that disappear before I can catch them.
Something’s wrong.
Hospital rooms aren’t this dark. How many times has Nan grumbled about that? Even in the middle of the night, there’s so much light.
I’m not in a hospital.
I scramble from the bed, the damned gown binding my legs and nearly toppling me face-first to the floor. While my outfit might feel like restraints, I’m not actually bound. Also, as my eyes adjust, I can make out a sliver of harsh light under a door.
I’m standing on a lumpy carpet, but in one step I’m on ice-cold wood. I catch smells I don’t recognize. There’s that one that keeps whispering “camphor.” The word strikes me as old-fashioned. Maybe something from Nan’s house?
Nan.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Great. My thoughts have metamorphosed from lazily fluttering fireflies to a hive of bees, buzzing about, stingers at the ready.
Slow down.
Step one: open the door.
I make it two more paces before the damn gown tangles up my legs, and I stumble.
Why the hell does this hospital gown reach my ankles? It takes longer than it should for that question to form, proof that my brain is still muddled. I tug at the garment. It’s more like a nightgown, and there’s something under it, something that stops me from breathing deeply. I run my hands up my sides.
Am I wearing a corset?
Holy shit, I’m wearing a corset and a nightgown. Also some kind of wig—I can feel hair against my back where it normally falls on my shoulders.
I’m not safely in a hospital. My attacker has taken me hostage. Strangled me until I lost consciousness and brought me to some … I’d say “lair” if that didn’t sound so comic-book villain. I’ve been taken captive and dressed in a gown and a corset and a wig. I am suddenly terrified of the answer to the question “Where the hell am I?”
There might be a serial killer in Edinburgh, but that’s not who jumped me. This is a whole other kind of attack. The kind that turns the stomach of even seasoned detectives.
Breathe, Mallory. Just breathe.
I do. I rein in the galloping terror and take deep breaths. Go back to step one. Try to open the door.
I take two steps toward the sliver of light, only to tangle in the skirt again, and I stagger forward, hands slamming down on something hard that twists my wrist and has me uttering a string of curses.
A distant gasp. Then running footsteps.
I back up, fists rising. The door swings open, and that harsh light floods in, making my head shriek, my eyes half shutting, giving me only the barest glimpse of the newcomer. It’s a girl, no more than twelve, backlit by that white light, her edges blurred by my throbbing head. She’s holding something like a toy sand bucket.
My brain refuses to process. I see a young girl and—considering what I fear has happened to me—I can only think she must be another victim. But she’s out and about, running around the house with a toy.
I swallow and force myself to remain calm.
“Hey, kid,” I say, my voice coming out weirdly pitched. “I don’t know where I am, but could you help—”
She screams. Drops the bucket and races back down the hall. I stand there, staring after her.
It’s only as she flees that my mind finishes processing her image. Twelve-year-old girl with brown hair and eyes, a smattering of freckles, and a thin frame. Her hair was swept up under a strange little cap, one that matched a dress that looked like something out of a historical drama, simple and blue with a matching white apron.