150. IN FLAMES

VINCENT

I developed consciousness slowly, my head pounding as I tried to open my eyes. It took a moment for the room to come into focus, but when it did, I felt an immediate rush of dread. We weren’t in the car anymore. I was in my own living room. My hands were bound tightly behind my back, and as I tried to shift, I felt the rope cut deeper into my wrists.

I turned my head, groggy and disoriented, and then I saw her—Whitney, sitting on one of my couches with an expression that was almost casual, as if she’d just come over for coffee. But there was nothing casual about the way she was watching us. Her eyes were cold, dark with something close to hatred, and she was laughing at something the guard beside her was saying. And then it hit me—I recognized him. He was the same guard she’d been trying to manipulate back in the cell, the one who looked like he’d been falling for her act.

The nausea rose in my throat as I realized just how much danger we were in. But then, something even wors