“Freeze!”

The deep voice booms through the forest behind me and, for a moment, I think it’s the man I just strangled—not dead, after all. I stop in my tracks; then I glance back and realize it’s not him.

“Get him!” the girl shrieks.

“Put your hands up and don’t move.” Three cops have guns aimed at me as they inch closer. Their eyes are locked on me, waiting for me to either run off or pull out a weapon of my own.

Oh, shit. They think she’s telling them to get me.

I don’t resist. I don’t try to say anything at all. I do exactly what they tell me to do, their guns still pointed at me and each officer waiting for me to make the wrong move. I slowly put my hands up over my head as two of the officers come after me and the other goes after the girl.

I had completely forgotten about the 911 call and, honestly, I’m surprised they were able to find us. But I now notice that the whole scene is suddenly crawling with people.

Confusion shrouds my brain as I’m put in handcuffs. It hits me how this appears as I look around, at everyone’s hard glares and the accusations on their faces. I barely listen to the officer reading me my rights. They march me past the hole and the dead body that’s being covered, toward the dirt road where several police cars and an ambulance are waiting with strobing lights. Panic has caused my voice to retreat to its hiding place, where it’s only heard in my own head.

Let me go.

I didn’t hurt her.

I saved her.

Hands push me roughly into the backseat of the police car, and the door is slammed in my face before the officer walks away to talk to someone else. The girl is being carried—crying, arms and legs flailing—into the back of the ambulance by a male and female officer. We lock eyes before the doors of the ambulance are closed.

I only wanted to save you.

Tell them I saved you.

Tell them I’m not crazy.

2

Holly

When I close my eyes, I replay the moment he found me.

I was frozen with fear and fascination as he strangled the bad man. I watched as the man who had kept me for years struggled to breathe, his eyes bulging from his head. As much as I wanted him dead, a twinge of guilt twisted up like a vine around my emotions as I witnessed his death. He was, after all, the hand that fed me. He was the only person I had seen or had any interaction with for years.

The man choking him was an animal with long, messy, blond hair and wild eyes, his muscular arms and hands covered with brightly colored tattoos. His voice rough and raw, but the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. He killed my captor with zero hesitation. Once he gained control, that was it. The powerful fierceness that poured from him was controlled. Owned. Unstoppable. He had no fear.

He was beautiful. Exquisite. My captivation quickly shifted from the man who took me to the man who now mesmerized me with every fiber of his existence. He was, in every way, the man I knew would save me.

Too much is happening at once. There are too many people, too many sounds, too many smells, too much brightness. Too much everything. I need my books. I need Poppy.

And where is the prince?

I know these people are doctors and police officers because I’ve seen them on television. Not these exact ones, but similar ones. I lie motionless on a hospital bed as they poke at me, hoping if I don’t move maybe they’ll get bored and go away. Or maybe some crisis will happen, and they’ll all run from my room and forget me to go witness a fight or a proposal. That’s what usually happens on TV.

I’m free. The realization suddenly hits me.

“Can you tell me your name, sweetheart?” asks a gray-haired nurse. She has a friendly, sincere smile that makes me want to smile back. Earlier, she gently helped me into a thin robe that feels scratchy against my skin. She keeps trying to hold my hand, but I pull it away and shove it under my body to hide it from her. I don’t mind the smiles, but I don’t want touching.

My name, my name. What is my name?

Hollipop, Hollipop, you’re my little Hollipop…

The song Mommy used to sing to me floats through my head. Her voice is as clear as it was way back then, but that’s not my name.

Is it?

I’m given a glass of orange juice and cookies on a tray next to the bed, and my stomach twists at the sight of them. Cold juice! In a real glass, not plastic or paper. I want the treats so bad my hands tremble and my mouth waters, but I’m afraid to touch them and bring them to my lips. Nice things mean something bad will happen, and I don’t want any more bad things to happen today. I resist the urge to throw them at her.