Taken: The MISTAKEN Series Complete Third Season (4 page)

“Fuck respect. They have phones here … all it would have taken—”

I raised my voice a little. “Second, I think the term you are looking for is ‘private residential mental health facility.’ And I haven’t been back to Shady Shores since I first attempted suicide. Which I haven’t even contemplated since I’ve been here.” I glared over at him. “Just so you know.”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, just so
you
know, I’ve been searching for you for the past eight months. I’ve looked for you all over the world, Jen. I went to fucking
Bangkok
looking for you.” He made a waving motion with his arms. “And you’ve been here.
Here
. In Maine. This whole fucking time, within spitting distance of your mother’s family’s compound. Are you fucking kidding me with this?”

My shoulders curled over my chest. It hadn’t been my intention to hurt him—I had only wanted to protect him. And because of how he was—his over-protectiveness of me—I knew that he couldn’t know where I was. He would have blown everything trying to keep
me
safe. I didn’t know how to make him understand that this time … this time, I had been the one trying to keep
him
safe.

My voice cracked when I spoke. “You were supposed to believe I was dead.”

“Right. Those fake pictures. You think I couldn’t tell those were faked? Did you think even if I
didn’t
think they were fake, I wouldn’t have kept looking? Fuck, Jen, there were just too many damned sightings of you. People saw you everywhere.”

I shook my head. “People
thought
they saw me everywhere. People
wanted
to see me everywhere. But no one saw me anywhere. No one saw me at all until I came here. Until I came to this place you call a shit hole.”

“Right, so I’m just supposed to believe that you were holed up somewhere for … how long? Months? You hid out by yourself for months until the chatter died down?” His body almost collapsed into the chair on the other side of the tiny room that served as my living quarters. “You expect me to believe you were able to just disappear?”

“Something like that.” It wasn’t like it was that cut and dried. It wasn’t as if
I
had made the decision to just “disappear.” And it wasn’t as though I had much of a choice after what happened in Montana.

“You were pissed at me, right?” He dropped his head into his hands and stared up at me. “You left because you were pissed. And scared—you must have been terrified after what happened that day. I shouldn’t have taken you there. I never should have taken you to Montana.”

The pounding in my chest turned into more of an ache. I did know that he would search for me. I did know that he wouldn’t believe that I was dead. I knew that because of everything that had already happened between us, there was no way he would
ever
believe anything that anyone ever told him when it came to me—that he would have to see me with his own eyes to believe it. And I had tried to tell them that. I had tried to warn them.

I sat on the edge of the bed, directly across from his chair. He looked up at me again, his head still in his hands as though it might fly off if he wasn’t holding onto it so tightly.

My hand quivered as I reached out and touched his knee. A lightning bolt jolted up my arm when I touched him—whatever had happened, I could still feel the same electrical energy between us. It was almost as if no time had passed—it was the same feeling I’d had the moment we met. The same electrical pulse that threatened to shatter me any time I was anywhere near him. Nothing about that had changed.

He reached down, taking my hand in his. It was such a benign thing—him holding my hand. But it did something to me. It made me want to give in—give him whatever it was he wanted. Let him have whatever it was he was here to claim. Something inside of me melted at that moment, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to say no to him. I would give him anything he wanted.

I didn’t think I could even speak—the ache in my chest had stolen all the air from my lungs. I had to force in a breath, knowing there was only one thing I could say that would make things right. Only one phrase that might make him understand.

I could barely get the words out, my voice breaking over them. “I’m sorry, Brandon. I’m so, so sorry.”

N
ine Months
Earlier - Jenna

M
y head was throbbing
. I could feel my pulse pounding harder in my temples with any slight movement that I tried to make. I couldn’t even open my eyes, it hurt so much. I only remembered having a headache this bad one other time—when I first woke up after Daniel had abducted me a few months ago. Whatever drug he had given me had made my head pound, but this headache—it felt so much worse.

