If You Could See the Sun

I knock once on Peter’s door and try to steady my erratic breathing.

Taking the lift was too risky—there are always security cameras on those things, and it’d be impossible to explain a button lighting up on its own if someone else were inside—so I ran all the way up the stairs instead. The entire back of my shirt is soaked through with sweat, but it’s hard to tell if that’s because of the physical exertion, or the worry chewing a hole through my stomach.

After what feels like a lifetime, I hear the metallic click of the lock, and the door swings open.

Jake Nguyen squints into the hallway light, his hair a mess, one of those white hotel bathrobes draped over his bare shoulders like a villain’s cape. The room behind him is dark, the curtains drawn. Beside the empty single bed by the window, I can make out Peter Oh’s sleeping figure.

“What the hell,” Jake grumbles, staring straight through me. He scratches his head. “Is anyone there?”

He waits a full two seconds before moving to close the door again, and I duck inside just in time. But as I fumble my way further into the room, I trip over something hard—Jake’s foot. He tenses, the faint bathroom light outlining the crease between his brows.

My heart stops.

“Who was that?” Peter grumbles, his voice thick with sleep and muffled by the pillow.

Jake glances over again at the spot where I tripped, then shakes his head. “No one. Probably the cleaning lady or some dude who got the wrong door.”

I stay completely still as he shuffles back to bed in his slippers, falling onto the covers with a loud yawn.

Only when he starts snoring do I creep over to Peter’s bed.

He’s curled up on his side like a little boy, the corner of his blanket covering his stomach, an arm resting under his head. He looks peaceful. Unsuspecting.

Undeserving of what’s about to happen.

I’m so sorry, Peter, I think, as I set the prepared note down on his pillow, inches away from his nose.

It’s been typed out on glossy, business card–like paper, containing only the lines:

Peter.

Please come and visit me in

Room 2005 as soon as you see this.

I have something important

I want to tell you in person.

Andrew wanted to make sure that the message couldn’t possibly be traced back to him, so there are no digital receipts, none of his fingerprints, none of his handwriting. Deciding on what to actually say in the message was the other issue. I’d gone back and forth on a mock note from one of the teachers, or something with a more romantic tone, or mentioning someone he cared about.

But in the end I decided to go with something vague. Something that will hopefully pique his interest enough for him to follow the instructions.

Now Peter just needs to read it.

I take a deep breath. Flex my trembling fingers. Realize that this is my last chance to turn back, to retract everything, but I’m already here and the note has been arranged and I’ve never quit anything halfway before, not if I can control it—

So instead I shake Peter’s shoulders gently and wait for him to wake.

He opens his eyes slowly.

Blinks around in the darkness, disorientation washing over his face like the shadows from the curtains.

I watch him rub a sleepy hand over his cheek. Watch him turn just an inch on the pillow and freeze, his gaze landing on the note. Watch him pick it up carefully, still a little disorientated, and read through the lines.

He pauses. Clicks on the night-light.

Instinctively, I crouch down to conceal myself from view, even though of course he can’t see me anyway.

“Jake?” Peter calls, voice hoarse. “Did you… Did you see anyone come in here?”

But Jake is still snoring. He hasn’t moved an inch.

Peter glances down at the note in his hands again, turning it over and over as if to make sure it’s real, and my heart is racing so loudly I’m convinced it’s going to give me away. He doesn’t hear it, though. He studies the note a beat longer, then stands up, shrugging on the denim jacket laid out on his bedside table. His eyes are more alert now, his body tensed.

The air feels impossibly still.

I don’t dare breathe until Peter slides his phone and the note into his pocket and heads out the door.

I follow close behind him.

Out in the bright hotel hallway, Peter heads straight for the elevators. I knew he would, but it’s still inconvenient. As soon as he presses the glowing square button to go up, I press it too, turning it back off. For everything to go smoothly, Peter has to use the stairs. After my inspection of the area earlier tonight, that’s the only place I know for certain where there won’t be any security cameras to catch his movements.

