In Ruins (31 page)

By the time I climb back into my car, my heart is pounding with fear. I don't even know where to go, so I sit in park.

With no options left, I dial Billy's number. I've seen him a couple of times since his accident, but it's still a little weird between us. He apologized for Thanksgiving, and on the outside our relationship has pretty much gone back to normal, but I still sense a hint of resentment. After all, it's well deserved.

“What's up, Tuck?” he answers.

“Is Carl home?” I ask abruptly.

“Uh…hello to you, too, asshole,” he halfjokes.

I love the kid, but I don't have fucking time for this. “Listen, she was supposed to meet me at a restaurant almost two hours ago, but she didn't show.”

“Maybe she decided to blow you off,” Billy offers—again, only halfkidding.

“Yeah, I considered that. In fact, I'm fucking hoping for it. But she's not answering my texts and her phone's going straight to voicemail. Tell me she's home,” I practically fucking beg him.

There's a pause where I can feel Billy's mirth turn to anxiousness. “I don't think she is,” he says quietly.

“Are you sure?”
Where the fuck is she?

“Well, no. I'm not sure. I'm stuck in fucking bed, dude,” he grumbles. He's still recovering from his surgery and he's supposed to take it easy. “But she would've come to see me. If she was home.”

He's right. Billy's room would have been her first stop. “When was the last time you talked to her?”

“Uh…this afternoon. She said you were picking her up to go to some meeting.”

Great. “What about your mom? Has she heard from her?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Is she home?”

“I think so.”

“All right, I'm gonna call her.” Fuck my life that I'm about to call Nicole Stanger.

“Mooommm!” Billy is already shouting for his mother, but that house is enormous and unless they're in the same wing, she won't hear him. “Damn, she must be downstairs. I'll call her, you keep trying Carl,” he suggests. “Did you check her dorm?”

“Yeah, just left there. I'm gonna drive around to where she usually parks and see if her car is still here.”

I find Carl's Audi in her usual spot, and my stomach rolls with dread. I should've asked her if she needed me to pick her up when she was done meeting with Zayne's old boss. I knew she didn't have her car, but she's always been so damn independent. I just figured she'd call an Uber or get a ride. The growing likelihood that she is still with Zayne unsettles me deeply, but at this point that conclusion is fast becoming a best-case scenario. I'm not ready to entertain other possible conclusions.

I drive to Carl's house, calling both Manny and Julia on the way to see if either of them have Zayne's number. They don't. Like me, they only have his e-mail, and I already e-mailed him before I left campus, giving him my number and asking him to call me. He hasn't yet.

I pull through the open gates and into Carl's circular drive, and jump out of my car. I ring the doorbell an obnoxious number of times, and Janet, their housekeeper, answers the door.

She used to greet me with a smile, but today I get thinly veiled animosity, and I'm reminded again how much I must've hurt Carl when I left her. Another time I would try to charm Janet, but right now I just rush upstairs to Billy's room.

I hear the raised voices from down the hall, and I enter to find him and Nicole scowling at each other.

“Just calm down, Billy,” she says.

“What's going on?” I ask. “Have you heard from her?”

“No,” Billy replies. “And our mother doesn't think there's a reason to be concerned.”

My jaw clenches, but I try and tamp down my aggravation. “Mrs. Stanger, she was supposed to meet me at eight. It's now almost eleven.”

“And she's not answering her phone,” Billy adds.

I raise my eyebrows to emphasize Billy's point.

Nicole rolls her fucking eyes. “She's not
not answering
—her phone is obviously off. She probably forgot to charge it. You know she does that.”

I do know that. But that doesn't explain why she seems to have fallen off the face of the fucking planet. “Something's not right. We need to call the police,” I tell her.

“That's what I said!” Billy says, exasperated.

“You boys are overreacting.”

I ignore her blasé attitude. “You're her mother. You need to call them and report her missing,” I insist.

She glares at me. “And say what? My almost nineteen-year-old daughter was supposed to meet the ex-boyfriend who broke her heart, but decided against it at the last minute? Oh, and that she forgot to charge her phone for the billionth time this week?”

“Then where is she, Mom?” Billy more accuses than asks.

