Needing some space for herself after John had left town on “Basic Black” business. Marlena could go home, but knowing Brady might be around, she felt safer in the hospital. She groaned and closed her laptop, angry with herself for letting Brady affect her marriage as much as he did. 

Didn't he realize this would break the family apart? 

And John, who had decided to leave town when things were not resolved between them, she’d go crazy just sitting at home, watching reruns. There were only so many episodes of ER a psychiatrist could watch before she started questioning her sanity.

​

And she couldn’t do that again. 

 

She couldn’t sit back and wait, wondering what the next step was. This time, she was calling the shots. She was not sure what happened now, but she knew her part: getting to the bottom of what happened on the railroad tracks. 

She’s going to see Roman.

 

She pushed away from her desk, frustrated. And immediately, remorse seized her mood. John was a lot of things—a stubborn control freak, but she loved him so. He loved his son too.

She got it. 

If she were in his position, she’d lose her sanity, but then again, Sami wasn’t a walk in the park while growing up, yet she managed. What if Brady would get what he wanted…especially now after she hit him in Paris. Mortified, she buried her face in her hands. 

 

What the hell is wrong with me? 

John must think I’ve lost it. 

That I’ve officially lost my mind. 

 

A bang sounded from the main door, and she flinched. 

Brady. 

Right. 

Completely lost in thought, she forgot Cintya sent notice that they were doing some renovations late each night. She stood and smoothed her palms down her skirt before exiting her office. 

As soon as she saw the two crew members wheeling a suitcase and building materials through the double doors, she stopped short. 

“Did Dr. Wesley authorize it?” she asked. 

 

Neither answered as they continued to push the cart toward the middle of the hospital’s lab. She took a step back. 

Their gaze was aimed at the floor, their faces hidden behind the bill of their baseball hats, and something just wasn’t…right. She’d been overly paranoid since returning to work. Which she assumed was normal with the situation with Brady at home. 

 

One of the crew members looked up and smiled. “Dr. Wesley called in sick today. He said we could start our work here.” He unhooked a clipboard from the cart and held it out to her. With a shaky exhale, she released the breath she was holding in. 

She couldn’t live in fear. 

Accepting the clipboard, she signed her name on the paperwork. When she glanced up to hand it back, the guy’s smile morphed into a sneer. There was only a second for panic to set in before something covered her face. Fight-or-flight adrenaline surged, and it was fight that kicked in first. 

Pen still gripped in her fist, she thrust downward and connected with the man’s thigh behind her. An angry growl roared in the shell of her ear, her eardrum crackling with the force of it. “The bitch stabbed me!” 

The black bag covering her head cinched tight around her neck. Her hands got to her throat. She tried to pry her fingers between the bag and her neck before fear gripped her senses. Arms surrounded her, and she was lifted in the air. She hit the floor hard, releasing a strangled cry as pain bit into her back. Pressure beared down on her as one of the men straddled her chest. Her air supply was pinched off, her hands pulled over her head. 

 

“Someone wants a word with you, bitch,” the guy on top of her said. The material molded to her open mouth as she gulped in hot breaths. She blinked rapidly, struggling to get a visual of her attackers through the cloth, but the pitch black only terrified her more every time she opened her eyes. She squeezed them closed, focusing on the sounds. 

The swing of the double doors, then heavy footfalls. 

Slow, deliberate. 

 

Somehow that measured patience—as if this person has all the time in the world—scared her the most. Her muscles tensed as she thrashed against his hold on her arms. It was useless—but she was not giving up. 

 

“Hello, Doctor Evans.” The man’s voice boomed, deep and calm. 

She didn’t recognize it. 

“I apologize for this less than friendly meeting, but my time is precious. And I’m running short on it.” 

She worked words past the burn choking her throat. “What do you want?” 

“Seeing how I’m here, taking a great risk to meet with you when I could’ve just snatched you from anywhere. You’re quite intelligent, Doctor.” 

She tried to shake her head, but her stretched arms interfered with any movement. “I can’t imagine. Who are you?” 

He chuckled. 

“I remember you used to help the Salem PD. You had little qualms about fabricating evidence for Franco's death to save your kid from death row.” 

A beat. 

“I never did such a thing.”

“But, you could…So, I come to you now with the same request. Well, request wasn’t quite right. Demand is more appropriate.” The weight crushing her chest was suddenly gone as she was yanked upright. 

She heard a pop in her shoulder, and blinding white pain shot across her blacked-out vision. “Gently, please. Doctor Evans mustn’t be harmed,” the man instructed his thugs. 

Shoulder throbbing, she was guided toward a lab table where she was forcefully seated on a stool. 