Peter frowns. Tries again.

And again, I hit the button right after him, careful not to brush against his hand in the process.

His frown deepens. He moves to the lift on the other end of the hall, where I repeat the motion the same number of times he does, until eventually he gives up and swears under his breath.

“Stairs it is then,” he mutters.

Henry was supposed to patrol the area to make sure no student or teacher sees Peter, but he’s clearly still stuck in his room with Rainie and the others. Never mind, I tell myself as I follow Peter around the corner. I just have to avoid Vanessa, wherever she is now, and hope no one comes out for a midnight stroll through the corridors.

Though the rest of the hotel is all spotless marble surfaces, elaborate flower decorations and well-lit carpeted halls, the stairs are dark and steep and slightly uneven, everything coated in a thin layer of dust. The shadowy corners reek of garbage and disinfectant.

Peter climbs up the steps with surprising, enviable ease; I have to hurry just to keep up with him, but soon I have an awful stich in my side and a thousand small, protesting aches in my legs and lungs.

Times like this almost make me wish I’d devoted as much effort to PE class as my academic subjects.

Then again, I doubt any number of burpees and torturous basketball warm-up exercises could’ve prepared me for a covert kidnapping operation in one of Suzhou’s tallest hotels.

By the time we’ve reached the twentieth floor, an obscene amount of sweat has dripped down my back, plastering my shirt to my skin, and I can’t quite tell if it’s from the sheer physical exertion of the climb or my nerves.

We’re so very close now. The door is just up ahead of us, down the first corridor—I can see it. And Peter doesn’t have the faintest clue what’s about to happen—

No.

I give myself a mental shake. This isn’t so different from a prank. Just a higher-stakes version…with corporate executives involved.

Besides, Andrew She’s men aren’t actually going to lock him up forever or abuse and murder him. Andrew even promised me Peter would be well-fed and cared for until the promotions were announced, which should be in less than a week from now.

It’ll be fine. Peter will be fine. I’m doing the right thing.

Right?

Peter’s stopped outside the room now, the numbers 2005 gleaming bright gold in the light, like some kind of sign. An invitation. Andrew She’s men are waiting for him on the other side of the door.

And one million RMB is waiting for me. A future at Airington. A better future, period.

All I have to do is see Peter through it.

He clears his throat softly, adjusts the collar of his jacket, and I wonder if he can sense that something’s wrong. If he’s thinking about turning around, running away to the safety of his own hotel room.

I don’t realize just how much I want him to do exactly that until he raps the door once, shoulders braced.

And everything happens very quickly.

Too quickly—so quick that it’s almost anticlimactic.

The door swings open and I think I catch a glimpse of a gloved hand reaching out, pulling him in, and I manage to grab Peter’s phone from his pocket just in time for the door to slam shut again, with Peter trapped behind it.

There’s a rustling sound from inside, a series of thuds, and Peter’s voice, more confused than afraid: “What are you—”

Then it cuts off into silence. Just like that.

It isn’t violent. It isn’t anything.

If I weren’t gripping Peter’s phone so tight my knuckles bled white, I’d think he was never here at all.

I stare at the door for a long time, as though in a dream, a nightmare, until a small voice in the back of my head urges: Leave.

Get out of here. Your job is done.

I tear my eyes away and move, but the second I turn the corner, my legs give way beneath me.

I sink straight to the floor as if someone’s removed all the bones from my body. I gasp for air that doesn’t seem to be there, wait for the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach to go away because I’m safe—I did what I had to—I succeeded—

But the sick sensation only grows. Nausea rises up my throat, filling my mouth with saliva, the sour taste of regret.

God, I must be the worst criminal in the world.

I should be celebrating. I should be thinking about all the money that’ll be added to my bank account. One million RMB. Enough for me to never have to stress about being sent off to Maine or a local school again. I won’t even have to stress about college.

