Scarlett's POV
I wake up in hell.
At least, that's what it feels like. My head pounds like someone used it as a drum. My mouth tastes like chemicals and metal. And I'm tied to a chair in a room I don't recognize.
The ropes dig into my wrists. I try to move but my body won't cooperate. Everything feels heavy, wrong, like I'm moving through water.
Where am I?
The last thing I remember is Julian's apartment. The burner phone. Those horrible text messages about Rachel.
And then someone grabbed me from behind.
Not Julian. Someone bigger, stronger.
My eyes adjust to the dim light. I'm in a basement. Concrete walls, no windows, one door. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, swinging slightly like someone just left.
Fear explodes in my chest.
"Help!" I scream. "HELP ME!"
My voice echoes off the walls and dies. Nobody answers.
I'm alone.
No. Not alone.
There's something in the corner of the room. A shape covered by a tarp.
Please don't be a body. Please don't be a body.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but that makes it worse. My imagination fills in the blanks with horrible images.
The door opens.
I jerk my head up, expecting to see Julian. Or the person who grabbed me. Or maybe the killer everyone's been looking for.
But it's none of those people.
It's Dante.
"You're awake," he says, stepping into the room.
Relief floods through me so fast I almost cry. "Dante! Thank God. Someone kidnapped me from Julian's apartment. We need to call the police—"
"We can't do that."
The relief dies.
Dante closes the door behind him and I notice things I didn't see at first. He's moving stiffly, like his injuries still hurt. He's wearing all black. And his eyes—the warm eyes that made me feel safe at the hospital—look cold now.
Calculating.
"Dante? What's going on?"
He pulls up a metal chair and sits across from me. "I saved you, Scarlett. You should be thanking me."
"Saved me from what?"
"From Julian. From yourself." He leans forward. "You were going to get yourself killed."
My heart starts pounding. "You kidnapped me?"
"I protected you. There's a difference."
"You tied me to a chair!"
"Because you won't listen!" His voice rises, then he catches himself. Takes a breath. When he speaks again, his tone is softer, almost gentle. "I've been trying to keep you safe since the moment we met. But you keep running back to him. To Julian. The man who's going to kill you."
"Julian didn't grab me. You did!"
"No." Dante shakes his head. "My partner did. Agent Rivera. He helped me get you out of there before Julian could hurt you."
Nothing makes sense. My head is spinning and not just from whatever drug they used on me.
"This is crazy," I whisper. "You're FBI. You can't just kidnap people."
"I can do anything to protect you." He reaches out and touches my face. His hand is warm but I flinch away. "Don't you understand, Scarlett? I'm in love with you."
The words should make me feel something. At the hospital, when he looked at me with those intense eyes, part of me felt drawn to him. Part of me wanted to believe he cared.
But this isn't love.
This is obsession.
"Let me go," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Please, Dante. If you really care about me, let me go."
"I will. Once we catch Julian. Once you're safe." He stands up. "I know you don't understand now. But someday you'll thank me. Someday you'll see I'm the only one who truly cares about you."
He walks to the door.
"Wait!" I call out. "What's under that tarp?"
Dante pauses. Looks at the corner where the shape sits.
"Evidence," he says quietly. "Evidence that will prove Julian is the Courtship Killer."
"What kind of evidence?"
"The kind you don't want to see." He opens the door. "I'll bring you food in a few hours. Try to rest."
"You can't leave me here!"
But he does. The door closes and I hear a lock click into place.
I'm alone again.
I pull at the ropes but they're too tight. My wrists burn. Tears stream down my face.
How did everything go so wrong so fast?
A week ago, I was a barista trying to survive. Now I'm tied up in a basement by an FBI agent who thinks he's protecting me from a serial killer who might be my boyfriend.
Or maybe Julian really is the killer and Dante really is trying to save me.
Or maybe they're both dangerous and I'm trapped between them.
I don't know what to believe anymore.
My phone buzzes.
Hope flares in my chest. My phone! They didn't take my phone!
But I can't reach it. It's in my pocket and my hands are tied behind the chair.
It buzzes again. And again.
Someone's calling me. Maybe Zara. Maybe the police. Maybe someone who can help.
I rock the chair, trying to tip it over so I can reach my pocket. The chair scrapes against the concrete but won't fall.
The buzzing stops.
"No! No, no, no!"
Then it starts again. A text this time. One buzz.
Then another.
And another.
Five texts in a row.
I rock harder, desperate now. The chair tips—too far—and I crash to the floor. Pain shoots through my shoulder but I don't care.
I wiggle and twist until my fingers brush my pocket. Almost there. Almost—
Got it!
I pull out my phone, my fingers numb and clumsy. The screen lights up and I see the texts.
All from an unknown number.
My blood turns to ice as I read them.
"Scarlett Hayes. 28 years old. Dark hair. Green eyes."
"Drinks vanilla lattes. Loves art museums. Scared of thunderstorms."
"Currently tied up in Dante Russo's basement."
"You're not his first."
"Look under the tarp."
My hands shake so badly I almost drop the phone.
How does this person know where I am? How do they know about the tarp?
Unless...
Unless they're here.
Watching me right now.
I look around the basement, my heart hammering. Is there a camera? Is someone hiding in the shadows?
Another text comes through.
"The tarp, Scarlett. Look under it. Before Dante comes back."
I stare at the shape in the corner. At the tarp that Dante said covered evidence.
What if it's not evidence?
What if it's something worse?
I have to know.
I start rocking the chair again, dragging myself across the concrete floor. It takes forever. My shoulder screams in pain. But I keep going.
Inch by inch.
Closer.
Closer.
Until I'm right next to the tarp.
Up close, I can see it's stained. Dark patches that look like—
No. Don't think about it.
I hook my foot under the edge of the tarp and pull.
It slides off.
And I start screaming.
It's not evidence under the tarp.
It's a woman.
Dark hair. Green eyes. Pale skin.
She's dead.
But that's not the worst part.
The worst part is that I know her.
I've seen her face before.
In photos at the FBI office when Dante showed me the victims.
This is Emily Santos. The third victim of the Courtship Killer.
The woman who died two weeks ago.
But she's not in a morgue or a crime scene.
She's here.
In Dante's basement.
With me.