“I don’t know. I have no idea.”
“For what reason, then? Why are they doing this?”
There was a brief pause. “My family has money. They could have taken me for a ransom.”
She licked her dry lips, her tongue probing at one of the cracks. “My dad . . . he doesn’t have any money.” Her father worked as an electrician. He did fine . . . now, after many years of struggle. Even during those hard years, she’d never lacked for food or shelter, even if they couldn’t afford designer brands. Nowhere close. But he certainly didn’t have any large sum of money stashed away that might be used to ransom her. Or small sums, either, for that matter. No stocks or bonds. No jewelry. All that had been sold, even the sentimental items. If that’s what her abductors—whoever they were—were hoping for, money, they’d be sorely disappointed. Then again . . . “If they chose me at random, they must know that by now,” she said. She’d been wearing a purse over her shoulder when she was taken. They would’ve looked at her ID, and with the barest amount of research, they would have discovered that her family had no money. Also, she was snatched leaving a waitressing job. Wouldn’t that alone tell them she had little in the way of riches?
“You mentioned your dad. What about your mom?”
She let out a quiet sigh. “My mom died when I was twelve. She was a homemaker. And my parents had never bought life insurance.” In fact, for many years after her mother had died, they’d struggled to pay off all the lawyer fees that had come in the aftermath as her father had tried—and failed—to enact some justice for his wife’s death, which was ultimately ruled an accident. The fight had wiped out his savings, and his business had suffered. He was still her father, and she loved him dearly, but in many ways, he’d become a shell of the man he once was.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
She didn’t respond. He had nothing to be sorry for, and the grief of her mother’s death had long faded. It still pierced her sometimes, randomly, but more so for her father than for herself. But not now. Now, her problems were far greater than any heartache she still carried over the loss of one of her parents. Now, she longed for her father, the parent she still had. The one who might save her, who would save her if he had any chance to do so.
Her mind returned to the man in here with her. He’d said his family did have money. “If they took you for a ransom, wouldn’t you know that by now? Wouldn’t they have had you send a proof of life or something?” she asked.
“I really have no idea. No one’s said a goddamned word to me.” Now that he was talking more, his voice clearer, she could tell he was young. Maybe even close to her age.
“How old are you, Evan?”
“Eighteen. You?”
“Same.” A strange fluttering took up in her chest. She heard him move, sensed him turning toward her, and his voice—even a few inches closer—confirmed it. There was a heavy pause that she felt as much as heard.
“Do you go to Northland High?” he finally asked.
She let out a breath. “Yes.” It can’t be. Oh my God, it can’t be.
“Is your name Noelle Meyer?”
She swallowed. “Yes.” The word was as thick as her parched tongue. And she suddenly knew exactly who he was too. “Evan Sinclair,” she all but whispered. “Your father is Leonard Sinclair. He killed my mother.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Collector leaned forward, his face only inches from the screen. They’ve realized they know each other. His father had killed her mother. They’d discuss it further, of course, which would clue the other players in. It definitely added another layer to the situation at hand, did it not? The picture flickered minutely, the green cast giving it an otherworldly glow. But it was remarkably clear for a room being televised through a night vision lens.
The man （a boy to be more precise, still a teen） sat with his back pressed to the bars of his cage, while the girl was on her knees, her hands gripping the bars of her own container. The audio was good. The Collector could hear every whisper, every breath, every pained sigh.
My, but you bastards enjoy your entertainment.
One of the boy’s eyes was swollen, and he had what looked like caked blood on his lip. He kept bringing his fingers to his cheek and pressing, his expression contorting each time as though if he did it enough, he’d soon encounter a different result. Despite the injuries to his face, it was obvious that he was an extremely good-looking kid. Tall. Muscular. A square jawline and even features. An all-American golden boy. Good breeding, one might say. The thought made him chuckle. But it was a laugh laced with acid.