But instead, all I can focus on is whatever’s happening on the other side of that door. Peter had stopped talking midsentence. Does that mean they’d gagged him? Hit him? Surely I would’ve heard it if they did…

Peter’s phone beeps.

I almost jump out of my skin. My hands are shaking as I hold up the screen, expecting to see some kind of criminal alert or imposter warning or a message from the police.

But it’s none of that. It’s worse.

It’s a Kakao message from his mom.

Are u having a good time in Suzhou??

U must already be sleeping (if not, go to bed right now!!! your body still growing), but your father and I miss u very much. He wanted to call u earlier, but you know how busy work has been for him… It’ll all be worth it when he wins the campaign.

Oh! We made some yummy fish today. Here is a pic.

There’s a somewhat blurry photo of a half-eaten grilled fish dish below, a pair of chopsticks lying casually beside the plate, and the hunched-over silhouette of a man in the background. Peter’s father, most likely.

My chest tightens, tightens until I can’t breathe. The back of my eyes burn.

But more messages are coming in.

It’s a new recipe, and your father says it’s very good. I’ll make some for u as soon as u get home (and your favorite black bean noodles too)

Take care, my son. Make sure you eat well and stay safe and wear a lot of warm clothes! I checked the weather and it says it’s going to be cold in Suzhou tomorrow. Remember your health matters more than “fashion”

Your father is scolding me for nagging you now, so I will stop here

We love you always. Give us a call when you can!

I turn the screen down, my stomach in knots.

I should throw Peter’s phone away. Now. Crush it and destroy all the evidence, make sure no one can track him or contact him, just like I was told to do. This is the last stage of our plan. Once I’m rid of his phone, I’ll be able to go back to my room and forget about this whole task for good. But—

God, his parents are going to be so worried. And they have every reason to be.

The worst part is that I’ve met his parents before. They’d volunteered to help out at the Global Community Day festival a year ago. His father had bragged to everyone who came within a five-foot radius of him about his genius, hardworking son, beaming so wide the entire time it must’ve hurt his face, and his mother, with her sharp tongue and small frame, the way she’d scolded Peter for not wearing a warm-enough jacket, had reminded me of Mama.

And if someone were to call Mama up in the middle of the night to tell her I’d disappeared in a city far away from home—

No.

Stop it.

It’s too late. I just have to get up. Move. Put as much distance between me and this place—this memory—as possible.

After who knows how long, I finally manage to pull myself back up into a standing position. My feet move obediently toward the stairs, in the same direction I came from. I take one step. Then another. Somehow, it’s more exhausting than climbing up a mountain.

I can’t stop thinking about Peter in that room.

About his mother, who’s still waiting to welcome him home with his favorite dish. Who won’t be able to sleep once she finds out he’s gone.

Whatever you do, do not turn around, I command myself, even as my feet drag against the carpet. Do not turn around. Do not fucking turn arou—

I turn around.

Without even fully realizing what I’m doing, I run back to Room 2005 and pound on the door.

“R-room service for two.” My voice is a terrible, breathless squeak. It occurs to me too late how utterly unprepared I am. My own phone’s battery is running low, and Henry has no idea what I’m planning to do, and the only weapon I have on me is a fruit knife I took from my hotel room. But it’s also too late to go back now. “Club sandwich with truffle fries.” This is the code Andrew and I agreed upon in case I needed to speak to his men directly. I can only pray it works.

At first, there’s nothing but deafening silence on the other end. Then footsteps approach, slow and cautious. After a few seconds of just-audible murmuring and shuffling around, the door creaks open.

I glance up.

Three men tower over me. They’re dressed in identical business suits, their striped ties straight and well ironed, all wearing dark pollution masks that cover most of their faces and fitted, surgical gloves. They don’t look anything like the kidnappers I’d been imagining. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think I had accidentally stumbled into a private business meeting.