I could feel the cool tile against my cheek and I knew I was lying on the kitchen floor. I couldn’t remember how I had come to be in the kitchen or why in the world I would be lying on the floor there, but the cold tile was almost soothing the pulsations throbbing through my head. Almost.

I stayed there—my eyes squeezed shut—until I thought I could manage the light. I knew that sunlight was going to make this headache about a million times worse, so I barely opened one eye to a slit. I couldn’t see anything. I opened both eyes about half way, still nervous about the pain that I knew the light would cause me, but I had been worried for nothing—there was no light. It was pitch black—not a sliver of light anywhere.

The memory of where I was came flooding back to me. The cabin in Montana. The nights here were what nights were probably supposed to be like—there were no cities anywhere near this little cabin in the woods of northwestern Montana—not even a town within an hour’s drive. It was pitch black because it was nighttime and there weren’t any lights on in the cabin. And there weren’t any lights outside to illuminate the sky. The only light—if there had been any—would have come from the moon, and there didn’t seem to be one tonight.

I sat myself up carefully, trying not to move too quickly and cause my head to throb any more than it already was. I reached out into the darkness, hoping to find anything that felt familiar. I scooted myself slowly toward what I thought was the sound of the refrigerator. I stopped when I found it with my outstretched fingers, bringing myself to a standing position. I used the refrigerator as my guide, moving along its width until I found the wall next to it—the one where I knew there was a light switch.

I flipped on the switch, my eyes squinting, and saw where I had been lying. There was a small, dried pool of blood next to a frying pan and some partially cooked eggs. I reached my hand to my forehead, rubbing at the spot where the pulsating seemed to be worst and brought my hand down to see the flecks of dried blood that had rubbed off. I must have hit my head, but I had no memory at all of what had happened.

My legs felt suddenly weak, and I was sure my knees were going to buckle. If my head hadn’t hurt so much, I might have felt the icy chill of terror earlier—I knew something was terribly wrong. I was only barely aware of where I was, but I knew something horrible had happened. And then I remembered who I was there with—who had taken me to Montana in the first place.

I ran through the small cabin to the bedroom, flipping on every light switch I passed on my way there, the pain in my head the least of my concerns. I stopped in the doorway of the tiny bedroom, saying a silent prayer that when I flipped on the light switch, I would see him lying in our bed, fast asleep. I prayed that there wouldn’t be blood—that he wouldn’t lying there dead. I closed my eyes and flipped on the switch, terrified of what I would find when I opened them. The throbbing in my head had been replaced by the sound of my heart thrashing in my ears. My lungs were burning, barely able to find any breath at all.

I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to know—I was sure I couldn’t face it, his dead body that I was sure was going to be there—lying in the bed we had just shared only a few moments before. It seemed like it was only a few minutes ago, anyway, that we had fallen asleep entwined together—after he had insisted that I would never sleep anywhere but in his arms ever again.

I had to force myself to open my eyes—force myself to look at what I was sure was going to be a scene out of a horror movie. I opened one eye—just a slit—and peered over at the bed. There was nothing.

The breath I had been holding came out in a long sigh, and I walked into the bedroom, making my way over to the bathroom door. I looked inside—it was also empty. Brandon wasn’t here. The bed was neatly made and it looked like nothing was out of place. There were no drawers open; the closet door was closed. It was all just a little
too
perfect. Brandon wasn’t a slob, by any means, but he was a
guy …
there was always
something
out of place—something on the floor or a drawer left open a crack. Wherever he had gone, he had straightened up our bedroom before he left. Or someone had.

