Somebody to Hold (Tyler Jamison #2) - April Wilson Page 0,68

cuffed to the bed frame, preventing her escape. There’s a ball gag in her mouth, and her lips are cracked and bloody, her chin stained with dry blood. Like a wild animal trying to escape a trap, she yanks on her cuffed wrist, trying in vain to pull free.

Ian lies on the floor and extends his hand to her. “Layla, sweetie, it’s okay. We’re here.”

I’m shocked by the crazed look in her eyes. “Ian, she doesn’t recognize us.” Jesus, how could anyone do this?

Ian tries again, his voice gentle. “Layla? It’s me, Ian. I’m here. Come out, sweetie. It’s okay—you’re safe.”

She scuttles back, as far from us as she can go given that she’s cuffed to the bed. Tears stream down her filthy cheeks, and she mumbles behind the gag.

“Did you find her?” Jud asks as he walks into the room.

“Yes,” I say. “She’s cuffed to the bed.”

Jud turns around and walks toward the door. “I’ll get the bolt cutters.”

I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Martin.

Tyler: We found her. She’s alive.

“Ian, keep distracting her,” I say, as I move into position. She’s trying so hard to get away from Ian that she’s not paying me any attention. When she’s within reach, I grab her. “I’ve got her.”

As I carefully pull her out from beneath the bed, careful to protect her cuffed wrist attached to the metal bedframe, Ian crawls across the mattress to our side. Layla is fighting for her life, kicking and thrashing. She manages to land a few good blows against my chest and shoulder.

“Careful of her wrist,” I tell Ian as I sit her down on the bed.

We can see now just how badly her wrist is damaged, the skin bloody and torn from struggling against the handcuffs.

She fights madly, clearly not aware of who we are.

Ian struggles to restrain her. “Remove the gag,” he says.

I gingerly unfasten the leather strap and pry the ball from her mouth.

Immediately, she begins screaming, blood-curdling wails of terror that echo throughout the room. That explains the ball gag. They were using it to keep her quiet.

“Layla, it’s me,” Ian says, his voice breaking as he holds her to him. “It’s Ian. I’m here.”

She starts rocking mindlessly, her tangled hair hanging in her face, obscuring her vision. There are countless bruises covering her body, as well as smears of blood. I’m not entirely sure if the blood is hers or someone else’s. There’s blood on her chest and thighs and belly. She might have been raped, but it’s impossible to know at this point.

Ian skims her battered body. “Her insulin pump and glucose monitor are gone.” He struggles to shuck off his jacket, and I step in to help him.

I hand his jacket to him, and he drapes it over her. The screaming has stopped, and now she’s whimpering like a wounded animal, clutching the jacket to her as she huddles beneath it.

Jud returns a moment later with the bolt cutters. As he cuts her free, she screams.

Layla covers her ears. “Stop it! Shut up! Shut up!” she screams, her voice raw.

Ian pulls her earbuds out of his pocket and sticks them in her ears. Then he connects them to his phone via Bluetooth. “This might help,” he says, turning on a music app. “I’ve got a copy of her favorite playlist.”

Immediately, she stills.

A paramedic enters the room, takes one look at Layla, and opens his med kit. “What do we know about this one?”

“She’s a type one diabetic and paranoid schizophrenic,” Ian says. “Her glucose monitor and insulin pump are missing.”

As the paramedic reaches for her uninjured wrist to check her pulse, Layla jerks her arm free and struggles to get away.

Ian tightens his hold on her. “It’s okay, Layla. He’s trying to help you.”

Out in the hallway, it’s utter chaos. There are cops, detectives, SWAT team members, and paramedics rushing from room to room. Orders are shouted in gruff, brisk voices, and girls are crying.

Layla is still highly agitated. Ian is doing an admirable job of holding himself together as he tries to get through to her.

He looks directly into her eyes and brushes the hair back from her bruised and filthy face. “It’s me, sis. You’re safe now. We’ve got you.”

I doubt she’s making sense of anything he’s saying.

My phone, which I put on silent, has been vibrating nonstop with repeated calls. I finally take a second to glance at the caller ID. It’s Martin. I step out of the room to take