"Let's go then." She leads me though the room with the ancient fridge and the battered table then out through the cabinet to the box-filled basement. At the top of the stairs, she turns to me with a worried look. "You have a phone? Money for a taxi?"

I nod this time finally understanding what she's doing. She's getting rid of me, getting me away from her boyfriend, which is more than fine. Though Jai makes me feel more like the girl I used to be, that girl's gone. She didn't survive my mother's death. And beside the fact he has a girlfriend, being around him would just be painful, a continuous longing for that girl I was.

I follow Song through the bags and past the washing machines. This time I notice people. Some stuff clothes into the various machines; others sit in a small sitting area near the front. None pay attention to us.

At the door, Song steps to the side. Her eyes shift past me. "Well, good luck and try not to get lost."

Before I can answer, she*s already moving back through the machines. I'm reassessing my stupid crush on Jai as I watch her walk away. If this is what attracts him, then he's so not for me. Unable to help myself I yell out, "Tell Jai I said good bye." She stiffens, but doesn't turn around. After copying her eye roll, I take a deep breath and step out onto the street.

Chapter 15*Snow.

Not sure what to do or where to go, I wander aimlessly. Moving through people, sidewalk wares, and wooden boxes of food, I realize my knees, which may be permanently chapped after the week I've had, are frozen. It has to be less than twenty degrees out. Yet sweat drips from the palm holding my bag. The outpouring of sweat has to be the effects of the drug. Hopefully the last effects. Though I really have no idea about drugs. I've never done any.

The heavy traffic has me reaching for my phone to check the time. My feet pause as I read the numbers. It's past four in the afternoon, which means I must have slept in that basement for like four or five hours. I'm wondering just what Smith injected me with to knock me out for so long?

Almost out of Chinatown, a restaurant with the very original name Chinese Buffet in bright neon letters looks good enough to get warm, let my brain thaw some more, and decide what to do. Past a few patrons at the front counter, I find a booth in back, fling myself in the far corner, and breathe in garlic and ginger scented air.

Though I order a Coke, the waitress bugs me until I add a cup of soup. She then asks to see some money. With my dirty school uniform, my lack of coat, and my beat up book bag, she probably thinks I'm a homeless runaway and looking for a warm place to stay, which kind of feels spot on. I dig for a twenty and lay it on the table. She snatches up the bill and marches off.

After she drops my stuff off-minus the change-I sip my Coke, stir my soup, and stare into space. I need to understand why Smith drugged me, but my brain's still not working smoothly. I recall the real life detective shows Rosa likes to watch while she cleans. The key to all those cases was motive. I need a motive.

Yesterday Smith was trying to take me someplace in Chinatown. I think. Then the next day he drugs me. So what is he up to? Is he some pervert who likes underage girls? Nausea flips my stomach and I push the uneaten soup away. Okay, onto other theories. He's a psychotic murderer who drugs his victims first? Geez, I'm scaring the shit out of myself. Or maybe he wanted to hold me for ransom? My father is bucco rich. Then wouldn't he be the police's prime suspect since I was with him last? Maybe he has an alibi worked out. I run my hands through my hair in frustration. I should have paid more attention to the detective work in those shows because all of my theories are beyond lame.

At a dead end, I let out a sigh and reach for my phone. I'm so hoping my father will believe me this time. He answers with my name on the second ring. "Yeah Dad," I say, which is odd. I never call him dad.

"Where are you?" he demands.

"Ah...somewhere safe." My voice doesn't break in the lie.

"Tell me where you are and explain why you ran off on Smith again."

I imagine the vein pounding near his temple. "I ran off on him after he stuck a needle in my neck, pulled my hair, and slapped me around."

There's a long pause before he says, "Mali warned me you'd have a ridiculous explanation. Smith says he tried to drop you off at school."

"He's lying! You think I'd make up something like that?" I hiss. I feared he wouldn't believe me, but I'm actually shocked at how much he is blowing me off. And the reference to my stepmother is so not helping. "Look, I've got nothing against Mali, but how would she know anything about me?"

"I'm not going to argue with you about your mother over the phone. You need to come home right now. Then we'll talk about this."

The word mother makes my head pound. I ignore the pulsating throb. "Is Smith still going to be your driver?"

"Are you making demands?"

"Whether you believe me or not, the man attacked me!"