I sat down on the edge of the bed in front of the dresser we shared. It wasn’t like it was a formal situation or anything, but I had taken the top two drawers, and he had taken the bottom two. There wasn’t a lot in there—I only had the clothes that I’d had with me when I’d left the hotel in D.C. the week before. I hadn’t packed to move in here—I only had enough here to fill two drawers and a small space in the closet. He had brought more appropriate clothing—Brandon was a planner, and that was something I had known about him since I had met him. Something I admired about him. Loved about him. He had brought clothing with him that was appropriate for a Montana winter. I had clothes that were much more suited to doing press conferences and interviews—the lifestyle I had been so desperate to leave behind.

That life seemed like it had ended a million years ago, and it was hard to believe it had only been a week since we had come here—come to this little tiny cabin located in a place I hadn’t known existed before seven days ago. I could barely remember that life of doing my parents’ bidding and always being aware of the cameras and press. I had never understood the fascination the public had with my family, and I knew I probably never would. Living here in Montana with Brandon—even though it had only been a week—had been one of the best weeks of my life. Not having to put on makeup every day; not having to think about my facial expressions or what I was going to wear… It had been like a gift. A gift he had given me.

I looked down and saw the blood on my yellow Hoyas t-shirt. I stood up and glanced into the mirror above the dresser. I gingerly touched the cut on my forehead. The dried blood from the deep cut was caked in my brown hair and around the wound, and had dripped down around my ear to the neck of the t-shirt. Just the way the blood had run down the side of my head, I could see I must have been lying down after it had happened. I must have fallen—hit my head somehow.

I sat back down on the bed and tried to remember. The last thing I remembered before waking up on the kitchen floor was being with Brandon. Feeling his hands on my wet skin. When I closed my eyes, I could still feel my body thrumming under his touch … how he held me.

We had gone to bed after that—after the shower. He had made love to me again and we had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, just like he promised we would do every night for the rest of eternity. But it had been daytime—it was morning when we had fallen back asleep. I was positive of that.

I vaguely remembered getting up a little while later to make him breakfast. Eggs and toast—the only meal I was remotely capable of pulling off without the possibility of the cabin catching fire. Probably. It was possible that the eggs that were on the floor in the kitchen were the result of some kitchen accident that I had caused—I wouldn’t have put it past myself. Maybe I had dropped the frying pan and hit my head when I bent down to clean up the eggs… I had no recollection of it happening, but it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

I just couldn’t remember anything—and if what had happened to me in the kitchen was an accident, why did Brandon leave me there? And where the hell had he gone? He wouldn’t have just left me lying in a pool of my own blood for however many hours it had been.

There were no clocks in the cabin. Brandon had said something about time not mattering, and at the time, I hadn’t cared. Not caring about time had been nice, but now, I needed to know how long I had been out. I stood up and walked over to the closet that was across from the end of the bed. I slid the door open and pulled out my purse—I hadn’t needed it in over a week, and I had only taken it out once before in the days since we had arrived here.

I pulled out my phone and the battery that Brandon had made me take out before we got on the flight to Missoula. I slid the battery into the back of the phone and waited for it to power on. I felt a small pang of guilt for what I had done before. Brandon had told me there wouldn’t be a phone signal here, but I hadn’t believed him. I had just wanted to talk to Melissa. I had only wanted to tell her that I was okay and to tell her to not worry about me. I figured I could send her a quick text—there had to be cell service here—I had thought there was cell service everywhere, and one text wouldn’t hurt anything … but he hadn’t been lying. There was no service—no signal. And I never was able to send the text to Mel, even though I had tried. I just knew she would worry about me—we hadn’t gone very long without at least texting in the years we had known each other. And she was the only friend I had—the only person besides Brandon who didn’t look at me and think I was some privileged, spoiled brat who was more at home spending her family’s money than working for a living. She was one of the only people in the world who I could trust.

The phone was taking forever to power on. When it finally did, there was still no signal, but I was shocked at what the time read—five a.m. It seemed impossible to think that I had been unconscious for almost an entire day. It seemed impossible to think that Brandon had just left me there, bleeding.

