The grip on my wrists tightened until my joints popped.

The skillet clattered to the floor, rolling against the baseboards.

They dragged me into the center of the living room.

The front door, which I had locked just minutes ago, was kicked open from the outside.

Ethan walked in.

He did not look like the pristine CEO who appeared on the cover of business magazines.

His tie was loosened, his collar damp with sweat.

His hair was messy, and his eyes were bloodshot.

He carried a heavy black flashlight, using it to light his own face from below.

“Hello, Claire,” he said.

His voice was shaking, a high, nervous pitch I had never heard from him before.

“Where is my brother?” I demanded, struggling against the hands holding me.

Ethan didn’t answer right away.

He walked over to the kitchen table and picked up my laptop, which was closed.

He threw it against the stone fireplace.

It shattered into plastic and metal shards.

“You think you’re clever,” Ethan whispered, stepping close to me.

I could smell the stale whiskey on his breath.