“Since when does she include me in her plans? Have you tried her friends?”

Well,
no
. But if she was with any of her friends, surely she would have borrowed their phone to let me know she's okay. Right?

Nicole sighs. “Why don't you try calling around some more, and if we don't hear from her in a few hours, we'll call the police, okay?”

“Fine,” I all but growl.

I make myself comfortable in Billy's room and start texting everyone I fucking know. Many of our friends are home for break already, and I send feelers out to them all, asking if anyone has heard from Carl since six o'clock when I left her. Billy uses the time to call the local hospitals, to no avail.

Frustrating
no
after
no
trickles in over the next few hours, and I'm not even sure how much time has passed when some strange calling app appears on my phone out of nowhere, and a number I don't recognize starts flashing on my screen, indicating it has sent me a message with a photo.

Present Day

I groan as unnatural light slowly filters in through my fluttering eyelids, my temples pounding in protest. Immediately I know something is very, very wrong. Each moment that passes provides another terrifying clue in time with the rhythmic heartbeats blaring behind my eyes—

Beat—the throbbing in my head.

Beat—the heaviness of my limbs.

Beat—the fact that two of those limbs, my arms, are restrained above my head.

Beat—I'm lying down.

Beat—on a fucking bed!

My pulse races in pure, unadulterated panic.

Where am I? What the hell happened?

But I can't concentrate enough to remember; all of my focus is drained on trying to calm the fuck down so I don't pass out.

“Relax,” he orders, his tone unfittingly nonchalant.

Wait,
whose tone
?

My eyes, unable to latch on to anything more than a few feet away until now, finally take in the average-sized bedroom, unremarkable in every way except for the man standing against the far wall, leaning against the frame of the shuttered window.

“Zayne?” I gasp his name, as if I need a verbal confirmation of what my eyes can't possibly be getting right.

He smiles, like he's actually amused by my denial. And then the hazy, dreamlike memories come flooding back. Flashes of Zayne convincing me to have a drink with him to celebrate the internship I'd just landed blink in my mind like a strobe. I declined at first, but he insisted, and offered to drive me to meet Tuck afterward. I had almost an hour to kill before I was supposed to head to the restaurant, so I agreed. Zayne wanted to talk to Todd quickly, he said, and asked me to wait outside the garage, where he met me with his car not long after. At least I think it wasn't long after.

It gets fuzzy after we left the office building. Did we actually go somewhere and have that drink? But no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to recall. I suppose it doesn't much matter now. Here I am, either way.

But
why
?

Why would he do this? Why am I here?

Of course, the obvious answer assails my thoughts, but if he just wanted to rape me, then surely he could have done that while I was conveniently unconscious, couldn't he? And I'm quite certain that hasn't happened.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I register that he drugged me. My college professor fucking
drugged
me.

The oversized mirror that hangs over the dresser gives me a pretty good view of myself, and the sight of me, though utterly foreboding, supports my theory that whatever is going to happen hasn't happened just yet.

And then I realize that may not be a good thing.

I seem to have lost my blazer, but I'm still wearing my skirt and blouse from…whenever the presentation was. Today? Last night?

The window is tightly shuttered, allowing no outside light in, and the result is even more unsettling. To not know if it's day or night, or have any indication of the passage of time—it puts me at an even greater disadvantage. I keep my eyes trained on my own form reflected in the mirror. My clothing and hair look somewhat disheveled from lying in this bed, or from being unconsciously transported. Which makes me wonder—how
did
he get me here? How do you carry an unconscious girl to…wherever we are, without raising suspicion? God, where the hell are we?

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches, fighting to keep my mouth shut, sucking desperate breaths in through my nose instead. But I know he's waiting for me to ask him these questions, probably to beg for an explanation, and it's against everything in my nature to give him the satisfaction of my helplessness.

Instead, I glare at him with such fiery hostility I'm surprised he doesn't ignite on the spot.

But it only seems to amuse him, and finally, he sighs. He pulls a phone from his pocket—and I notice it isn't his usual phone—something I never would have known had he not helped me with Billy on Halloween.

