and behind the back of my eyes with the movement, and I realize that I’m not in a hotel room but what looks like the basement storage room at Hummingbird Records. I’ve only been in here once, and it was years ago when my dad was still alive and he brought me down here to unpack the case for the guitar he’d given me. Twisting to my side on the cold, cement floor, I push myself up so I can try and clear the cobwebs from my head. I lean my back against the concrete walls and glance around at all the old boxes of vinyl records, out-of-date recording equipment, and framed posters of musicians and bands Hummingbird has represented in the last thirty some odd years.
My head feels like it’s going to explode, and I try to think back and remember what the hell happened and why I’m in this basement. I press my palm against my temple, pulling it quickly away when I feel something sticky there and see spots of bright red blood.
Everything comes rushing back to me all at once: Brady’s brush off, Finn rambling nonsense as we drove, the accident and…oh God, that man, the one who opened my door and stood there with a huge, disturbing smile on his face. It has to be him—the man who wrote all those notes, who attacked me and threw a brick through my window, who watched Brady and me together in his truck. I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but he was there at the accident. Did he cause it? Was he the one who ran into us or was he just following Finn and me and by some freak twist of fate happened to be in the right place at the right time? And where the hell is Finn? I don’t remember anything after my door opened and I saw that man standing there.
Using the wall as support, I press one of my hands against it and push myself up so I can stand, every muscle in my body aching from the impact of the accident. I gingerly walk around a few boxes, trying not to jar my throbbing head too much. I have to get out of here and find Finn. As I make my way across the room, I hear the door at the top of the stairs open, and I move faster, wincing as each footstep makes my head feel like someone is taking a hammer to it.
“HEY! Hello? Is someone there? I need help!” I yell as I make it to the bottom of the stairs and look up. “Finn? Oh, thank God! What the hell happened? Why did you leave me down here? Are you okay?” I ramble as he gets to the bottom step and walks right by me.
“Did you see that Ray guy after the accident? That was him, wasn’t it? Did he escape from the police department? Are we hiding here or something?”
Finn still doesn’t answer me or turn around. He just walks over to one of the support poles in the middle of the room, crouches down, and starts securing rope to the bottom of it.
“Finn, what the hell is going on?” I demand, as I stare at his back while his arms work furiously tying knots and wrapping the rope around the pole.
“Yes, Finn. Do tell her what’s going on,” a male voice says as I jump in surprise and turn around when I hear a sinister voice in the room with us.
I watch in shock as the man from the accident strides down the stairs cracking his knuckles, a pair of handcuffs dangling from the front pocket of his pants and clinking together as he descends.
I scramble backward, knocking over boxes of records and tripping over a broken microphone from the sixties and an equalizer from the eighties. I continue falling over all of these things until my back slams into Finn’s chest, and he wraps his hands around my upper arms and squeezes tight, holding me in place.
“Finn, what are you doing?” I question angrily, trying to struggle out of his grip.
“Oh, Finn, I think it’s time to clue the lady in on a few things, don’t you?” the man says as he finally comes to a stop right in front of me, taking the tip of his finger and sliding it up my neck and chin.