Y'all can thank a big snowstorm and the fact I live in an association that does all the shoveling, for this update. LOL. I hope y'all are well and enjoy this addition to the story. Don't forget to leave me comment love below.

Chapter 27

KATNISS

When my eyes open, I'm once again in Peeta's bedroom. My head is pound again, but the pain is much more manageable this time. Whatever came out of the fireplace is probably the same stuff that was used to get me here. I still have no memory of how that transpired, but to be fair it's not like I've had much time to reflect.

I take a deep breath and move to sit up, but when I do, I find my right wrist is tethered to the bedframe. I yank hard against the leather and metal-binding but it holds fast. My eyes frantically look about the room. I find that I'm alone but the bed next to me is mussed; I've not been sleeping alone. A chill runs down my spine and tears threaten at the back of my eyelids, but I push them away. Whatever is going on here requires a clear head to figure it out. Taking a calming breath, I let it out slowly then take an inventory of myself and the space in which I find myself trapped.

Besides the headache, I'm physically unharmed. I'm dressed in a set of my pajamas from home, which is concerning since I was last naked and in Peeta's robe, but I put that thought aside for the moment. The room is silent and in every respect Peeta's bedroom. From the cologne on the dresser to the green shirt I gave him for Christmas this past year draped over a nearby chair, it's all familiar. All familiar except for the fact that Peeta's missing and his doppelganger is trying to take his place, I think. Why isn't he here? He must know I'm missing, right? And if he knows I missing he'd be here, and since he's not… terror fills me. Peeta would never leave me alone unless he literally prevented from it. "Oh God," I cry. This time I can't hold back the tear that escapes down my cheek.

Down the hall, I hear the sound of footsteps approaching. Turning my face into the pillow I quickly dry my tears. The door opens and Carson enters, a smile on his face and a tray in his hands. "You're up, I'm glad!" he says, placing the tray on the dress then coming over to lay a hand on my cheek. It takes all I have not to flinch.
"Yes, but I have a headache," I reply.

He helps me to sit up against the headboard, and nods knowingly, "Yes the doctor said that is to be expected after a head trauma like yours. I'll get you some pain pills," he says and disappears into the bathroom. I take the moment of privacy to consider my options. I could just call him on the fact he's kidnapped me and is pretending to be Peeta, but that got me nowhere earlier, so I decided to play along. He returns with a bottle of pills from the medicine cabinet and a glass of water. He dumps two out and hands them to me. I reach up with my tethered hand to take them and act surprised.
"What's this?" I ask, trying to sound confused.

He tilts his head and considers me for a second, "Just a precaution. I didn't want you to hurt yourself if you woke up confused again," he tells me.

I nod, "Oh, I see. I guess I can understand that I was pretty upset earlier," I agree. This seems to appease him. "I'm feeling better now though, maybe it isn't necessary anymore," I suggest.

He just smiles and offers the pills to my free hand. I take them. He looks at me expectantly, so I put them in my mouth and he helps me with the water to wash them down.

"That should have you feeling better soon," he says. "Now how about some soup. I made tomato," he offers.

Despite myself, my stomach grumbles. I have no way of knowing how long I've been here. It could be 3 hours or 3 days, it's hard to say.

He laughs at the sound my stomach makes and goes over to grab a mug off the tray he brought in earlier. He places it in my untied hand and gestures for me to drink.

I look down into the cup and despite my internal warning bells going off, I lift it up and take a sip. It's warm and creamy and I take a number of greed swigs. Its defiantly been more than 3 hours since I last ate, I determine.

"How long have I been asleep," I ask, making a show of drinking the soup.

"About 3 hours," he says.

I nod and take another sip. "But how long ago did I hit my head? I mean I'm back in 12 so, yesterday?" I ask.

"No, we took a flight here. We got home about 6 hours ago," he answers.

His explanation seems reasonable, but then again, he thinks he's a different person so who knows if I can trust anything he says.

I finish the rest of the soup and hand him the mug. "Thank you, it was delicious," but even as I say it, I notice my words are beginning to slur. I shake my head at the impeding cloudiness, "What was in the soup," I demand.

"Tomatoes, salt, basil, cream."

I shake my head, "No I'm not feeling right, what did you give me," I beg.

He eases me down onto my pillow. "It's just the pain pills, the doc says they could make you drowsy."

Drowsy, no I've been drugged. I try to keep my eyes open but quickly lose the battel and slip into unconsciousness.