Has he been planning this since then? Did I just walk right into some sinister plot to do God knows what to some naïve little college freshman?

He points the phone at me and snaps a photo.

What the fuck?

I turn my face away in defiance and shame. Suddenly my stomach lurches and I gag, my eyes wide and frantic.

I don't even realize I've made eye contact with Zayne until he's rolling his, and he brings me a small waste bin from under the writing desk.

“Relax, Carleigh. Nausea is a common side effect of rohypnol. You'll feel better in a couple hours. But if you're going to vomit, don't do it on the bed.”

You'll feel better in a couple hours
. I heard the same flippant words from Ben after he drugged me. And suddenly, all I know is wild fury. Who the fuck do these men think they are, drugging women at their damn leisure?

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I erupt in rage. “Let me fucking go, right fucking now!”

Zayne's mild amusement vanishes, replaced by a mask of irritation. He takes a step toward me, and it threatens the fight right out of me.

His gaze rakes me from head to toe with intent he's never shown before, and I hold my breath as his legs hit the edge of the bed. He makes no effort to hide his blatant arousal, and I'm terrified when it brushes my hip as he leans over me.

Oh, God. This can't be happening.
“You don't want to do this,” I hedge, but my voice is shaky, my fear undeniable.

“I do.” He reaches for my bindings.

My pulse races frantically.

“But I'm not going to fuck you, Carleigh.” He pulls on my restraints, tightening them further until I wince. He brushes the hair from my forehead in a parody of affection, and I turn away from him, revolted by his touch.

“Not unless I have to,” he amends, and gets up from the bed. “Though it would
not
be a hardship, I assure you.” He spares me one more lustful glance before looking unhurriedly through his phone, as if there isn't a kidnapped girl tied to his bed. Or
a
bed.

I swallow anxiously. “W-why would you have to?”

His patience expires without warning. “What is this—a fucking Q and A? Lie back and behave, and you may get out of this unscathed.”

“You don't have to do this, Zayne. My family has money. They—”

“Oh, I know they do,” he says cryptically.

I blink at him in confusion. But then, he saw my house, so he must assume it's built on wealth and means. I exhale my nerves. If all he's after is a ransom, then maybe he was telling the truth—maybe I can get out of this unharmed after all.

“My mom will pay anything, Zayne, just please don't hurt me. I'll get you however much you want. I swear.” I hate how desperate I sound. But I
am
desperate.

He reaches down for the hem of my skirt, and I squirm helplessly, but all he does is push it up a couple of inches to reveal that much more thigh. He goes for my blouse next, undoing the two top buttons and untucking it from my waistband, and then proceeds to snap another photo.

“I thought you might say that. I only hope you're right, because I want the twenty million that's fucking owed to me.” His voice is low and ominous.

Panic rises in my gut.
Twenty million?
That's all that was left after the feds seized everything they were able to find. Well, that and the house. But for the first time, I wonder what is worth more to my parents, the funds they refused to surrender in exchange for my father's freedom, or me.

They wouldn't intentionally risk my life of course, but kidnappings for ransom go wrong all the time, don't they? If it were a couple hundred thousand Zayne was demanding, or even a couple million, they'd hand it over in a heartbeat, I'm sure of it. But
all
of their money? Every last cent?

The unbidden thought that strikes me now is Tucker. That I may never see him again. And for the first time since I awoke to find myself in this precarious predicament, the well overflows and tears stream down my cheeks. Because I know if it were him and not my parents, he'd choose me every time. Even now.

I suck in deep breaths and try to stay rational. I'm going to have to keep my wits about me to get through this.

Twenty million.

Twenty fucking million. That he thinks is
owed
to him?

I stare at him, puzzle pieces clicking ominously into place, one by one, but too many are still missing. “Who are you?” I ask. “Were you one of my father's clients?” But he's too young for that, surely. “Or were your parents?”

Zayne laughs humorlessly. “Screw his clients. Oh, wait. He already did that, didn't he?”

“Who are you?” I ask again.

“Do you remember Art Stevens?”

Art Stevens? He was my father's business partner. They started Stanley Stevens Investments together, but fell out before I was even old enough to have remembered him, and though they remained business partners, they started working out of different offices, and rarely even saw each other.

