And that’s what woke me. Because nothing in my life was clean, fresh, or lush.
My mind catapulted into consciousness, the memories flashing through my brain like scenes from a horror movie.
My dad was dead.
Shot.
Murdered.
I’d been kidnapped. And drugged?
The thought launched me upright. I was still in my clothes and nothing felt out of place. No aches or pains that would take this from a nightmare to hell on earth.
I jumped from the bed, barely seeing the room as I scanned for an exit. Finding three doors, I tried the closest one, but it led to a bathroom. The second door was to a walk-in closet.
Let’s see what’s behind door number three.
I frantically turned the handle on the last one, but rather than a hallway, it led into another room. There was yet another door on the opposite side, and I ran to it, yanking the handle.
It didn’t budge.
Panic set in, and I banged my fist over and over again. “Let me out! Let me out of here!”
No one came.
I pressed my ear to the thick wood, hoping to hear voices or movement, but it was silent.
Okay.
Okay, I need a plan.
First, I needed a weapon. Then an exit. Then I’d haul ass out of there. Then…
Well, I’d figure that out.
I turned back to search the bedroom more thoroughly.
Oh Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.
There’s no place like home… And this is definitely no place like home.
My actual bedroom was the size of a closet, and a small one at that. It barely fit my twin bed, and I had to keep my broken dresser in the bathroom. My walls were a faded pee yellow, stained and likely filled with lead. And the rust-colored carpet was worn away, left scratchy and stained—a common theme through the whole house.
Wherever I was, it was the exact opposite of all that.
The room was huge. Bigger than our living room and kitchen combined. The walls were a pretty gray-blue, no fading or stains in sight. The white, four-post bed was oversized and covered with puffy pillows and a plush comforter the same color as the walls.
There was also a white armoire, two bedside tables, and a long bench in front of the bed that matched the rest.
Our furniture at home never matched—not even two pieces, let alone a whole room. It was all cheap thrift shop finds or even cheaper curb finds.
I checked the armoire and the drawers on the bedside tables, but they were empty. Searching the bathroom next, I hoped for a razor, chemical spray, or even a plunger, but there was nothing.
I tried to lift the frosted window, but it wouldn’t budge—and not because it was painted shut.
Damn.
Heading back into the bedroom, I decided to try the window that was behind the bed. Standing on the soft mattress, I pushed the pale blue curtains aside as best as I could with the headboard in the way.
The fenced-in yard—if it could even be called that—stretched far and was filled with more plants than I’d ever seen in Vegas, minus some of the casinos’ gardens. They were healthy and vibrant, something that was hard to achieve in the dry heat. Off to the side, amidst all the greenery, I could see part of a pool. Beyond the tall wooden fence, there were beautiful trees and distant mountains, making a gorgeous backdrop to the picturesque landscape.
It looked like something straight out of a magazine.
Actually, it looked like a luxury resort.
I’m in a hotel. That makes sense.
Kinda.
Other than why I’m here, it makes sense.
I tried those windows and was unsurprised when they were locked. I could’ve broken one, but hurting myself on the glass would make me more vulnerable. Not to mention, I was on the second story. Jumping would almost certainly lead to a broken bone or worse.
Backtracking to the sitting room, I scanned each inch as if my life depended on it—because I was pretty sure it did. It was the same size as the bedroom, though more sparsely decorated. A plush couch faced a TV hanging on the wall with a long coffee table positioned in front of it. But that was all. No desk or chair. No mini fridge. No logoed pad of paper and pen. No phone hanging from the wall, a relic mainstay in all hotel rooms—or at least the motel rooms Dad and I had stayed at.
There was a rush of emotion I didn’t want to face, so I bottled it up.