PEETA

This room is filled with noise. It's all noise and no words, at least me. Hours ago, a team of detectives and President Paylor descended on our hotel room setting up camp on our dining room table. There are phones and computers and specialists gather round to try to figure out how one of the best-known faces in the country could simply disappear into a void. Hours have passed, nearly 12 to be exact, and still, they have no answers. What they do know is that she never got home after leaving the park, and the car never showed back up on city traffic cameras.

"With the data that the car service finally provided we definitively surmise that the name Carson Wilkes is an alias. A thin one at that," a woman with brown hair and thick-framed glasses states, passing a print out of information to the lead detective, Marc Michaelson.

My hand tightens around my long-cold cup of tea. They have been trying "clarify" this very simple piece of information for over two hours.

Detective Michaelson scans the page and grunts his agreement. "Who is he then?" he asks for the sixth time in the last hour.

The brunette shrugs, "We have a few suspects, but we're still running down the leads," she returns.

My anger has grown as this investigation has limped along and this pushes me over the edge. Taking my cold cup of tea in hand, I throw it as hard as I can against the nearest wall. Instantly the very noise room goes silent as a tomb. "Did anyone even think to run a check on this guy BEFORE giving him the job of driving around one of the most recognizable and somewhat divisive people in Panem? I scream. "I mean most of 13 hates her for what she did to Coin, didn't it occur to ANYONE that someone might try to get close to her so they could hurt her?" I demand.
The entire team remains silent. Some people looking away, all of them looking guilty.

Haymitch approaches me, putting a hand on my shoulder. I glare at him but he doesn't move. "We all know what's at stake and I think everyone here was already blaming themselves for what's happened. What we need is for them to focus on facts not should've and could've's" he says evenly.

My jaw clenches.

"Let's get some air," Haymitch suggests.

I don't want to leave this table, I want to sit here until they find her, but I also know Haymitch is right, and my outburst is only going to slow them down. I need to give space to work. "Fine," I reluctantly agree.

I follow him outside to the patio. Flopping down on the couch by the firepit, my mind goes to the morning that I woke up here with Katniss. It seems like it happened years ago instead of days. I touch the spot she slept and let my eyes slide closed. Tears threaten but I push them back.

I feel Haymitch joins me. "Here, drink this," he says handing me a flash. I eye the stainless-steel container for a second then decide to take it. Twisting off the cap, I sip at the contents gingerly. "What is this?" I ask.

"Whiskey," he says.

"It won't solve my problems," I say, considering the item in my hand.

"I of all people know that but a little to calm your nerves might keep you from destroying every dish in the house," he says dryly. "And a few swallows isn't enough to affect your thinking," he adds.

I consider him for a second and notice for the first time the strain pulling at the muscles in my back and jaw and take another drink. The liquid is bitter but as it hits my stomach it warms my insides. I quickly drain the small container and set it on the edge of the fire pit. Not being a drinker, I quickly feel the effects of the liquor as my back muscles loosen. Letting out a long breath and stare unseeing at the unlit fire pit for a long time. The liquor may have loosened up my body, but my brain is still whirling a top speed, spreading thoughts and images of torture. "What if she's dead?" I choke out.

Haymitch's hand comes to rest on my back. "I don't think she is," he answers honestly. I look over at him and he sighs his own worry etched on his features. "To snatch her like this, there's got to be a reason. If they just wanted her dead, they wouldn't need to take her. They'd make a spectacle of it."

My eyes close at the thought. "That might be even worse," I groan.

Haymitch shocks me when he wraps his arms around me in a hug. I accept the gesture, returning the comfort. "She's strong, stronger than either of us," he says into my ear.

Behind us I hear the patio door open; I pull away from Haymitch and turn to see Tova crossing the patio towards us. A collogue of kisses filter through my consciousness tightening my stomach into an even tighter knot. Tova joins us, sitting down on the couch next to me. Reaching out she takes my hand in hers. "How are you holding up?" she asks, her green eyes lined with concern.

My shoulders lift in a shrug, "I'm losing my mind with worry," I tell her honestly. She leans in and envelopes me in a hug. It's a kind gesture meant to comfort but with my anxiety, I almost feel trapped. I return her action with a quick squeeze and untangle myself from her arms.

Placing a hand on my knee she leans in, "What can I do to help?" she asks.

