Playing With Fire

Chapter Fifty-Two

Recap 

            "Nice try, James." I growl to myself.

              I hold the guns in either hand and begin to shove open the doors. I point the guns in every direction once I'm inside. For once, I feel invincible, like the three weapons in my possession are really all I need to succeed. When the next two are deemed empty, I head towards the third one: come out, come out wherever you are.

             I chant that phrase in my head as I shove open the next door. Only, when I do so, I falter when I narrow in on Layla staring at me from her crouched position on the floor. With her mouth sealed and her hands behind her back, she begins to shake her head and shriek inaudible sounds. She looks ghostly pale, perhaps possessed by the devil himself.

           I start to run towards her, but I fall to my knees when something hard hits me. It feels like bricks, like a dozen sandbags, or ceramic pots have hit the back of my head. Whatever it is, I don't get to contemplate it any longer. Seconds after my fall, my eyes begin to droop. And as they do so, the last thing I see is Layla thrashing in her spot, tears rolling down her cheeks.

          Then everything goes black.

Chapter Fifty-Two

             I gasp for the air that had left my lungs only a few moments before. The hard blow had managed to knock the wind out of me, and I was still inconsiderably out of it.

             A hand flies to the back of my head as I groan and squeeze my eyelids shut. It feels as if a million heartbeats are pounding in the small volume of my skull. The light that bores into my closed lids only makes the throbbing worse.

             Faye

             In the back of my mind, I hear a desperate voice call my name. I can't pry my eyes back open, however, so I remain crouched in my position, hoping that the pain would pass. All I know is that whoever did this to me is going to get a hell of a lot worse than a bruise on the head.

             Faye

           The voice is more impatient now, frightened even. Against all odds, I tear my gaze upward, towards the sound of that grief-stricken voice. The light bombards my aching eyes, and I blink a dozen times to try and get a better view of my surroundings.

           I'm in a gray room, on the floor. The voice that keeps calling my name—that's my dad. My eyes grow wide in horror when I fully understand that my own father has somehow been dragged into this entire mess. As I push myself into a seated position, utterly bewildered, I dart my gaze across the room. A nauseating round of dread courses through my veins when I take in Layla, Laura, and Dad in this same exact room—they all look pale, drained, and exhausted.

           "Faye!" Dad calls out frantically, finally dragging my attention to him. His lips are set in a hard, taut line. His forehead is filled with tiny little creases that imitate the concern in his voice.

           "Dad," I whisper coarsely. I feel the warmth and blood wash from my face, a cold and blue feeling washing over instead. "Oh my god—Laura."

           His hands and feet are restrained, just like everyone else's, but Laura is sprawled across his lap in the corner of the room, knocked out cold. I stare in horror as desperately take comfort in the tiny rises and falls occurring near her stomach. She has a prune burgundy bruise on the corner of her temple, and I immediately gather that she had been bashed with the back of the gun.