GRACE WITHERSTONE
I had officially decided that if I survived this, I would make sure Robby and Bethany had lives worse than death. Also, I would wear fuzzy socks whenever I went to bed.
Whoever had tied the ropes had clearly never watched a single YouTube tutorial on proper kidnapping restraints.
Idiots.
I worked my wrists in slow, methodical circles, the fibers biting into my skin. The chair wobbled—one leg uneven, the metal rusted through. If I could just—
BOOM!
A distant explosion rocked the warehouse, the sound rolling through the cavernous space like thunder. I froze. The lights flickered, then died.
Darkness swallowed me whole.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then—
Screams.
Not mine. Not yet.
Somewhere deeper in the warehouse, chaos erupted. Shouting. Running. The unmistakable whoosh of fire catching, spreading.
My pulse hammered against my ribs. Move. Now.