I shake my head, "Unless you know who Carson Wilkes really is, I don't know that there is much to do."

"I meant for you. Is there anything YOU need?" she restates.

My eyelids slide closed and I lean back into the cushions of the couch. "I just need her…to find her," I stammer.

I feel her hand squeeze my knee. "When did you eat last?" she inquires, clearly trying to refocus my thoughts.

I shrug, truth is I have no idea and that I don't care.

"Let's go in and get you something to eat," she suggests.

"I don't think I can eat right now," I rejected.

Haymitch who has been quiet since Tova's arrival grunts, "You need to eat. Keep your strength up," he says. "And get some water into him too," he adds, clearly talking to Tova and not me.

I open an eye and glare at him. He just shrugs. "Go in and eat, I'll see if I can get an update," he says.

"I'd rather get the update," I respond.

"I think you scared enough people for today, let me handle it."

People were pretty startled by my outburst; I think Effie nearly fainted. "Okay…but if you hear anything…"

"I will come get you," he promises.

Tova takes my hand and stands and pulls me to my feet. She turns and leads me back inside, past the crowded dining room. My eye searches the faces of the detectives as we pass, looking for any new sign or a glimmer of hope, but everyone seems very focused on their screens or are in deep conversation with fellow investigators. I the kitchen, she leads me to the table then turns to the refrigerator. I sink down into a chair and watch rummage around the fridge, taking items out and placing them on the counter. The morning Katniss helped me make cheesy buns come to the surface. My eyes slide closed as I replay the look in her eyes the morning that I pinned her legs to the countertop. At the time I couldn't figure out what I saw in them, but after our encounter in the park, I can't help but wonder if we hadn't been interrupted if we would have kissed. If that had happened it would have changed everything that's happened over the last few days and maybe she'd be here now.

The clatter of pots and pans pulls me back to the present. I look over at the stove and at Tova. She is dropping a buttered piece of bread into a skillet then covering them with cheese.

"What are you making?" I ask partially curious but mostly to distract myself from the what-if questions spinning around my gray matter.
"Grilled cheese sandwiches," she says.

"Never had one," I tell her distractedly, my mind refusing to move away from memory of Katniss's eyes.

"You're in luck then, this is my specialty. Do you want ham or tomatoes on it?" she asks. When I don't respond she turns to face me. "Peeta?" she asks.

I snap out of my trance and look at her. "Sorry….ummm…however you take it fine," I answer. She walks over to the table and places a hand to my cheek. "I'm here for you," she says softly. She's just placed her lips to mine when the kitchen door swings open.

"You've got to be kidding me," Gale bellows.

Tova startles, stumbling back towards the stove, which gives Gale just enough room to squeeze between us and grab me up by the front of my shirt. "So, Katniss isn't enough for you? " he shouts in my face.

I shove him away from me. "You don't even know what you're talking about," I growl.

He laughs humorlessly. "You're the one who told me that you kissed her. I also know that Katniss doesn't hand out her affections freely," he says low and angry.

Tova gasps softly and I look over at her. Tears have filled her eyes and threaten to fall from her bottom lid. "Tova…"

"Oh, so this is a thing then?" Gale concludes looking at each of us. I open my mouth in defense, but Tova speaks first.

"I thought…I thought you liked me," she cries.

"T..Tova, it more complic…" I start to say but don't finish because Gale cuts off my sentence with a punch to my jaw. My head snaps back at the contact but I rebound immediately. Fists up, I start swinging. My left fist connects with his jaw with a satisfying thud and while he's still recovering, I run at him, shoving him against the wall with a shoulder. He struggles against me, landing blows to my sides, but I keep him pinned to the wall, my fists driving into his stomach.

"What the hell!" I hear Haymitch scream from behind me but I keep swinging. Next I know an arm is wrapped around my waist pulling me from my target. Clear of Gale, Haymitch turns me around to face him, "What the hell are you doing," he demands.

"He started it," I growl.

Effie, who must have followed Haymitch in, huffs. "And you felt you needed to engage. Peeta!" she says giving me a look of displeasure.

"He started it? That's your excuse?" Haymitch demands, looking at each of us in turn. "And you Gale, you're on his protection detail!"

Gale glares at him. "Yes sir, but…"

"No buts! You do realize that he could have really hurt you, right?" Haymitch demands.

Gale's eyes squint and he snorts out a sour laugh.