I ran back out to the living room, almost tripping over the piano that crowded the small space. I knew that the piano was a symbol of Brandon’s love for me—he had brought it here—somehow—to show me that he loved me. But right now, it was in my way, and I skidded past it, almost sprinting to the door.

The keys were still there. The car keys—they were still hanging on the hook just inside the front door. I wasn’t completely sure if that was a good sign or not—but the keys were still hanging right where he had left them the previous week.

I flipped on the porch light and opened the door. The cold air blasted through my thin t-shirt and pajama bottoms, but I padded onto the porch in my bare feet to look outside. The car was still there, too.

I still didn’t know what had happened, but I knew one thing with absolute certainty. Brandon hadn’t left. Not on his own.

He had been taken.

And somehow, I had become collateral damage. I went back into the house and slammed the door behind me, my heart racing in my chest once more.

I walked back to the bedroom and pulled open the third drawer of the dresser—Brandon’s drawer. I lifted out the folded shirts and set them next to me on the bed.

I was pretty sure he didn’t know that I knew what was at the bottom of that drawer. I had never even touched a gun before, and I certainly didn’t know how to use one. But I stared at the thing that still sat at the back of his shirt drawer—a black gun that I was positive was fully loaded. The fact that it was still there only confirmed to me that he hadn’t left of his own free will. Someone had taken him by surprise—taken both of us by surprise. And I had been left to bleed alone on the kitchen floor and he … was gone.

I tried to calm my nervous breaths. I knew what I needed to do—as soon as it was light, I would have to leave. I couldn’t just sit there and wait for Brandon to come back for me. Whoever had taken him knew I was there—it seemed like there was a strong chance that
they
would be coming back for me—not Brandon. I would take the gun. I would drive to the nearest place that had cell phone service and I would call … someone. I didn’t know who to call.

Melissa. I could call Melissa. She might know what I should do. She might be able to ask Ryan.

The realization of what must have happened almost hit me over the head at that moment. Ryan. Ryan and Melissa. It was almost blinding—the absolute clarity of who had been here in this cabin. Of who had taken Brandon.

I turned to look at the bedspread. The bed was made. The bed was
made
.

I knew how to make a bed. Growing up, I had made my bed sometimes when the maid had a day off. Sometimes when we were at the beach cabin, the maid was only there a few days every week and I had to make my bed. I knew how to make a bed … but not like this.

Brandon made the bed sometimes before we got into it. He had told me before that he didn’t see the point of making a bed when we were just going to get in and mess it up again—but he did it sometimes. He pulled the covers over the pillows. That first night—the night I had met him and had what I thought was going to be a one night stand—he had rushed into the bedroom and pulled the covers up over the pillows, almost embarrassed that the bed hadn’t been made. Not that I had cared a bit at the time—whether his bed was made or not didn’t matter to me then, and it didn’t matter to me now if he made the bed, either. I knew Brandon could make a bed. But it wouldn’t look like this.

Melissa was a slob. In the years I had lived with her, I was always picking up her clothes from the floor—picking up dishes from the couch or the dresser. But she had spent a few months working at some fancy hotel in downtown San Francisco the summer before she came to Georgetown. She had worked as a maid there … and I had heard too many times how they had drilled her like an army boot camp on how to make a bed. The military precision with which to fold the sheet over the bedspread—lining it up with even margins, everything just so.

I had only ever seen beds made like this in hotels. And on Melissa’s bed.

Melissa had been here. I knew it in my gut. Melissa had made the bed I was sitting on.

My heart began racing again and I turned back to stare at the gun in the drawer. My eyes widened with realization. If Melissa had been here, her boyfriend Ryan had been here. And while I still didn’t understand the intricacies of the relationship that Ryan and Brandon shared, I knew he had been responsible for stabbing him a few months ago. I knew that he had been at least partly responsible for my failed kidnapping a few months ago. And I knew there was something sinister about him—the way my skin tended to crawl around him. The way my stomach rolled and something just felt off when he was around.