Page 203 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

Fuck that.

I get up to Carter’s floor, to his apartment, and try the door.

Locked.

Sighing, I flip the welcome mat up. There’s no spare key hidden there either.

Whatever.

Mentally done, I lean against the wall across from his door and slide down it. I curl my arms around my legs and tip my head back. Part of me wants to keep puzzling over it, but another part wants absolutely nothing to do with any of it.

Rightly so. My phone keeps buzzing with incoming notifications. As soon as I catch Penn’s name on my screen, I turn it off. I drop my phone next to me and settle in to wait for Carter.

I don’t know how much time passes when movement catches my eye.

A smile comes to my lips, and I turn to face Carter.

Except it’s not Carter—it’s Penn. Same black SJU sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. But it isn’t just shadows hiding his face. He’s wearing that stupid fucking clown mask.

I shove myself to my feet, scowling at him. “Seriously? Get the fuck out of here.”

He doesn’t say anything.

I point in his direction. “You don’t just get to follow me around, Penn. It’s fucking creepy. We haven’t moved into the phase where the mask is funny.”

Nothing. He walks toward me, slowly, and I narrow my eyes.

“Wait. Is this you pretending to be L.? Still hiding your face and identity like a coward?” I grimace. “Nice. So fucking nice.”

He passes Carter’s neighbor’s door, and a chill sweeps down my spine. After a major fucking delayed reaction, something deep in me screams, That’s not Penn.

“Oliver?” I try. I take a step back.

A low, rumbling laugh seeps out from under the mask.

On instinct, I spin around. There’s another exit if I go the other way?—

“Oof.” I smack into another body.

Another mask. This one not an exact replica, but a bloody clown mask all the same. And this body is bigger. Bigger and familiar in a way no one should be familiar with a body.

Ice grows along my limbs, freezing me in place. I stare into the eyeholes, at the dark-brown eyes that bore back at me. I can’t move.

Can’t fight.

He puts a bag over my head. There’s a drawstring on the bottom of it, and they pull it so tight, it constricts around my throat. I can breathe, but just the sensation of it touching me sets my nerves on edge. I can’t see through the fabric. I can’t see anything, and it should panic me into movement. It only serves to bind my body tighter.

The other one secures my wrists behind me.

And then I’m picked up and tossed over a shoulder. I let out a wheezing breath and give a faint shudder.

Something pricks my upper thigh. Cold bleeds into me, that ice holding me hostage growing worse and worse. Until it travels up my spine and encases my brain.

Everything slows down after that. It’s like my mind wants to follow but can’t.

Down stairs, each thumping footstep driving a shoulder into my stomach and abdomen. Dropped into something hard and dark. A door slamming.

Trunk, my tired thoughts finally produce.