“Should I go higher?” he asks in a deep, low voice. I squeeze my eyes shut but refrain from shaking my head. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me beg. The knife gains more pressure but then he suddenly lifts it off my skin, and then I feel it cutting through the plastic tie on my wrists. I open my eyes, following his every move.

“You try anything, and I’ll kill you.” He points the tip of the knife at me when he says it, looking me over from head to toe. Over the years he’s given me a few dirty looks, but he’s never looked at me like this.

With such loathing. Like I’m nothing.

“Or maybe I’ll let my men have you before I do,” he continues, although I hear the falter in his voice. I wish it gave me hope, but I don't feel it.

He squares his shoulders, then leans down and cuts the tie holding my ankles together. I stand up as soon as I can, just to feel my legs again. He pushes me back onto the bed, where I fall against the mattress.

“Did I say you can fucking move?” he asks, crossing his arms against his chest, the knife still in his right hand.

I whimper, shaking my head. He turns around to leave.

“Why did you bring me here?” I dare to ask.

His whole body stiffens, and when he turns back he gives me a slow evil grin. Shaking his head, he says, “You are not that naive.”

DEVON

I descend the stairs from the top floor, jiggling the keys to the room I just locked Leighton in as I pass two of my uncle's men. They nod at me, but they don't say anything.

“Nobody goes up there,” I say, with as much calm as I can muster. It should be a given, but I want them to get the message loud and clear.

I may not be in charge around here, but my word still stands for something.

Inside, I'm anything but calm. The news must have spread by now that Leighton fucking Moore is locked up in a room on the top floor of a house full of people who want nothing but to harm her.

I don't live here, but it's a huge well-guarded estate, and nobody comes in or out if they're not allowed, so that should be enough to keep her inside. I hope she doesn’t try to escape, but that'd be really underestimating her. Sooner or later, she'll get an idea.

Reaching the guest room, I close the door and lock it behind me, taking off my heavy jacket and setting it on a chair in the corner. I exhale deeply, unbuttoning the top of my shirt and pulling out the envelope I stuffed in my pocket. It feels heavy and rough under my fingers. Exhausted, I slump onto the bed, stretching my neck left, then right, and running my hands through my hair. Looking for any kind of distraction, I glance around the room, at the sterile white walls and the black furniture, devoid of any personality, but it’s no good. I can't put it off anymore.

I open the envelope.

It’s different than I expected this moment to be.

There’s a deep hole somewhere inside my chest where a heart should be, because I feel nothing as I read that the skeletal remains of three bodies were found at the new high school construction site.

I feel nothing as I read that the bones belonged to a man, a woman, and a small child.

Without emotion, I go over the evidence and look at the photos of personal effects they found with the remains—a golden watch, a set of wedding rings with a date engraved on them, some disintegrated clothes. A red toy car that used to be mine.

This isn't news to me. I had eleven long years to come to terms with what I know is the truth.

My whole family is dead.

It doesn’t hurt anymore. Now, it’s a simple fact.

On a windy September night, the Moores took down my family. Rebecca, thirty-three years old, my mother. Joe, thirty-five years old, my father. And Joey. Just shy of five years old. My little brother.

For eleven years we’d had no word of them. They were just . . . gone.

There's no doubt in my mind I wasn't meant to be standing here right now. That there was supposed to be a fourth body in that unmarked, long forgotten grave. Why else would my uncle come and pick me up from boarding school the morning after they disappeared? Why else has he kept me guarded for the better chunk of my teenage years?

I’ve been waiting for solid proof for so fucking long. I figured they would try and hide the evidence, but that fucker George did his job, for once, saving the police report that was supposed to disappear.

The Moores and the Andres have been at it long before I was around. I knew that if anyone had reason to do this, it was them.

And now, we finally have proof.

I pull out the knife and the silky material from my pocket. I cut it in half, enjoying the way the sharp blade rips through the silk.

Now, I can finally get my revenge.

LEIGHTON

I wake up covered in sweat. When did I pass out? I lift my hand and touch my throbbing temple, wincing in pain and squeezing my eyes shut, praying that the pounding in my head goes away.

“Shit,” I curse when I replay in my mind what happened. George hit me, and Devon kidnapped me. Do they have a death wish? My dad would castrate both of them for touching me.

Any man in my family would.

I take in my surroundings. The room I’m in is decorated in black, white and red. The bed I’m lying on is plush, the smooth sheets underneath me satin. It’s not much smaller than my own room. I'd almost like it, if I wasn't here against my will.

My eyes scan the rest of it, looking for any means of escape. They clearly kidnapped the wrong girl if they think I’m going down without a fight. The sole window is barricaded by iron bars on the outside, and there are two doors on one side of the wall, one of which I assume is a closet, and one more on the opposite which I know is the way out.

I get up, and the dizziness rushes to my head, making me slump back onto the bed. I try again, this time slower, waiting for it to hit again, but it doesn't. I walk to the door silently, and slowly turn the doorknob. Locked. As I had suspected.

I try the window next, finding it sealed shut. I rattle it in its frame, but it won’t budge. And even if it would, it won’t serve any purpose. A glance through the window confirms my fears; there are no other houses or busy roads in sight. Even if I attempted to scream for help, none would come.

I walk to the two doors. One of them is a small closet, completely empty, and I give up straight away on searching it for anything that can help me escape.

The other door leads to a bathroom, and contains only one small octagon-shaped window with frosted glass. I stand up on the edge of the bathtub and try to open it, even though it’s most likely too small for me to fit through. The only thing I’m able to do is move it slightly to let fresh air in, but I’m greeted by another set of iron bars preventing anyone from getting out or in, even if I could squeeze myself through it.

Giving up on the window as a means of escape, I look around for anything I could use as a weapon. I like to think I can be pretty resourceful when I need to be. However, my search comes up empty. Unless I want to make a shank out of a toothbrush, the way my cousin Dom showed me how to do it.

The sudden emotion at the thought of him is overwhelming. Dom is the closest thing I have to a brother. After my godfather, his dad, went to prison, my dad took him in as his own son. Dom always took care of me, ever since we were children. If he were here, he’d know what to do.

I will myself not to cry, because he’s not here, so what’s the point? I could waste time feeling sorry for myself, wishing someone were here to help, but I was taught differently.

I have to fight.

I make use of the bathroom, and can’t help but pause when I pass the large mirror. My black hair is disheveled and knotty, falling down to my hips. My blue eyes are slightly red, and wide in my face. My whole right cheek is puffy and bruised, where that bastard George hit me.