The first thing I do when I'm released from the hospital is buy a cellphone. I ask the taxi driver to take me to the nearest mobile phone store, and I buy a burner phone with the credit card that was salvaged from my wallet.

The credit card is in Finn Davidson's name, of course. I'm wearing jeans and a long-sleeved button down shirt, along with a pair of sneakers, brought to me by Hans. He'd brought a bag of designer labels, expensive stuff. Not that I care. All I want is to see my sister and get her the fuck out of this country.

I call Willem, and tell him to send a car to meet me at a cafe nearby the phone store. Walking slowly down the busy Amsterdam street, the bustle and buzz of the city is jarring after the deathly lull of the hospital. I feel like Rip Van Winkle, if he'd been a drug dealer who was almost killed in a bombing.

But I'm grateful to breathe the crisp, non-recycled air, the smell of French fries, the sounds of cars. And I'm anxious to see my little sister.

I order an espresso while I wait for Willem's car. The first sip is a jolt that's like liquid crack to my system. Christ, I haven't had caffeine in four months. For some reason, I have a flashback to my last morning in Miami, when Juliette made me coffee.

"Here." She handed me the mug. "I didn't put sugar in it this time because you're trying to cut down. I know you're worried about carbs, but I think you look incredible."

I ruffled her hair and grinned. "I want to look incredible for you, angel."

Juliette. What is she doing right now? Is she in jail still? Is she seeing someone? Does she think I'm dead?

The idea that she'd be screwing men for money sends a chill through my body, a mix of jealousy and anger. Also of shame, because if it wasn't for me, she wouldn't be doing any of that. But I can't think about that now. There will be time to find Juliette in Miami soon enough. I need to focus on Zoe, and ponder whether I'll be able to break her out of wherever she's being held captive.

There's one sip left in my cup and I'm about to drain it when I look out the glass door of the cafe and see a black SUV with dark tinted windows pull up. That must be for me; most other cars are tiny, and I didn't think Willem was the sort to send a driver in a Smart Car.

A man in a black T-shirt and jeans gets out of the passenger seat and walks in. Immediately we lock eyes.

"Griffin?" His voice is in the now-familiar Dutch accent.

I nod once, finish my coffee, and follow him out the door. For the entire forty minutes in the car, I don't speak to the driver or the passenger. I look out the window at the flat Dutch countryside.

Somehow, I thought Zoe would be held in an Amsterdam flat. Apparently, we're headed toward Utrecht, according to the signs on the highway. We're on a suburban road, then a more rural street, and the homes become both further apart and bigger as we drive on.

Finally we turn into a gated property -- the driver uses a key card to enter -- and we slowly roll toward what looks like a mansion.

No, it's not a mansion. It's more like a manor, gigantic and sprawling. My eyes take in the wide, green lawn. It's so green that it almost hurts my eyes, shockingly vibrant after months in a place where everything was white, grey and beige.

When we go over a small bridge I realize that the house is built on something of an island, with a ring of water around it. Jesus, it's huge. I'm not sure what style of home it is, other than I know it's been built recently, it's modern and has an unusual, coffee-colored roof. We park on an immaculate driveway, and an imposing wooden door opens.

It's Willem, and he waves. I get out of the car, my legs feeling stiff. It's warmer here than it was in the city, and the sun feels luxurious on my skin.

"Welcome, Griffin," Willem calls out, as if I'm a long-lost relative.

I'm not in the mood to humor him.

"Hey," I say flatly. "Impressive place you've got here."

He puts his hand on my shoulder and steers me through the door. "It was just built last year. Your sister has the run of the entire property. He sweeps his hand around the foyer, and my gaze goes to the windows on the opposite wall. I see more vast lawns, a tennis court, a pool — and beyond that, the ring of water that surrounds the property. Like a moat.

My sister is being held prisoner on an island.

"Where is she?"

Willem nods. "Of course you want to see her right away. I'll give you the tour later. And I'll let your sister explain what I need from you. I'm sure you'll have questions, and we can talk over drinks. Would you like me to get a golf cart? She's out by the pool. We told her you'd be here today, but we didn't say when."

The pool is a football field away, and I shake my head. "I'll walk."

Willem nods at the driver, who steps toward us and kneels at my feet. He begins patting my ankles, then my calves.

"What the..." and that's when I realize he's checking for weapons. Annoyed, I stretch my arms into a T.

When he's finished, the driver says something in Dutch.

"Griffin, right this way. You can stay the night with your sister here. I'm arranging your flight for tomorrow back to Miami."

We walk through the foyer, past a sweeping staircase the color of light tea. "That's sandstone, imported from Australia," Willem says, gesturing at the curved stairs. It looks like something out of a modern art museum.

When we reach another heavy wooden door, Willem pulls it open, and points. "There's the path. You can see the pool from there. She spends a lot of time out there, reading. There's an attendant out there as well. If you need anything, just ask him."

