I stop. “I hate thinking about this stuff.”

Greta changes the atmosphere in the room with that big smile of hers and a look of excitement in her eyes.

“I’ve got an idea,” she says, holding up a bony index finger.

She leaves me sitting on the bed and moves her way across the room toward the staircase. “I’ll be right back,” she says just before she heads up.

A few minutes later, the giant television on the wall across from me comes to life. I feel the smile flee my face in an instant and a metaphorical fist collapses around my stomach. My breath hitches and my hands begin to shake and all I want to do is curl myself up neatly into my favorite corner. All of this is the initial reaction to whenever that television comes on because of the things that Fredrik sometimes forces me to watch. But reluctantly my body begins to calm, and instead of seeking out the corner, I get up from the bed and walk toward the television instead, the chain around my ankle shuffling nosily on my way.

The screen freezes on what looks like a web page. A few seconds later, light from the hallway on the upper floor spills out on the steps as Greta opens the door and descends them. She’s carrying some kind of flat electronic device on the palm of her hand with a brightly lit screen that illuminates the colors and lines in her face amid the surrounding darkness of the staircase now that the door has been closed.

“Fredrik uses this thing sometimes,” she says looking down at the screen somewhat uncertain about her ability to use it properly. “He told me never to touch it, so let’s keep this between us, OK?”

I bring my hand to my mouth and press my thumb and index finger together making a zipping motion horizontally across my lips. “Not a word,” I say with a smile.

Greta moves her finger over the device and the television screen changes. She types in ‘Connie Francis’ in the YouTube search box and a row of videos appears. Immediately, I know what Greta’s intentions are, and instead of making me nervous like it did before, my chest tingles with excitement and spreads outward through all of my limbs like a rush of heat.

I practically squeal when she clicks on Fallin’, and I have no idea why.

Greta’s smile widens when she looks at me.

“I won’t take no for an answer,” she says and I know exactly what she wants me to do.

“Let’s have some fun for a change,” she adds, setting the device on the bottom step just after hitting play.

And as if I’ve performed this song time and time again like a professional, the second the music starts playing loudly through the speakers in the ceiling, my body and mind fall right into it without hesitation.

Fredrik

Music begins to stream loudly from my pants pocket and every pair of eyes, including Kelly Bennings’, who we apprehended less than an hour ago, turns my way.

Dorian looks at me with a curiously raised brow.

“Really?” he mocks. “That’s your ringtone?” Laughter ensues.

A knot lodges in the center of my throat. That’s not a ringtone, but I can’t tell anyone here that. And all I can think about is what the hell is going on back in Baltimore and how I managed to begin an interrogation without turning my phone to silent beforehand.

Izabel, trying to keep a straight face and doing a horrible job, walks up to me and glances momentarily down at my pocket with the humorous skirting of her eyes.

She cracks a smile and purses her lips. “I knew you were a man of class, Fredrik,” she teases me, “but I didn’t know you were that classy.”

I’m glad Niklas isn’t inside the warehouse to add to their banter.

Dorian bursts into laughter as the song—and Cassia’s stunning voice matching it—carries on like a beacon in my pocket, alerting everyone to my dark secret and precisely where to find it.

“Better answer that, man,” Dorian chimes in. “Might be your boyfriend.”

I really want to torture that guy. Just for fun.

“What the fuck is going on?” Kelly says from the wooden chair we tied her wrists and ankles to just moments ago. “Who are you fucking people?!” she shrieks. “Answer me!”

Everyone ignores her just as we’ve been doing since we kidnapped her from the parking lot of a grocery store and stuffed her in the trunk of our loaner car.

I feel Izabel’s hand rest on my arm and I look over at her. She’s no longer smiling, maybe because even after their jokes, I’ve shown no indication of finding any of it smile-worthy. She tilts her head gently and looks at me in a concerned manner.

“Why don’t you take a break,” she suggests, nodding toward the door that leads outside. “Answer that call and deal with whatever you need to. This can wait a little longer.”

Really it can’t, but it’s going to have to.

“Yeah!” Kelly calls out. “Take all the time you need, honey! It can wait all night!” Clearly she wants to put whatever’s about to happen to her on hold for as long as possible.

Dorian moves from behind Kelly’s chair and joins Izabel and me.

“Are you all right?” he asks, finally realizing that I’m not in the mood for his shit.

I don’t answer, mostly because his and Izabel’s words all sound stifled in the back of my head, and the only thing I can hear clearly is Cassia’s voice.

Izabel catches my eyes again and her hand falls hesitantly from my arm.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I say as I slip my twitching hand down into my pocket and grab my phone.

Izabel nods with acceptance and I turn and head across the frigid warehouse toward a side door, shutting it securely behind me once I’m outside.

I can’t get the phone out of my pocket fast enough and I fumble it, nearly dropping it. It’s freezing outside and my dress shirt sleeves are still rolled up to my elbows since preparing to interrogate Kelly on the whereabouts of her boyfriend, Paul Fortright.

Peering down at the screen, I begin to watch the live video feed that Greta must’ve accidently activated from my iPad.

Suddenly, I don’t feel the cold anymore, or understand that I’m standing outside in thirty-degree weather. I forget that I’m over a thousand miles away from my house and that I have an important, time-constrained interrogation to do on the other side of those tall steel walls. I don’t care about anything in this moment except what I’m seeing.

She must’ve remembered…she must’ve remembered something.

With my heart in my throat, I watch the tiny screen in the palm of my hand, focusing so hard that I don’t recall blinking. I think I’ve stopped breathing.

Cassia dances around in the center of the room, singing the song word for word and right on key. If I didn’t know better I’d think she was Connie Francis.

I swallow hard and watch the screen until my eyes hurt.

Cassia

I dance around Greta, moving my hips in time with the music, clapping my hands while belting out the lyrics as if I had written them myself. It all feels so natural, so…familiar, but I’m having too much fun with Greta to worry about any of that right now.

And Greta isn’t so bad at dancing 50’s-style herself, easily keeping up with me. We start clapping together along with the music at the right times and it’s like we’re sharing a small stage…in a classy bar tucked away in a big city that serves only the finest of wines…and I’m dressed in a skin-tight black dress that hugs my body down to my calves…with tall high-heeled black shoes…perfume…cigars…the sound of ice in the bottom of whiskey glasses, the tall mirrors lining the walls on either side of me, candles burning in deep, bubble-shaped amber candle holders in the center of every table in the audience, the sleek black piano on the stage to my left…the woman with short jet-black hair on the stage beside me to my right…