When I wake up, my first thought is how the hell did I fall asleep in here.

I'm in a tiny prison cell and I barely have the space to stretch my legs. When I sit up, my second thought is for Kade. My hand instinctively slams on my pocket, for my cell, but I remember it's not there.

I have this haunting image of Kade, walking the streets in the rain, becoming increasingly forlorn with every un-answered call.

......

I'm hoping the others are on my case soon. Surely my brother, Tony has discovered a reason, however remote, for how the letter that The Surgeon made me write under duress, to Kade, before h/she intended to hang me, ended up in the pocket of a girl who hung herself.

......

But all that matters right now, is that letter, written by me and found on her body, has implicated me in her suicide. I need out of this situation as soon as possible.

When I don't respond to my cell, our team will be on my case right away. They'll find out what Police Station I'm in, and be here soon. That thought reassures me.

......

I've no idea how long I've slept, so have no idea what time it is. Given the extreme quiet, I'm guessing it's the middle of the night.

......

Claustrophobia claws at my chest. When I stand up, I don't even have the space to outstretch my arms. Surely this can't be right? It's not like I'm some kinda violent criminal. I'm guessing The Sinister has a hand in this. Or maybe this is just how the UK Law operates.

Although in hindsight, I could have been more forthright; instead, I never questioned the two officers, I went sheepishly with them. I was flustered, confused, upset, and angry with myself for leaving my cell unattended. That's the one thing we were all briefed never to do. I've let the team down – badly.

That thought worries me.

......

It was kind of the female officer to let me have this old cell. "Ring your next of kin," she said. Kade is my next of kin. And here's the thing – I don't know his cell number.

I don't know anyone's cell number because they're all stored in my freaking cell. I don't have one number in my head. That cell was my line – my lifeline. Of course, everything on my cell was backed up by Tony; but that's not much use here, in this cell.

The truth is, I'm the polar opposite of my brother, Tony. Where he's a numerical genius, I think I may be numerically dyslexic. Even if I did have Kade's numbers in my head, I'd probably be unable to put them in the right sequence to make a connection, especially in this stressful situation.

I was overly reliant on that cell, and now I'm without it and suffering the consequences.

......

Resting the back of my head on the cold concrete wall I reflect on the ordinary time Kade and I have recently enjoyed. It really made us see things about each other that we never saw during the insanity of our life under the control of The Surgeon and The Twins. Our core, personal strengths and weaknesses really presented themselves to us and they were traits that drew us closer together, we balance each other out. Sometimes it's the flaws a person has that makes you love them more. Kade really helped me with numbers; he's a natural, patient teacher. And I really know how to help him manage his mood swings.

A pang of affection and longing for Kade pulls at the pit of my stomach.

WHOAH – what was that? I jolt up – A HAND! A freaking hand on the floor, scuttling in from an open flap at the base of the door. "Erm, hello, can you let me know what's going on, or at least what time it is?"

It retracts, spider like, scuttling backwards. I blink and rub my eyes – the hand pushes through a tray and the flap is swiftly shut – "Hello, can you give me some information? My husband and family deserve some answers, they'll be worried about me," I plead.

My plea falls on death ears; I don't even hear the sound of retreating footsteps.

......

On the tray is a bread roll, a small foil wrapped portion of butter, a banana and a bottle of orange juice. I guess this answers one of my questions, this looks like breakfast. It's morning time.

The juice is welcome, as is the banana. I look around as I eat and wonder how the hell I slept through the night. I'm a light sleeper at the best of times, and in confined spaces I find it difficult to settle.

I check my arms for any needle punctures; I see no signs of any. But the thought that I may have been sedated remains a strong possibility.

Something on the tray catches my eye, a hand written note: please return the tray by the flap when finished.

I take off the roll and butter and take the tray toward the flap. Stooping down on my knees, I place the tray in front of the flap, and rest back on my knees – ready. If the hand isn't gonna talk to me, then I'm gonna grab the hand and make whoever is on the end of it, talk to Tanya.

I remain taut, like a cat ready to pounce.

The flap is raised slowly, I've no need to pounce – the hand that comes through is slow and appears compliant. A woman's hand, a young woman's hand. When I push the tray towards it, the hand ignores it.

When the fingers tap the concrete floor, I notice the nails: long, talon like and painted a vivid red.

I stretch backwards then reach out my arm and take the hand in mine. It doesn't resist, instead, it rests in my grip with a softness that feels like affection. When I gently pull it, it resists enough to make me conclude that this hand is attached to a human rather than disembodied.

"Who are you?" I ask.

There is no reply, but her hand exerts a pressure that indicates it wants to turn. I let go, and watch the hand slowly turn until it's palm side up.

The wedding finger rises and on it, in black ink, is the word: SORRY, written in capital letters.

"Sorry for what?" I didn't expect an answer, and didn't get one. Instead the hand retracts, before pushing through an envelope with the words: FOR THIS, written in the same capitalized letters.

My hands quiver as I tear feverishly at the envelope. I pull out its content and stare: It's a picture of Kade, in a bar, with a beautiful girl, her hand resting affectionately on his knee, her eyes looking adoringly into his.

They say a picture paints a thousand words, and every one of the words that this image throws at me hurts like hell. I turn it over and leave it on the floor.

I guess my image of a haunted Kade, forlornly walking the streets in the rain because he couldn't get through to my cell, were way off the mark.

I'm momentarily distracted by the implications of the photo by the hand again. This time it pushes through a plastic pot. Picking it up, I realize with a jolt that it's my hormone pills.

I thump the cell door, "Hey, what are you giving me these for, I have my own at home – let me outta here, please!"

Them giving me my pills implies they intend keeping me here for a while. My breathing becomes heavy.

Hearing the flap being locked, I look around, my despair growing, eyes searching.

Scanning the cell I find small dots placed around the room, I count six. Honing in on one, I see it's a hole that appears to blink as I travel closer: I'M BEING OBSERVED!

In shock at this revelation I drop the pills and as the contents scatter across the floor, something else, something on the pill pot reveals itself to me.

Picking up the pot, I look at the date, time and address from where they've been dispensed. They've come from a Chicago Drug Store – just over an hour ago.

Every hair on my body stands on end when I realize with a cold clarity: I've been abducted – I'm back in Chicago.