"What has gotten into you? You're acting crazy."

"Crazy? Crazy!" I can't help raising my voice. The busser cleaning a table across the room stops wiping and stares at me. I turn toward the wall. "Yeah, I'm crazy," I continue in a lower voice, "whatever her psychotic driver injected into me made me nuts. I'm not coming home until he's gone."

"You'll come home now!"

Fright crawls across my skin at the thought of seeing Smith. "I can't."

"What are you saying?"

"I don't know. Maybe Smith was going to hold me for ransom? Murder me?" The last two words come out in a squeak.

There's a longer pause than before. "I think you may need some help."

My first thought is, duh. That's why I'm calling you. Until the meaning of his words dawn on me. "You think I'm crazy don't you?" My voice sounds hysterical even to me.

"No, no, not crazy, merely...in need of help. Mali thinks your depression over your mother's death may be distorting your view of reality."

I pause. Isn't that what I had thought just the other day? But really, imagining the day I had is even beyond my imagination. "I can't believe this." Hysteria now pours out of me. "Has she brainwashed you or something?"

"See, you're always blaming others. Listen, I don't want to-"

"No you listen-"I stop as the waitress drops off a new Coke and my ears ring with my father talking to Mali. I realize she's been sitting there listening to our entire conversation. I can't believe he's now asking her what he should do.

While the waitress reaches for the discarded soup, he again demands that I come home. When she leaves, I say, "I'm not coming home." I've never out right gone against my father-I've never had to we've always just occupied the same space-but the fact that he's conferring with Mali has my blood boiling. My temper on the edge of exploding.

"Nivi!"

"I'll call you later," I say and hang up before my anger has me saying something I'll regret, something that can't be taken back. Resentment rushes through me at his refusal to believe me. My father has never been much of a father, but to dismiss what I told him, to agree with Mali-as if she knows anything about me-to tell me I need help, and to demand I come home...it's like he didn't even hear a word I said. It's like he rejected me.

I slowly peel my fingers from their tight grip on the edge of the table and lay my forehead on the table. My skin sticks to the Formica. I don't care. Just like my head, I'm stuck in Chinatown again. Only this time I've nowhere to go. I feel so alone, so desperate. So in need of my mother. She would believe me, no questions asked. The thought has me concentrating on holding in a sob until the feeling of someone watching me has me looking up. The busser still stares at me.

"You need to take a picture?" I practically snarl.

He shakes his head, grabs his tub of dirty dishes, and disappears through the kitchen doors without looking at me again. The doors swing while my muddled brain tries to figure what that was about. Suddenly a head with a white, paper cap peeks out from between the doors and the searching eyes of a cook find me. When the man notices me staring back, his head pops back into the kitchen.

Unease pools in my stomach.

Standing up, I chuck my phone in my bag and look for my waitress. Of course, she's nowhere in sight. My bag trembles in my hand and I almost drop it. Maybe-hopefully-my paranoia is just an after effect of the drug, but I'm not going to wait for my change. At least the waitress will have a good day with such a big tip. I rush out of the Chinese Buffet. Time to get lost in another part of New York. Preferably far from Chinatown.

Outside in the twilight of the coming night, I don't even make it to the corner before hands grab me.

Chapter 16*Snow.

I spin around to find not the busser, nor the cook holding my arm, but a dark haired stranger wearing a long leather jacket. His hair is sharp, spiny spikes. He sneers at me with a mixture of dominance and cruelty and my knees start to buckle. Despite the fact that I now live in New York, I've never worried about getting mugged. Though very scared, I somehow find my voice. "Get your hands off me!"

He tugs me closer until we're nose to nose. "Shut up and pay close attention, Nivea."

I feel the blood drain from my face. He knows my name. This isn't a random mugging. Thoughts evaporate from my head as survival kicks in. I bash him in the side with my book bag-the weight of my homework never felt so good twice in one day-while my knee finds his groin. He gasps but his grip tightens. Instinctively, I knee his groin again and he lets go to hold himself.

I spin around to run and smash into the cook from the Chinese Buffet. Fear rockets through me. They have to be working together. I push him hard in the chest and he tumbles into a parked car.

