“Marcus. He knows she is there.”

“Call her,” Adrian said.

He pressed his foot harder on the gas pedal.

I dialed Clara’s number immediately.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then it went straight to voicemail.

“She is not answering,” I said.

A cold dread washed over me.

“We are going to her apartment,” Adrian said.

He turned the steering wheel sharply at the next intersection.

The tires screeched against the wet pavement.

We headed back toward the distant lights of the city.

The rain continued to fall, blurring the neon signs.

My phone vibrated again in my palm.

This time, it was an incoming FaceTime call from Clara’s contact.

I swiped the screen to answer.

I held the device up so Adrian could see it too.

The video connection flickered, then stabilized.

The camera was pointed at a wooden chair in the center of Clara’s living room.

Clara was sitting in it.

Her hands were tied behind her back.

Her eyes were wide with terror behind a strip of heavy gray duct tape.

Standing behind her, his hand resting casually on her shoulder, was Marcus.