"Laugh it up!" Haymitch says, "But you can trust me when I tell you that one trip to the games is enough to teach a person how to kill, and he's done it twice!" he lectures.
I'm feeling justified, that is until he turns his ire on me. "And you, you need to have more self-control," he bellows.

"I can only be pushed so far," I grind out. Haymitch just stares at me, his face stone.

Effie's hand closes around my forearm and I look down at her. "Fighting is not going to make the search go any faster," she says gently.

I nod, though the desire to punch Gale Hawthorn still niggles at the back of my brain. Effie's nose scrunches up, "What is that smell?" she asks me. At the mention of it, I become aware of the of smoke. Pulling free from Haymitch and Effie, I go over the stove and shut off the heat under the pan Tova had been tending. The bread inside is nearly ashes. Grabbing the pan, I turn to move towards the sink but Tova blocks the path. I reluctantly look her in the eyes, they are filled with pain. "We should talk…alone," I say, keeping my voice low. She sniffs, but nods. I'm about to suggest the patio when the kitchen door swings open, "Mr. Abernathy, Mr. Mellark, we have news," the detective says, gesturing for us to follow him.

Tossing the pan in the sink, my heart speeds up in anticipation. Please be good news, I beg, then rush to follow him out the door.

KATNISS

I wake in the same position I passed out in. The room is light gray, the dawn outside the window is just breaking. I lift my head and nearly groan aloud at the protest my muscles give. I must've not moved the whole night. One small blessing is that the pounding headache I've woken with previously is gone. Lifting my arm, I check the tether on my arm, it's still fastened snuggly on my wrist.
The bed next to me shifts and I go stone still, even holding my breath. When I hear the sound of soft snoring, I hazard a peek. Next to me is Carson, dressed in Peeta's t-shirt, hands behind his head. I take his unconscious state to study him. His hair has changed since the first time we met. It has been blonde then, but now it is a lighter shade, and clearly recently done. The color is nearly perfect match for Peeta's. I work my way down his face and pause on his nose and lips. I hadn't noticed before, but they do resemble Peeta's features, but in an exaggerated way. I look along the crease where his nose meets his cheek and spot the faint scar from surgery. Why would someone go to such lengths to look like someone else? I wonder. Then again, he's peacefully sleeping in the same bed as a woman he has shackled to it, so clearly his all kinds of messed up, isn't he? He's clearly mentally disturbed, the question is, how dangerous is he to me? You need to get free of this cuff so you can protect yourself I determine. I consider my options. Being confrontational hasn't worked, neither has calling out his lunacy. I could fight him, but he has the knock out gas. That leaves me with on option, befriending the enemy. I need him to think I believe he's Peeta.

I stare at the sleeping man for a long moment and consider my first move. The nights I spent with Peeta on the trains and in the Capitol come to the surface. It's painfully pondering of them in this situation but I push past my discomfort and try to focus the logistics of the events instead of the feelings they promote. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and dive into the memories. The first thing that comes to mind is warmth. Peeta always radiated warmth, physically and emotionally. During tour and our quarter quell I spent a majority of my time with Peeta, much of it playing his lover and fiancé, but at night when the makeup removed and pretense of our lies put aside for the day that I felt I was really with him. Like a moth to candlelight, when evening came, I was helpless to my drive to seek him out. I needing to be near him, to touch him, to find my touchstone to peace even if it was only for a little while. If I'm to make this imposter believe I think him to be Peeta I need to act as if he is. The very thought of cuddling up to him causes my skin to crawl, but I scoot over on the bed anyway. Hesitantly I snuggle into his side. The movement must rouse him because I feel him shift next to me. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep.

A hand caresses my hair and I repress the drive to flee, instead, I pretend to wake at the gesture. My eyes flutter open and I find a set of artificially colored blue eyes looking back at me. "Good Morning," he says.

I force a smile. "Morning," I return.

He smiles brightly at my greeting. "How are you feeling?" he asks.

I feign a sigh of relief, "Better. A lot better actually," I tell him. I snuggle into the bed and closer to him, "I'm so glad to be home," I add.

His hand caresses my shoulder, "Me too," he agrees.

I close my eyes and nestle myself into his chest. "Can we stay right here all day?" I inquire sleepily.