“I can’t just change findings like that. It has to be supported by evidence. It has to be believable.” It was like someone else was speaking through her, or the fright had vanished. These men will do what they’d come here to do, regardless.

Her only power was in keeping her mind sharp. 

With what wits she had, she tried not to flinch when something was set on the table before her. “My associate is going to remove the bag now,” the man said. “Don’t make the mistake of turning around, Doctor.” 

She felt him brush against her back; then his hand clasped her neck. She recoiled, her breaths coming faster. His finger skimmed her lips through the material. “I, unlike our mutual friend, take no pleasure in the suffering of women,” he whispered near her ear. “Your death will be quick.”

She believed him. 

She nodded her answer. 

 

The bag was yanked away, and she blinked, her vision clear. Her head trembled, matching the quake rolling through her body as she strained to keep from turning her head. 

 

“Locate the reports on the recently deceased and conclude that the first woman, our dear Miss Bradshaw, you deem an accident. And then do the same for Miss Lively.” 

She looked down at the table. 

The laptop. 

“I haven’t even performed any autopsy, I’m a psychiatrist,” she said.

“That’s why I’ve made this special trip. I’m here to fill in the gaps and help you. I’m giving you the information you need. Both deaths were an accident.” He tsk. “Such a shame, too. I assure you, it was not my desire for them to die. Quite the opposite.” 

 

Anger lashed through her like a whip. “The report on the severe beating Lili Bradshaw took would suggest otherwise.” My head was wrenched back as he gripped a fistful of her hair. His fingers dug at her scalp…and as his nails broke skin, she prayed he was leaving behind enough DNA. 

“I hope there’s not going to be a problem with my request.” His hot words stung the side of her face. “Because if pleasantries don’t persuade your cooperation, then I assure you, I have other ways.” His hand tightened in her hair, preventing her from turning in either direction, as his body drew closer. “Maybe you’re damaged, Doctor Evans. Could it be that after Stefano treated you so abhorrently, you now only respond to violence?” The press of something hard and heavy touched her leg. 

Her whole body froze. 

The air in her lungs, the tremble of her limbs stopped—she was petrified. She didn’t like guns. She was married to a cop for years. Even after Stefano held her captive, she was never tempted to own a gun.  She didn't understand his knowledge of her past with Stefano either. 

The cold steel of the barrel assaulted her skin as the gun dug under the hem of her skirt. It inched higher, dragging her skirt with it, and she found her voice. 

“Please…don’t.” 

The weapon came to a stop at her inner thigh. “I don’t revel in suffering, Miss,” he said. “But I’ve had to do many tasteless things in my past. And it’s just like riding a bike; you don’t forget.” Within the same moment she swallowed her yelp, the barrel was lodged beneath her underwear and bit into the tender flesh of her core. Marlena’s whole body came alive with an uncontrollable tremor. 

Hysteria pulled her under, sucking her mind into a black undertow, void of this abstract reality. 

“Stay with me, Marlena,” he ordered, her name sounding too intimate. He held the gun steady just inside her, a violation of an even more intimate nature as he issued another command. “Now, type.” 

She placed a shaky hand on top of the laptop. A thousand questions rushed her through the fear. All of which she was sure would end her life if she was given the answers. 

 

Did she want to know how this man knew about Stefano and Paris—the monstrous things he did to her. She cracked the laptop. 

Logged in to her interface and opened the lab reports. As she typed, the barrel of the gun ensured she made no other movement. She finished editing the cause of death. Then, barely finding her voice, she asked, “How did Miss Lively die?” she used her name instead of thinking of her as a numbered victim, hoping that enforcing the fact she was a person would nudge the humanity in this man. 

“Once they autopsied her, they’d have discovered a common denominator between the two women.” His voice was low, too close, and she didn't mistake his use of the past tense. She stilled her breathing, the feel of the gun more threatening with every breath. “We’re calling it Rush. You know it better as the amber cocktail, but our batch has far more kick.” 

She winced. 

“We’ve got our own cooks, who did a fine job of improving the mix, though we did need it for the base. That was essential. However, as you can see, we’ve run into some minor…setbacks.” 

 

Death is a minor setback? 

 

“You can’t just use people like lab rats,” she said, disgust evident in her tone. He chuckled again, and the weight of the gun assaulted her. “See? You are smart. You’re putting the pieces together. But you’re not in a position to pass judgment, Doc.”

The pressure increased between her thighs, and her stomach pitched with nausea. She stared at the laptop screen, trying to glimpse his reflection. The only thing she could make out was his mouth. 

