Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
The first man tilts the photo slightly, making sure I see my grandfather’s face. A threat in a snapshot. My mind scrambles. Thoughts collide, splinter, scatter.
How do they have that?
How do they know him?
How do they know me?
My chest tightens until it hurts.
I try to breathe like I teach my anxious patients to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slow. It doesn’t help. My fingers are numb on the window button.
“Now,” the first man says. “Get out.”
My body moves before my brain can argue.
I unbuckle my seatbelt with shaking hands. The click is loud in the silence. I push the door open and step out onto the gravel shoulder.
My legs feel unsteady, like I’m walking on water. My skin prickles.
I keep my hands where they can see them, palms open. I’m not thinking about bravery.
I’m thinking about Grandpa. About the way he coughs at night. About the way he squeezes my hand when he’s scared but doesn’t want to say so. About the way he looked at Miles, smiling like the world was finally giving me something good.
The men move fast. One circles behind me. I hear the crunch of gravel, close. The other keeps the gun on me, unwavering.
“Hands behind your back,” he orders.
My mouth opens but nothing comes out. I do it. I lace my fingers together, wrists trembling.
Plastic bites into my skin. Zip ties. They cinch them tight. Pain flares, sharp and immediate, like a hot line around my wrists.
I gasp. “Stop—” I start, but the gun shifts slightly and my words collapse. A blindfold comes next—something thick, rough, pressed against my eyes.
Darkness swallows me. I suck in a deep breath and it still the panic is consuming me. “No,” I whisper, because saying it out loud feels like maybe it will matter. It doesn’t.
A hand grips my arm. Hard.
Not gentle. Not cruel either. Just efficient. They guide me away from my car.
Each step is uncertain. Gravel shifts under my shoes. My balance wobbles. My heart pounds so loud I’m sure they can hear it.
My purse. My phone. My keys. All left behind.
A door slides open with a hollow metallic sound. A van. The smell hits me first—stale air, sweat, something chemical like cleaning supplies.
They push me inside. My knees knock against something hard. I stumble. Hands shove my shoulders down.
“Sit,” one of them says.
I fold awkwardly, wrists bound behind me, blindfold pressing against my lashes. The seat is vinyl, cold and sticky. My back is straight because I don’t know what else to do.
The door slams shut. The sound echoes inside the van like a final sentence. Then the engine turns over. The van moves. The sensation of motion twists my stomach. Every bump jerks my shoulders. My mind tries to track direction. Left turn. Right turn. Straight. Another turn.
But I’m exhausted. Disoriented. Panicked.
I can’t keep up. I force myself to breathe again.
Think smart.
That’s the only instruction I can give myself that doesn’t break into screaming. Think smart. Stay alive.
Grandpa.
The thought of him is a knife.
I picture him waking up confused, calling my name. I picture him sitting up in his bed gazing out the window waiting for my car to pull into the driveway.
I picture him dying because I didn’t do what they wanted.
Hot tears push behind my eyes, trapped by the blindfold. They slip down my cheeks anyway. I swallow hard, trying to keep my breathing steady.
The van smells like rubber and old fast food. I hear the driver’s music low—something with a heavy bass, a steady thump like a heartbeat.
I listen for voices.
Two men, at least. But I’m thinking it’s three. The one behind the wheel. The one who shoved me. The one with the picture.
They don’t talk much.
That scares me more than if they were yelling.
Quiet means plan. Quiet means purpose.
My wrists ache. The zip ties cut into my skin every time the van jolts. I shift my hands, trying to find a position that hurts less. It doesn’t.
I try to memorize what I can.
The sound of tires on pavement changes—smooth to rough. The pitch of the engine changes—slowing, speeding. A train horn in the distance. A dog barking. The rise and fall of the road.
It’s not much.
But it’s something.
Stay smart. It equals staying alive.
I focus on not hyperventilating. On not begging. On not giving them more of my fear than they already have. Because fear makes you sloppy. Fear makes you miss details. Fear makes you do what they want without thinking.
I don’t know what they want yet beyond obedience.
I don’t know why they have my grandfather’s photo.
I don’t know who sent them.
But I can guess even if I’m wrong, my mind goes there.
Dr. Reeves’ face flashes in my mind, uninvited. The way he smiled like he owned the world. The way he pressed when I said no. The way his eyes turned cold when I didn’t bend.