“I know who he is,” I answer hesitantly.

Zayne's eyes narrow subtly. “And who is he?”

I swallow nervously. “He was my dad's partner.”

“You mean, the man your father ruined?”

I almost want to laugh. That could describe a lot of people. But I won't be put in a position to defend my father. I'm not him.

“My father was a respected businessman. The only wrong he ever did was trusting a fucking crook,” Zayne spits.

Ah, so Art is Zayne's father?
Zayne Stevens
. I knew it was his last name, but it's such a common one that the thought never crossed my mind. Of course, I haven't heard the name
Art Stevens
in well over a decade, and even then I was just a little girl.

“When the business's assets were seized, it included any assets my father acquired from the firm. He started it when he was twenty years old. Everything he had was from Stanley Stevens, including my trust fund. And the irony is, that because my father is an honest man, he lost everything, while your criminal father did what criminals do and stashed enough away to ensure you're all still living the good life. Your father has his wife waiting for him, happily spending as much as she likes without a care in the world, while my father can only get out of bed in the morning by the grace of antidepressants.”

“Your mom…”
God
. He told me his mother left when the money was gone. How horrible that must have been for him. I can't believe I feel pity for my kidnapper, but I do. How many lives has my father destroyed?

“Good memory, Carleigh. Indeed. Your family is also responsible for the destruction of mine, and while as an adult I've come to realize that losing a money-hungry whore of a mother wasn't a great loss, I'll admit I felt differently at thirteen, and my father does still. She was the love of his life, you know.”

“I'm sorry.” Vaguely I wonder if I will always be apologizing for my father's transgressions, and just how dearly I will be paying for them now.

Zayne sighs. “I'm afraid your remorse is neither here nor there, Carleigh. I'm a reasonable man, and I'm acutely aware that you are not to blame for what your father did when you were just a child. But I told you earlier that sometimes we have to take what we deserve, and I deserve retribution. I want what I'm owed, and I want your father punished.”

“He's in prison,” I remind him.

“As he should be. But he chose his sentence, so I wouldn't exactly consider it punishment. Punishment would be losing something dear to him, and clearly his own freedom took second place to money.”

“Well, you said it yourself, Zayne. He cares about the money. If he gave a shit about me he would have chosen to be around for my fucking childhood.” My words bleed with the bitterness I feel.

“Well, for your sake, I hope you're wrong. Because it's his daughter or the money. He can't have both.”

“So you mean to trade me for the value of your trust fund?”

“The company was valued at forty million. I simply want my half.”

“You know they don't have that,” I hedge. In truth, I have no idea what he knows.

“It's all very simple, sweetheart. I'm not here to hurt you. In fact, I've rather grown to like you. Trust me, if I didn't, there are plenty of ways I could make your stay here far more traumatizing. You're a means to an end, and I'll do what's necessary to achieve that end.”

“Or what? You'll kill me?” Vaguely I know I probably shouldn't challenge him, but in my current terror I'm not exactly thinking strategically.

He reaches behind him and retrieves something from his waistband, and I realize belatedly that it's a handgun.

Holy shit
.

He sets it on the table beside him, and I automatically start tugging at my bindings again, twisting in a desperate rally to get away.

“You'd be unwise to underestimate me, Carleigh.”

He looks back to his phone and snaps another photo as I continue to squirm in a feeble attempt to get free. Idly I know it's futile, especially with him in the room—with a fucking gun—but my fear is finally catching up to my attitude, and my survival instincts are kicking in as Zayne snaps a fourth and fifth photo.

“You finally look appropriately scared. These photos will be far more motivating,” he mutters to himself. “Well, time to get this show on the road!” He fiddles around on his phone. “Wouldn't want your mother to report you missing.”

Like there's a chance of that
. I swallow nervously, my heart pounding faster and faster with each passing moment. “You're going to call my mother?”
Will she even answer?

He scoffs. “The woman who couldn't be bothered to answer her phone when her son was vomiting half the volume of the Long Island Sound?
That's
who you think my plan hinges upon? No, Carleigh, actually I have someone a little more reliable in mind.”