The tallest of the three stares into the space behind me. “Hello?” He cranes his neck, opens the door wider. “Anyone there?”

I creep in past him.

The first thing I notice is that the TV is on, the sound turned off, and the other men’s eyes are glued to a basketball game playing over the large flat screen. I guess holding a kid hostage can get pretty boring after a while.

The next thing I notice is Peter, and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach.

He’s been pushed into the farthest corner of the room, blindfolded and gagged, the ropes still secured firmly around his wrists, feet, and waist. Andrew She had made it sound like Peter would be resting in a nice little resort until the company campaign was over, but this—this is too much.

There’s no way in hell I can leave him here like this.

As I rush toward him, I hear the tall man mutter, “So strange.” Then: “Who did She Zong’s son hire for the job again?”

The man standing closest to the TV shrugs. “Person from some kind of black market app. Apparently it’s built a solid reputation around their school for doing whatever people want.”

“But no one knows who it is? Or how they managed to drop this kid”—the tall one jerks a finger at Peter, and I freeze, careful not to give my presence away—“right off at our door?”

“Nope.”

When the three of them have turned back to the TV, I crawl forward, shaking violently all over. My fingers fumble for the ropes behind the chair, and I feel Peter stiffen.

Please act normal. I’m trying to help you, I think desperately.

If only my powers included telepathy as well.

As Peter twists his head around, I yank hard at the final knot, ignoring the burn of the ropes against my skin.

Please, please—

The ropes drop to the floor with a soft thud, like a dead snake, and I’ve barely had time to breathe out in relief when three things happen at roughly the same time:

One, Peter rips off the blindfold, stumbles out of the chair and looks wildly around before staring at me. Right at me. His mouth drops open, then closes over the unspoken word: Alice?

Two, Andrew She’s men spin toward me and Peter with varying expressions of shock. The tall one moves first, leaping over the bed and yelling at us to stay right where we are—

Three, I throw the closest thing I can find to stop him. Which, unfortunately, happens to be a pillow.

A fucking pillow.

The pillow bounces off the seven-foot kidnapper’s shoulder as he growls and swipes at us, undeterred. I shove Peter in front of me and try to run after him to the door, but I’m too slow. A rough hand closes over my wrist, yanking me back so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if my arm’s been dislocated.

I gasp. Tears jump to my eyes.

“Where did you come from, little girl?” the man demands. His grip tightens, crushing my bones to dust. The pain is unbearable, but still I pull against him, my feet kicking out wildly, my eyes darting over the room.

In my blurred, peripheral vision, I see Peter duck past the two other men, unlatch the lock with shocking speed and fling the door open—just as they tackle him from behind. There’s a terrible crack as his head hits the wall.

The world seems to flip upside down, my stomach flipping with it.

“No!” I scream.

The tall man follows my gaze, and in the split second he’s distracted, I sink my teeth into his hand.

He releases me with a high-pitched cry and I bolt. The two others still have their attention fastened on Peter, who’s slouched against the wall, and I’m panicking about how the hell I’m meant to get around them when I remember—

The knife.

My fingers dig into my pockets, finding the cool, smooth hilt at once.

“Stand back or—or I’ll cut you,” I warn the men as I step forward, brandishing the fruit knife before me like a proper sword, praying they can’t see how badly my hands are trembling. How much I feel like a little kid playing pretend.

The two men falter—more out of surprise than fear, it seems, but whatever works.

I seize the opportunity to grab Peter and shake him. His face has gone scarily pale, and his hairline is wet with blood, but his eyes—his eyes are open. With a low groan, he rises back to his feet, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt such acute relief in my life.

“A-Alice,” he chokes out. “Weren’t you—what—”

This kid can’t seriously think now is the time for a conversation.

“Talk later,” I snap, gripping his sleeve and pulling as hard as I can. God, he’s heavy. “Get up. Come on.”