"Thanks," I say curtly, walking off as fast as I can. I'm just not as strong as I used to be, and while I have the urge to run, I think I'd be winded pretty quickly. Or worse. The doctors told me to take it easy.

After a few minutes, the blue of the pool comes into view, and then my sister, lying on a lounge chair in a black bikini and reading a book.

I almost laugh, because if anyone could make kidnapping look glamorous, it's my sister. I whistle, like I used to when we were kids. Inside, I'm a mess. Trembling, scared, ecstatic to see her alive.

She puts her book down, screams, and shoots off the chaise, shouting my name as she barrels at me. I pick up my pace but she's too fast, practically slamming into me with a hug.

Tears sting my eyes when I wrap my arms around her. We hug for at least ten minutes, not wanting to let go. I'm so emotional that I can't say a word, and she's crying with heavy, heaving sobs.

My baby sister, who I practically raised. The one I put through college. The one who is in all this trouble because of me.

She leans back to study my face, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Thank God you're here. Thank God you're alive. I was so worried..."

I gulp in a few breaths. Zoe is tan, darker than I've ever seen her. I'm reminded how much she looks like our mother. So much that it's breathtaking, more so now because of the pinched, worried look in her eyes. Her hair is short, choppy and spiky, almost like she cut it herself. Knowing her, she probably did.

"You look good. Better than I expected." I ruffle her hair.

She looks me up and down. "You don't look as bad as I thought you would. You're skinnier, though."

I shrug. "I survived."

She nods grimly, and takes my hand, leading me to a table and chairs made of a sleek, polished wood. We sit, but she doesn't stop holding my hand.

We both inhale deep and chuckle. She snorts and sniffles.

"I'm sorry this whole thing turned out this way. I never imagined it would end like this." I rub her hand in between my palms.

"It could be a fuck of a lot worse." The old Zoe glint is in her eyes, giving my mood a boost.

"This is pretty bad. Are these assholes really treating you okay?"

She nods. "They slapped me around a bit at first, thinking I was Paul's girlfriend. But when they finally figured out the truth, they thought I'd be more use to them if they were nice. And they've been actually pretty decent."

"Zoe. C'mon. You can tell me the truth. Are you okay?" I stare at her, hard.

"Seriously. They haven't touched me, in any way. They've been polite. For kidnappers. Other than not giving me access to phones or the internet."

I heave a sigh. "Tell me everything, from the beginning. I need to piece it all together because there are a lot of gaps. The doctors say I have mild traumatic brain injury."

"Wait. No, tell me how you are, first. We had daily reports from Willem's contacts in the hospital. He paid off a few people to get updates on your condition. I was so fucking worried, Griffin. So worried." She begins crying hard again and I pull her toward me. For several minutes, she sobs, until she pulls away and wipes her nose with her hand.

"Classy, right?" she laughs through her tears.

I touch her cheek. "I love you."

"I love you too. I've been sick with worry about you."

"I'm going to be okay. The doctors say it's something of a miracle that I'm this healthy. Induced comas are hell on the body. I still feel like I've been runner by a train."

She nods, on the verge of crying.

"So we heard."

Over the next hour, she details everything that's happened to her since the bombing, since the moment Willem's thugs grabbed her off the Amsterdam street and shoved her into the backseat of an SUV.

She talks about that first scary week, when they thought she was Paul's girlfriend. How she thought I was dead and cried herself to sleep every night.

"Then we found out that Finn Davidson was in the hospital, and I remembered you were carrying your fake ID, and that your real ID was in the car, which is why they thought you were dead. Willem was good enough to investigate."

"Good?" I snort. "He kidnapped you."

She shrugs. "Yeah. I know. I've kind of grown to like him, though."

This is troubling, and I look at her with alarm.

"Don't worry, I haven't developed Stockholm syndrome. I'm telling myself that this is what being institutionalized is like. Well, if I were institutionalized at a manor. By a drug trafficker."

"Your attitude is admirable, I'll say that."

Her smirk's hiding her fear. I can tell. "Eh, it could be worse, like I said. Willem wanted me to go back to Miami and make the connection for them. I didn't want to leave while you were still here. And I insisted you'd be better at brokering this deal than I would."

My hand goes to her arm and I rub her tanned skin. "You should've gone back, Zoe. What connection? What did they want from you? What do they want from me?"

"And if I'd screwed up? I'd be dead, and you'd be here alone. Or worse, they'd kidnap you when you got out of the hospital. No. I couldn't leave you behind. I needed to be in the same country as you. And I knew these guys would be nicer to me as a captive, and they were basically willing to put me up while we waited for you to get better."

"That's an interesting way of looking at it."

She shrugs. "I've been reading, learning Dutch, riding horses. Willem has a stable. He hires a masseuse for me every week. It hasn't been all bad. He's treating me well because he's desperate for a connection in Miami."

"Jesus, Zoe. You're acting like it's a spa retreat."