Past the cook and around the corner, I open the first door I find. There's no way I can out run two of them. Inside, loud rock music blares. A few people still dressed from work sitting at tables look up from their drinks. There's little interest in their eyes. I push past people mingling in between the tables, past the crowded bar and the bartenders filling beers from taps into the backroom where the few people there watch the pool tables. Balls knock together and no one pays attention as I slip past a pool table into the women's restroom. In the last stall, I lock the door and crouch on top of the toilet.

I try to slow and quiet my breathing, but my lungs are on fire, my mind an even thicker jumble than before. Beyond the fear, the unbelief, and the shock, I can only think Smith is behind the attack. That he's now hiring goons to get me. And there's really no way I'm going home now. Though I feel like bursting into tears, I slowly pull out my phone with trembling fingers. The door opens as I slide the unlock tab. Music and laughter spill into the mildew scented room. I clutch my phone and hold my breath. Sweat breaks out across my forehead. I'm poised on the edge of a toilet desperately praying that whoever's out there isn't after me.

Water runs. Something flicks and the scent of smoke mixes with the scent of urine. Relief lets me breathe. I fall against the moist, cinder block wall and hope the woman smokes ten cigarettes. The longer she's in here the less chance they'll come in and check. At least I hope so.

I stare the screen of my phone. My fingers hover over it. Who can I call? My father? No, he'll just tell me I'm off my rocker. 911? What do I tell them? I don't even know where I am. The water stops and metal clanks. She must be throwing out her butt. No! Stay! Smoke! Smoke! Smoke your noxious fumes! The door creaks and I'm once again alone.

I run my hand through the snarls in my hair. I should go out to the bar, tell the bartender some guys are chasing me, and call the police. Yet, I'm too scared to move.

I'm trying to build up the nerve to get off the toilet when music once again spills into the bathroom. Footsteps echo on the cracked marble floor. The first stall bangs open and my heart begins to pound. When another stall's door clanks, fear bubbles within me.

Wham! The metal door clanks on the thin wall next to me and I hold in a scream. Black high tops appear beneath my door and like a six-year-old, I close my eyes, shake my head, and hope that if I can't see him, he can't see me. My locked door rattles before footsteps sound in the stall next to me. I clench my mouth shut, hoping beyond all reason that someone's just looking for a clean toilet. Next door porcelain clanks, metal creaks.

Then nothing.

I open my eyes in the silence and blink until I look up and let out a garbled shout as the cook from the restaurant grins down at me. That grin fills me with ire. Though not as bad as the other guy's sneer, I still want to bash him in the face with my book bag.

"Well, look at what we have here," he says, slowly pushing himself over the stall.

I hold my anger in and my throat convulses, but I wait. Once he has one leg over, I spring forward, not caring that my bag and phone fall on the floor, to rip the lock open. I take off past the stalls like an Olympic runner out of the blocks. Almost to the door, hands grab me. A wailing, "Nooooo!" escapes me as I try to wrench myself free and stomp on his foot. He spins me around and my back slams into his chest.

"Just smack the bitch if she's going be trouble." In the middle of lifting my foot for another stomp, I look up. The guy who originally grabbed me stands in the entrance. I didn't even notice the loud bar noise.

"Can't. They don't want any marks," the cook says. The words warm the back of my neck. His lips close to my skin causes me to squirm. His arms squeeze me until breathing becomes difficult. "But we can do things that won't leave marks."

My eyes begin to water. From lack of air or desperation, I'm not sure.

The closed door muffles the sounds of partying as leather clad man steps close enough for me to see the black pores on his nose. I can't help trembling at his close proximity. Him or Smith I don't know who scares me more. And beyond the fear, I'm pissed at myself for being scared.

He pokes the center of my chest. "Crying ain't gonna do nothing." His eyes turn to slits. "If you don't want to get hurt, then do what you're told."

The hold on me lightens and I gulp in air. "Why are you doing this?" To my embarrassment, it comes out with a sob.

His fingers grip my chin and dig into my skin. "I told you to shut up." He pulls something from his pocket and raises it in the dim bathroom light. A click sounds and the steel shines from the reflection in the mirror above the sinks. The sight of the knife has me trembling again. He waves it in my face before laying the cold steel flat on my cheekbone. "I'm not going to put up with any bullshit. We're all going to walk out together. Do you understand?"

The knife in his hand takes this to a new level. Terror crawls across my skin, pools in my belly, and has me seriously fearing for my life.