But before Peter can stand, I notice a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. I’m too slow to react. With a grunt, the first kidnapper lunges at me, knocking me headfirst to the ground.

Pain explodes over my body.

I try to move, to fight, but a sharp knee digs into my back, the kidnapper’s full weight pinning me into place. The knife is ripped from my hand.

No, no, no.

This can’t be happening.

A shrill ringing sound fills my ears, so loud I can barely hear what the kidnapper is barking at the two other men. Something about taking Peter. The car. Transferring…

The men obey immediately. Together, they trap Peter between them and roughly hoist him up by the arms. Peter doesn’t even resist; he seems to have gone into shock, his eyes wide and his jaw hanging open as they drag him toward the door.

This cannot be happening. This can’t be—

But it is.

All I can do is watch in horror, the hotel carpet scratching the side of my cheek.

And just when I think things couldn’t possibly get any worse, the first kidnapper starts to tie up my hands, with the same kind of rope he must’ve used to tie Peter up earlier. Fuck, how much rope do these people have? He’s fumbling with the ends—he probably knows he doesn’t have much time left—and he’s distracted, but he’s also strong. I feel him wrap the rope once, twice, pulling it hard enough to cut my circulation off.

My arms go numb.

Then the pressure eases off my back, and the kidnapper’s leaving. He’s leaving with the two masked men and Peter, who’s bleeding, and I’m still here on the floor with my hands tied, and everything hurts, and I can’t believe I landed myself in this situation.

I count the kidnapper’s footsteps as they get farther and farther away from me.

One. Two. Three.

The door whines open, then shuts, leaving me alone in total darkness.

There’s no time to panic.

As soon as the kidnappers are gone, I’m half rolling, half wriggling across the floor until I bump into something hard. A desk corner, maybe.

Good enough.

I turn around awkwardly, blindly, so that my bound hands are pressed tight against whatever the sharp edge is. Then I begin to move them back and forth like a saw, praying for the ropes to snag.

“Come on,” I mutter, and the sound of my own voice, low and much steadier than I feel inside, helps ground me a little. “Come on, come on.”

It’s working, I think. I hope. Already, it feels like the ropes aren’t digging into my skin as much as before. Maybe if I just apply more pressure here, and twist my wrists this way—

Yes.

The ropes come loose after the ninth try; some combination of finding the right angle, the disgusting amount of sweat slicking my hands, and the lucky fact that the kidnapper didn’t have time to double knot.

I toss the ropes aside and scramble toward the door, ignoring the weakness in my knees, the tingling in my fingers. The tightness in my lungs.

Save Peter. That’s all that matters right now.

As I flip the lock and burst through the doorway, squinting into the sudden light, I try to figure out where the kidnappers would go.

It seems unlikely they’d hang around an area where Peter could easily be recognized. And they’d mentioned something about transferring Peter, about a car—

The parking lot.

But not just any parking lot. A secluded spot, connected to the stairs instead of the lift, a place without security cameras to catch suspicious activity.

I run down the stairs, taking two steps at a time, my mind reeling. I’ve spent so long committing the map of the hotel to memory that I can see it as clearly as if someone’s holding it in front of me: all the labels marking out cameras and exits, the lines intersecting at corridors and staircases…and the diagram of the abandoned lot two levels underground.

That’s where they’re taking Peter. It must be.

Now I just have to find them before they leave.

I move faster. My feet slam over the concrete, my heart beating so hard I’m scared it’ll explode. I wish I were an athlete. I wish I had been quicker to unfasten the ropes, or to escape with Peter when I had the chance. I wish I’d never agreed to kidnap Peter in the first place.

Numbers flash by me as I make my way down flight after flight of stairs.

Level Fifteen.

Level Twelve.

Ten.

Seven.

“Alice!”

I stumble to a stop. Whip my head around, half certain I’m hallucinating.

But there’s Henry, standing only a few steps above me, the neon exit sign casting a red glow over his features. His eyes are dark with concern.