"The only thing that's sucked is that I can't contact Ashton," she says softly. "I don't even know how his treatment's going, if he's dead or alive. I'm sure he's thought the worst. I've had a lot of sleepless nights about that. But you come first."

This makes throat thicken. Ash. Jesus. He could be gone by now.

"Have you talked to Juliette?"

I clear my throat. "No. Not yet. I suspect she thinks I'm dead. The papers in Miami reported that I was killed. You weren't in any of the articles. I checked at the hospital."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"This is why I didn't want you to get involved with her, Griffin. I'm sure she's devastated. She's too innocent to understand all of this. And she's going to be pissed at you, and with good reason."

Innocent? Maybe not. The last thing I want to do is tell Zoe about how Juliette was arrested for prostitution. Thinking about her and Ashton leaves me feeling raw. "I'll face that situation when I get back to Miami. My top priority right now is getting you home."

It's time to change the subject because too much emotion's welling in my chest. "Willem said you'd tell me what he wants."

"Yeah. He wants a pill connection in the states. Wants someone to facilitate a shipment or two. Fentanyl and oxy and that shit." With a tough expression, she reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the table and lights one. "Willem's assured me that if we — you — can introduce him to someone that will import massive quantities of pills, he'll let me go. Said he'd fly me to Miami himself and hand me over as soon as you arrange everything."

"Do you trust that he'll do what he says?"

She shrugs. "He seems to keep his word. But he's violent if people cross him."

I groan and allow my head to drop back. "So much for my plan to break you out of here."

"Won't happen." For the first time, I see a shadow of sadness in her amber-colored eyes. "This'll be an easy deal for you."

"Will it?" Fuck, pills? I know where to get club drugs, but not pharmaceuticals.

"Pfft." She blows a stream of smoke away from me. "Totally."

I lower my voice. "Do you think I should consider the nuclear option?"

"Hunh?" She squints at me.

"Cooperating." Until now, giving information to the feds would have been unthinkable.

"Ohh." She chews on her bottom lip. "My gut feeling is no."

"How are we going to do this, though? I know some guys who sell hillbilly heroin, but not in the quantity that Willem wants. Or the variety."

Zoe frowns. "You do know someone."

"Really? Who?" I rack my brain, wondering if my time in the hospital has turned my memory to shit.

"That friend of dad's. The one who testified during his sentencing, asking the judge to go easy on him. He's in his mid forties, about ten years younger than dad. They know each other from the college fraternity. Even though he's younger, they're all part of that same frat and they stick together."

My eyebrows lift. "The doctor? The guy dad helped with a loan all those years ago? God, I'd forgotten that. What was that loan for? He can move pills?"

"Yeah, that guy. Dad gave him cash to open his first clinic in Miami. He's from somewhere here in Europe. He basically prescribes more opioid pills in his clinics than anyone else in the U.S. He's got a bunch of pill mills and hands out prescriptions like candy. Anyone can get a scrip of oxycontin from the doctors at his offices. He's shady as fuck, but he's the one you need to talk to. He's got an in with the drug companies. They give him massive kickbacks for prescribing pills. I've heard they get him anything he wants. Travel, guns, women."

I rub my mouth with my fingers. "I do remember hearing something about some pill mills, but ignored it. I hate that shit, pills. Percs, planks, poison, whatever they're called now. How do you know about him? Are you sure?"

My sister squirms in her seat uncomfortably, then stubs out her cigarette into a crystal holder. "He has a reputation of being into some really kinky shit. With girls. And as someone who will readily hand out pills to girls."

"Okay." I pause, and a heavy feeling settles in my stomach. "You and he didn't ever..."

"No. Never. You know I like to roll every once in a while, but I hate feeling drugged up and slow. He was a little weird when I met him with dad. I was around fourteen. Or I felt weird around him. I could tell he liked young girls. When I first came home from university last year, a couple of women shared some weird-ass gossip. I ignored it because I had no use for him."

I shrug. "Whatever. I'm not going to fuck him. I need him to agree to sell me shit. Whatever we have to do to get you out of here." I squeeze her hand. "Then we'll try to salvage the other parts of our lives."

"I'm not too hopeful about that. For either of us."

We sit, holding hands, in silence. My gaze sweeps over the vast green lawn, the unusual modern home, and the attendant, a large, dark-haired man at the other end of the pool. He's looking at his cellphone, and I notice a gun in a holster on his waistband. He glances up and meets my eyes with a sour stare.

Zoe has her own, personal prison guard. She's being so brave, putting on a tough front. Like this is all normal. And it's all because she didn't want to leave me.

The situation makes me feel out of control, and I feel my face getting hot. I can't wait to get back to Miami to get this deal underway and bring my sister back home. I want my life back — without the drugs. My sister, home and happy. The Florida sunshine on my face. Juliette at my side.

It can't take that long, can it?

"What was that doctor's name again? Dad's friend. I think this head injury left me with some memory issues."

Zoe lights another smoke, inhales, exhales, and considers the burning tip of the cigarette.

"Sebastian Engel."

____