He loops an arm around me and attempts to pull me closer but I've come to the end of the lead on my arm and it yanks me back. He's still for a second before I feel his hands go to the cuff on my wrist. He pushes at the combination lock on it and the thing falls away from me. I'm free, well free is a relative term in this situation, but it's a start. With my arm free, I bring up and put it on his chest. When his arms surround me in an embrace, I have to physically lock my muscles to keep from punching him. He's 3 times my size, I would have not chance of defeating him in hand to hand combat.

His hand caresses my hair and back as we lay cuddled on the bed. "I need to go meet the train this morning," he says. I perk up, "I'll walk with you to town," I offer, trying to not sound too eager. He pulls me away and looks at into my eyes. "The doctor said you should take it easy," he rebuffs, caressing my cheek. I want to scream in frustration but instead, I nod in understanding. "When is the train scheduled to arrive?" I ask.

"Seven," he says and looks over at the clock above the dresser. "Which means I need to get moving," he groans.

I glance at the clock and see it's six-thirty. "I'll make breakfast. We can eat when you get back," I offer.

He smiles wide at this. "That sounds wonderful," he beams.

He's defiantly not Peeta. Peeta would be laughing off such a suggestion saying he would grab something in town. He and Haymitch like to pick on my kitchen skill inadequacies. My stomach turns over sourly.

Carson reluctantly sits up and looks down at me. "You'll be okay here?" he asks, eyeing the cuff laying behind me.

I smile up at him, "I'll be better when you're back Peeta," I falsely coo.

He visibly relaxes at this and smiles down at me. "I won't be long," he promises. Placing a kiss to my forehead he slides off the bed and disappears into the bathroom.
I scrub a hand across my forehead where his lips touched me as I tossing back the blankets. Jumping out of bed, I rummage through the drawers for my clothing. I find a t-shirt and a pair of shorts and quickly pull them on. He comes out of the bathroom just as I'm pulling on a pair of socks.

He comes over and loops his arms around me, "I'll see you in a bit," he says, and places a kiss to the top of my head. I force my arms to return the hug, "Hurry back," I say, not meaning a single word.
He nods and lets me go. Without further ado, he disappears out the door. I let out a sigh of relief and tiptoe to the door. Pressing an ear to the wood I listen until I hear the front door slam shut. I dart down the stairs and fly the backdoor in the kitchen. I yank on the knob, but the door doesn't budge. Reaching for the lock my fingers try to flip it to the unlocked position but it's stuck in place. I growl in frustration and head towards the living room. Pulling back the curtain, I peek out to see if Carson is still within sight, but to my surprise and relief, he isn't. I jog over to the front door and turn the knob, it's locked just as tight as the back door. I growl out in frustration. He's locked me in. "Well it takes more than a few locked doors to keep me in," I grumble.

Going to the study, I yank back the curtains on a long tall window and reach up to disengage the lock, but I find it missing. I move to another window in the room and find the same thing. I could check every window in the house but there is no point he clearly thought of this. Chewing on my lip I look around the room for a solution. On the bookshelf, I spot a stone bust serving as a bookend. I grab it and weight in my hand, it's heavy and solid. "You'll do," I mumble. Shielding my eyes, I throw the bookend at the glass with all the strength I have. It hits the window with a resounding thud and bounces back at me, sending me scrambling as it hurls back towards me. The bookend clatter to the floor and rolls under the desk. Studying the glass, I don't even see a scratch where the stone hit it. My heart drops into my stomach. Reaching out I rap my knuckles on the pane. Instead of the tap of glass, it's the thud of plastic, very think plastic, that I hear. This is a prison, not a house, I realize. My mind spins over the possibilities.

My feet are moving up the stairs even before a full-formed theory has formed. Push the door to Peeta's open, I walk over to the stack of paintings in the corner. Reaching out, my fingertips caress the front of the first canvas. It's smooth, nothing like how the painting should feel. Peeta works with oil paints so the canvases are covered in texture when complete. I squat down and look closely at the painting. It's one of the pieces Peeta did for tour, it's a painting of the riverbed he laid in when injured. I hate the paintings he did of the games and he knows that and didn't bother bringing any of them back here. He chose to have them actioned off in the Capitol after tour actually- "They made prints to sell to the public," I whisper, recalling the fact. Standing up, I start rummaging through all the stacks of paintings. Each and everyone is a print of something Peet's painted in the past. There is not a single real painting among them.

I drop down on my butt in the middle of the room as tears stream down my face. This isn't Peeta's house. I should have noticed yesterday when robe nor the bedding smelled like him. I'm not in victor's village.