“I was looking everywhere for you,” he says, coming down toward me, his footsteps light and swift. “I managed to get away from Rainie and…” He pauses, his gaze raking over my face. “What happened? Did they hurt you?”

I shake my head, too winded to speak at first.

My lungs and legs feel like lead, and there’s an awful knife-sharp stitch in my side. It takes everything I have not to double over.

“They—they took Peter—” I finally manage, my voice a dry croak. “We have to—save him—”

I wait for the barrage of questions, the moment of disbelief, but Henry doesn’t even look surprised at this dramatic turn of events. He simply rolls up his sleeves and says, “Okay. Let’s go.”

I can’t believe I ever wanted to push this boy off a stage.

Somehow, with Henry by my side, it’s a little easier to run down the remaining stairs. And by easier, I mean it doesn’t feel quite like I’m dying a slow, excruciating death. Still, white dots have started to dance over my vision by the time we reach the entrance to the parking lot.

The air is colder underground, wet and dense with the stench of petrol fumes. I try not to choke as we hide behind a half-open door, our backs to the wall, and listen. I try not to entertain the possibility that we might be too late.

But then I hear it—

The angry squeak of shoes, of rubber against concrete. Male voices bouncing off the walls, amplified by the open space. The loud slam of a car trunk.

Henry and I exchange a quick look.

We’ve pulled off enough Beijing Ghost tasks together to know what needs to happen next.

I watch as Henry adjusts his posture, straightening so that he looks even taller than usual, fixes his shirt collar, and smooths his hair with one hand. In an instant, he’s no longer just Henry, but Henry Li, son of a self-made billionaire, someone who wears their privileged upbringing and powerful connections like a badge. Someone untouchable.

But that doesn’t stop my stomach from knotting over and over with worry when he strides out the door.

“Hey,” he calls in flawless Mandarin. Even his voice sounds deeper, older, which is good. If the kidnappers don’t take him seriously, we’re pretty much screwed.

His appearance is met with abrupt silence.

The tension makes my skin itch.

I hold my breath and count to fourteen before someone grunts, “Who are you?” They sound closer than I expected—no more than twenty feet away from the door.

“I should be asking you that,” comes Henry’s smooth reply. “What are you wearing masks for?”

“None of your business.”

“It is my business, actually,” Henry says, and I imagine him tilting his head to the side, his brows raised, condescension written all over his face. “My father owns this hotel, see, and I’m sure he’d like to know why there are three strange, masked men sneaking around our unused parking lot in the middle of the night. If you don’t want to tell me, maybe I can invite him or the hotel manager over to—”

“Fine,” the man snaps. “If you must know, we’re headed to a nightclub, that’s all. Didn’t want our wives catching us.”

Despite myself, I almost roll my eyes. Even their excuses make them sound like complete assholes.

“Can we go now?” another one of the kidnappers demands.

“No, you cannot,” Henry says. “Since your car is here, you need to pay for parking.”

“But—”

“Payment is nonnegotiable. Of course, you can use WeChat Pay if you’d prefer, or scan this QR code on my phone, or get a discount by signing into your hotel account, then registering through one of our five affiliates…”

While Henry rambles on about hotel policies and bank sponsors and viable memberships, I sneak out through the door. The scene that greets me looks like something out of a low-budget action film: the parking lot is empty, save for an old dust-covered van rotting away in the far corner and a sleek black vehicle that’s surrounded by three men. All of them have their backs toward me, their attention on Henry.

Henry, who’s positioned his body directly in front of the car, has rested both hands on the hood, so they’d have to run over him just to drive away.

It’s a good strategy, I reason with myself, fighting the strong compulsion to push Henry out of the way, to protect him. They wouldn’t want to—wouldn’t dare—kill the son of the hotel owner. It’d get far too messy.

I just have to rescue Peter before the kidnappers lose their patience, and their ability to think rationally.

