Now’s your chance to get the hell out of here, I think. But before I can act, Layla catches on. She puts her hands on my shoulders, gripping hard and pushing me forward.
“Ow…no…Layla…” I stammer, trying to writhe out of Layla’s grip.
“Oh, hell no,” Layla growls.
She grips harder, her fingers digging into my shoulders as she resists my movements. I glance over my shoulder at her, my eyes wild, in a desperate attempt to plead silently with her.
“Nope. You’re coming with us,” she says grimly.
I am taken away—through a door I’d never noticed, up a flight of stairs. My heart pounds with the dread of what might be about to happen to me. She might be leading me to a gauntlet of women ready to beat me into forgetting what I’ve guessed. Clearly, with Sister Mary as their heroine, the Riot Dyke