"Do you understand?" he repeats while pressing the metal harder. I can't suppress a shudder. He inches closer, curling his lip until I force a nod. I have a feeling that if I don't comply he'll leave marks, lots of marks, regardless of what they want.

A click sounds again and the blade disappears while the cook pulls me toward the door. "Kevin's going to stay right behind us as we walk through the bar." He looks down at me and adds, "With the knife in his hand."

"Nice use of my name asshole," Kevin hisses from behind.

"Ah man, sorry," the cook says over his shoulder as we step in front of a pool table. While we walk through the bar with Kevin behind us, I try to catch someone's eye, but no one pays attention to us. The knife keeps me quiet and if I don't walk, I have a feeling the cook would drag me. And he might have to because as adrenaline fades, shock leaves me limp.

Outside the neon lights, the crush of people, and the loud sounds of traffic weigh on my exhaustion. Kevin comes around and grabs my other arm. Human manacles now drag me through Chinatown. Kevin likes to hiss in my ear, "Stay quiet!" every few minutes. Bitterness mixes with my fear and perks me up each time his breath warms my ear. The resentment beats imagining where they are taking me, and more important why. It has to be for a ransom because anything else is too awful to contemplate. I do think about shouting out for help every other step, but psycho Kevin still grips the switchblade in his hand. Without the knife, he's menacing, with it terrifying.

Shoving people out of the way and racing across streets, they try to look conspicuous, but my bodyguards continually scrutinize our surroundings. "I think someone's following us," Kevin says at a corner. "Look back at twelve o'clock."

The cook twists his head around. "I don't see anything."

Kevin's fingers tighten on my arm. "Come on. We'll go the long way around."

They pull me down a less crowded, darker, and trash lined street. We're all huffing out cold fog as we move faster. I can hardly keep up. My boots scrape the cement. My side aches. My head feels like it's going to burst. And their grips are so going to leave marks.

Just when I'm about to collapse, a shadow steps out of the opening of an alley.

Chapter 17*Snow.

"The girl's with me," the shadow says and steps further into the streetlight. My eyes round on Jai. His eyes roam over me as he crosses his arms over the canvas of his gray coat. With his jaw hard, he looks menacing. He also looks like deliverance and freedom. Hope surges in my chest. Although I was upset with him for leaving me with his bitchy girlfriend and crushing my crush, I'm now freakin' ecstatic to see him. With a surge of new energy, I pull at the hands holding me. Their grip stays tight.

The dark street is silent while both of my human manacles stare open mouthed until the blade flips out and reflects the neon letters of an open sign. "I don't know who the fuck you are, but you'd better move on."

"We found her first," the cook sneers.

Jai steps closer. "She wasn't lost to find."

Kevin points the blade at Jai's chest. "I'm going tell you one more time to get lost." A jab enunciates each word.

My eyes round on the knife and the thought of Kevin using it on Jai. While his expression is calm, almost bored. "And I'm going tell you one more time to let her go."

Kevin jabs again. "Get the out of our way!" When Jai doesn't move, he spits at him. The shiny glob misses Jai's boot by a centimeter. He doesn't look down. He doesn't even consider the knife. He just stares at Kevin. "Let her go," he repeats.

The knife rises higher and a snarl comes before the blade slashes out.

"No!" escapes me as Jai bends backwards away from the steel. In one elegant reach, he catches Kevin's wrist then spins away holding on to Kevin's arm. Crunching echoes. A gasp of pain sounds and the knife clanks to the cement. My left arm is suddenly free as Kevin cradles his hand. "You're dead," he shrieks and jumps on Jai. Instantly, they become a tangle of moving arms and fists.

Freed from one side, I tug on the cook's grip with all the energy I have left, but he shoves me up against the wall while the mass of striking arms and legs tumble deeper and deeper into the alley. I shove back as grunts rebound between the tall brick walls. Kevin and Jai are going at it hard now. Knuckles smack against skin. Bones crunch.

A garbage can in their path finally breaks them apart.

With my face against the rough stone of the wall, I watch them breathing heavily, staring at each other over the spilled refuse. The sound of a rolling can echoes through the alley. As they stand across from one another, nearly shadows in the darkness of the alley, it's hard to contemplate who will win. Jai's a bit taller but leaner. Kevin is bigger and from what I've seen ruthless. Still I'm so hoping Jai can take him.