Careful not to make a sound, I duck my head and creep closer to the car trunk, heart pounding in my throat. Then I get a good look at the license plate: N150Q4. Sear it into my brain.

Henry is still talking. “…Bank of China is actually offering a limited-time promotion on the app—”

“Wait,” the man at the front interrupts, and the shift in his tone—from annoyance to something else, something like suspicion—leaves my mouth dry. I glance up.

Henry doesn’t move, though his eyes are wary. “What?”

“I think I recognize you,” the man says, and everything seems to freeze. Blur at the edges. The lights overhead flicker and the low parking lot ceiling threatens to collapse on me. “You—you were in that magazine article. And that China Insider interview… You’re the son of the SYS founder, aren’t you?”

For a split second, panic flashes over Henry’s features.

Only a second. But it’s enough.

“Who sent you?” the kidnapper growls, stepping around the car’s blazing headlights, his shadow stretching out menacingly over the concrete. He advances on Henry. “Who?”

Before I can react, Henry raises a fist and swings it into the man’s face. Hard. I swear I hear the crack of bone as the man hisses and stumbles backward, hands covering his nose, and all my thoughts fracture—

Henry punched somebody.

Henry punched somebody.

Henry Li just punched somebody.

Nothing about this night feels real.

Henry looks almost as stunned as I am; he stares at the hunched-over man, then at his own clenched fist, as if some unknown force might have possessed him. Which would honestly make more sense than what just happened; I doubt Henry has even given anyone a fist bump before.

But then the two other men rush over, and Henry tackles the first kidnapper to the ground with a resounding thud, and everything descends into utter chaos.

I can’t see what’s going on from where I’m hiding, can only hear the muffled grunts of pain and repeated collision of limbs, of bodies pushed onto the floor, and Henry’s voice when he yells—

“Catch.”

Something small and silver flies through the air in a perfect arc. I don’t even think; I just spring up and reach for it, my fingers closing over the metallic object. Car keys.

Of course.

Pulse speeding, I unlock the car and yank open the car door.

Peter’s curled up in the back seat, next to an opened pack of bottled water. Horror and relief crash through my chest at the sight of him. He’s alive. He’s alive and awake and staring at me like I might be a ghost as I free his arms, help pull him out. His knees wobble violently, but he manages to stand.

Ahead of us, the sounds of the struggle intensify.

Henry.

“Go inside,” I order Peter. “Wait for us by the door.”

He doesn’t protest.

While he hurries off, I seize one of the water bottles from the trunk and hold it like a baton, feeling its weight in my hand. It’s not heavy enough to kill someone, I decide, which is all I need to know before stalking forward.

The men don’t notice me. They’re too busy forming a kind of human sandwich: Henry’s got two of the kidnappers pinned under him, but he’s been held down by the tallest one. The same one who tied me up.

I’m more pissed off than terrified now, and I let my anger guide my aim…

The plastic bottle smashes into the back of the man’s head with a satisfying thunk.

As the man lurches sideways, I bend down and grab Henry’s hand. His knuckles are dark red, a thin bloody cut running down his thumb. My heart twists, but I know it’s not the time to apologize, or to thank him, or to voice the million other things I’m feeling in this moment.

“Run,” is all Henry says as he jumps to his feet.

And we do. We sprint through the narrow exit, where Peter’s waiting, and bolt the door behind us, then race up the stairs in a mad blur of pounding hearts and feet. Henry reaches his floor first, and then it’s just Peter and me, my hand secured around his wrist to keep him from falling. We keep going. We have to keep going. I don’t know if Andrew’s men have found their way inside or alerted someone else or if we’ll ever make it out of this mess okay. All I can do is urge my legs to move faster, faster still, mouth parched and knees sore, my lungs aching, dying for air as I cut the corner, pull Peter into the open hall of the ninth floor—

And crash straight into Mr. Murphy.