“Complete Miss Lively’s report stated she overdosed on painkillers. They’ll find opioids in her system. A suicide or accident, as you know.” 

Marlena swallowed hard as she typed her notes into the report. 

This won’t matter. 

The reports can be overridden. 

Not by her…she won’t make it out of this alive—she knew this. But Mike and the crew won’t accept her changes. She was never in the lab. 

It’ll be foreign, odd. 

 

She ran her finger over the base of the laptop; a message to John. Because she believed he wouldn't give up. As she logged the last statement, the man beside her sighed. And the gun was suddenly removed.

As the steel left her body, she slumped forward and gasped in full breaths. With trembling hands, she gripped her skirt, clinging to it as she forced it down her legs. “Thank you for being so cooperative, Doctor Evans,” he said as he backed away. “Now, it’d be wise for your cooperation to continue as we move on to the next phase.” 

 

She closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around her stomach as she shrunk onto the chair. “I’ve done all I can do. I can’t help you any further.” 

Hands clamped her arms, and she was hauled backward. Before the scream made it past her throat, tape was slapped over her mouth. The bag swiftly covered her face once again. She struggled against the brutes, but her hands were pulled behind her back and her wrists fastened with a zip tie before she raised a fist. 

One of them yanked her hair, snapping her head back. She felt the intense presence of the man slink near her. “I thought you’d continue your great deducing skills, Doc,” he said close to her ear, his hand brushing her cheek through the cloth and making her shiver. “Of course, you can help me further. And you will.” 

 

Her only prayer as she was dragged from the lab was that John or Mike check the surveillance in time. 

 

*******

 

The windowless room was freezing. Fluorescent lights hummed, echoing off the cinderblock walls and tingeing the too-bright, empty room was a sickly green hue. As soon as she was removed from the van and ushered inside, the bag was removed from her head. The thin blouse she was left with did nothing to shield her from the frigid air. She rubbed her arms to generate heat, giving herself something to concentrate on besides counting the seconds. 

 

She’d only been locked inside for minutes, but panic threatened to pull her under when she imagined it turning into days.

 

No. 

Don’t go there. 

 

She was not shackled. 

She was not drugged. 

So very different from Stefano, but somehow just as terrifying. Logically, she didn’t think these people had the same intentions as he did when he took her, but that only served to frighten her more. 

The not knowing. 

She could still feel the steel of the gun pressed inside her, and she started to pace, keeping herself sane. She couldn’t stop thinking. She wanted her mind to stop. Right, when she thought she was going to lose it and start banging on the rusted door, she heard a click, and the door grinded open against the floor. The man entering was tall and thickly built. He wore a mask. Like in horror movies. And he was carrying an assault rifle. Her stomach plunged, free-fall. 

She wanted the bag back over her head. He jerks his head. 

“Move. It’s ready.”

 

What’s ready? 

 

But the courage to ask was lost. He didn’t manhandle her, and somehow her feet moved her in that direction. She’d simply lost her mind. The masked man stood in the doorway as she crossed through. Her eyes widened when she saw what was on the other side of the room. A lab.

During her study years, she took a course or two on how medicines were made, but it was years ago. 

But unlike any lab, she’d ever seen. It was dirty and smelled of death. A foul, sour stench soaked her pores. Tables were full of beakers and test tubes. A giant syringe station was set up with thin white hoses curling down into a large tub. 

Her gaze followed their path along the back wall to a large containment unit. “Welcome, Doctor.” 

 

She whirled around, trying to locate the source of the gravelly voice. That familiar voice that raised bile to her throat, remembering the feel of the gun. Feedback pierced the air, and she looked up to find a speaker in the corner. The voice boomed through the room again. “Go ahead. Get comfortable. There was a smock on the hanger to your left, and goggles on the table.” 

She shook her head. “What do you want from me?” she said to the room, hoping this unsettling PA system was two-way. 

“It’s what we both want,” the voice responded. “I believe neither of us want any more dead girls littering our beautiful streets of Salem. So you should get to work.” 

She turned around and saw the man with the gun standing watch at the only exit. She faced forward, licked her lips. 

 

“And if I can’t?” The silence stretched out, endlessly taunting. She was sure the decision to end her life had already been made. 

Then: “I really don’t think that’s an option for you, Doctor Evans.” 

A beat.

“Best focus on the task at hand. You have one hour.”

She glanced up above the lab station at an old clock—the second hand ticking down. 

 

John, find me. 

 

With no other alternative, she approached the table aligned against the wall and found a box of disposable gloves. She set to work analyzing the drug, putting the countdown and the women out of her mind. 

This was not her area of expertise. 

But she was always at the top of her class, she will remember.

She could do this. 

She just couldn’t think of the consequences once she did… 

 

Surprisingly, the lab was well equipped for what they were trying to achieve. When she spotted the independent variable, a nauseous tumble rocked her stomach. The drug compound that she noticed in the analysis right away was one that she would never mix with this cocktail—pharmaceutically enhanced MDMA. 

Not ecstasy. 

No. 

This was pure and concentrated. 

This was deadly. 

She reached up and adjusted her mask, fearful of any powder sneaking past. “Forty-five minutes, Doctor Evans.” The voice startled her, killing her concentration. 

“Dammit,” she cursed. 

Centering herself, she prepared her workstation. She understood what they wanted. And God help her; she thought she knew how to give it to them. 

Swirling the beaker, she helped along the blending of the cocktail. Thin wisps of deep red coiled and bloomed out within the clear liquid, tingeing the concoction a bright pink. She carefully inserted a syringe into the mix. 

“It’s done,” she said, her hands clammy, her face glazed in cold sweat. Slow applause performed by one erupted from the speaker. 

 

“Very good. I never had any doubt.” 

She set the filled syringe on the table and tore off her gloves. “I’ve done as you asked. I corrected the serum. Now I want to be released.” 

Her words were bold, much bolder than she felt, exerting a forced bravery that she prayed didn’t get her killed. 

“Not yet,” the man from the PA system said. 

She spun around. 

He now stood in the room, his presence more threatening than the man next to him wielding the assault rifle. His face was hidden behind a featureless, white mask. Somehow, the lack of definition was more terrifying than a real human face. 

“I promise you,” she said, straining to remove any quake from her voice, “it’s complete. It will work.” 

He tilts his head. “I have no fear that you believe that, Doc. But as a doctor, as a scientist, you must know that all experiments have to be tested conclusively.” 

 

A whimper directed her attention to another one of his brutes as a woman was thrust into the room. She was clad only in her underwear and bra. Her sleek dark hair mussed, her beautiful face pinched in fear and smeared with makeup as tears tracked her cheeks. 

“No,” she said, shaking her head firmly. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. And I promise, my skills surpass whoever formulated this drug before. It will…get the results you want.” 

She cringed, wishing she could detach herself from this reality. “But I won’t be party to inflicting this torture on another human. On another woman.” She would die before she became anything comparable to the man who tortured her. 

“Brave words.” He stalked closer to her. “But I’m afraid this isn’t your choice.” The brute of a man anchored an arm around her waist, eliciting a shriek from the traumatized woman. She struggled against his hold, but she could tell she was already too weak, too drained from whatever she was already suffered. Her fight died too quickly. 

The arrogant man before her slinked closer—so close that her trembling physically hurt; her muscles ached as she refrained from looking up to meet his eyes behind the mask. His hand snaked out and grabbed the syringe. 

She flinched. 

“Relax, Evans.” He ran a finger along her face, and she recoiled. “This will be over quickly.” He turned toward the woman, and before she realized she'd reacted, she lunged for his hand. Something wild took over her, demanding and crazed. 

“You can’t do this to her!” Within seconds, the man with the gun had her restrained, the barrel pressed against her temple. The hard steel bit into her skin as a sickness washed over her. 

This was it. 

It was all over. 

At least she tried. 

 

The man with the white mask faced her. 

He tsked. “Very well, Doc. I will honor your request, since you’ve been such an asset thus far.” Relief flooded her. Whatever happened next…she could get through it. Only just as she grasped onto that fleeting ray of hope, it was shattered. 

She didn’t even have time to fight. 

It happened so suddenly; the man was beside her; the syringe lowered, the needle inserted into her arm. 

 

Fire shot into her system, racing through her bloodstream. Her vision flickered as heat blanketed her skin. As her muscles got lax, she wilted against the strong arms supporting her. Her head lulled against his hard chest. “I expect we’ll get much better results from you, anyway,” he said, dropping the syringe in the trash and wiping his hands off on his slacks. “What better test subject than the drug designer herself?” 

A dizziness swept over her senses, and she shook her head. 

The room spun. “I want…to leave.” 

He chuckled. “Of course. We can’t very well record your progress here, can we?” 

He aimed his attention to the man holding her at gunpoint. “Relocate her. Securely,” he stressed. “After all, the boss should be the one to enjoy the fruits of our accomplishment.” 

 

It was right on the tip of her tongue…the question. Wanting to know who this elusive boss was. But like the woman to her left, her fight has evaporated. As the drug blasted her arteries, exploding in euphoric shivers over her body…she was lost. 

​

Her last thought: John, save me.